Possibly the least surprising revelation from the Times’s recent Nigella Lawson interview: she loves eating in bed. It’s so on-brand, it reminded me that some Top Chef exec once thought it would be a brilliant idea to put Lawson and Padma Lakshmi in side-by-side hotel room beds wearing fluffy robes, to be awkwardly fed by sweaty chefs. Now Lawson has said she’ll eat “absolutely anything in bed except something that needs a knife and fork. It has to be either fingers or a spoon.”
I worship Nigella. The time my friend Kate and I saw her in a west London pottery cafe (a one-off: we sat next to an intense Dutch woman angrily stencilling leeks on a plate and nearly got thrown out for giggling) remains my best-ever celebrity spot. But this crosses a hard line for me.
