Nigella Lawson, Eat THIS!

I'm just puttering around in my kitchen, doing my imitation of Nigella Lawson, voluptuous heiress to the kingdom of Julia Child (may she rest in peace, and, sorry, Julia may have known her way around a ganache but in terms of sex appeal, Nigella beats her all to heck).

My imitation of Nigella involves preparing a chicken for roasting while wearing a deep-V black sweater as my dark glossy hair curls artlessly around my shoulders ...

I frequently pause to lasciviously lick some of what I'm preparing from my fingertips, while looking meaningfully into the imaginary camera. (Not really advisable when preparing raw chicken, what with the ugly spectre of salmonella but oh well. It's a free range chicken and I'm hoping for the best.)

I skillfully pry the skin of the breast up with a wooden spoon, commenting to myself how very full and plump and white this breast is (no double entendre is homeless with our Nigella) and shove softened butter up underneath to ensure lubricity, insert orange halves into the cavity (no explanation necessary), sprinkle on salt, pepper and thyme ... and tie the legs to the bedpost, I mean together.

I'm working up quite a sweat, what with the heat of the kitchen and the excitement of knowing I'll soon pop this work of art into the oven ... I can feel the flush climbing up the V of my sweater (did I mention it was black?) and ... and ... and ...

It's in!

Wow, that was good. If I smoked, I'd be having a cigarette now.

On to frosting the cake ...