Nigella and the Whore

Listening to the age old myth: “All a man really wants, is Delia in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom” I began thinking. Firstly, I know it’s not really that old as Delia is not ancient and it isn’t a myth but a saying passed down from mother to daughter; it’s just a quirky start to the story. One thing we know for sure is the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Having failed everywhere else to lure in the man I love, I succumbed to the wooden spoon and piny and started preparing the ultimate deal sealer: The Famous Love Cake! That’s right ladies it’s a love cake, not shaped as a heart or pink in colour or filled with jam, no it’s a chocolate cake made with a little bit of magic and a whole lot of love.
This recipe has been passed down from generation to generation and the women in our family swear by it! It was my great grandma who started this custom back in Iran, having followed tradition and had a marriage arranged for her, she wanted to bring romance to the table, and that’s exactly what she did, in the form of a cake. My great grand pa adored this Iranian beauty and coupled with her cooking talents and her sensuality, this was the recipe for the perfect marriage. Having bore him 9 children I would say she was definitely a Nigella in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom- saucy minx.
Of course nowadays women are so independent and want their freedom and equality yada yadaa yada. Is it any wonder that there are so many single ladies heading towards spinster hood! Stick on some killer heels, a beautiful dress, and start baking. Trust me, it’s a winner.
There is something a lot more gratifying about dressing up when in the kitchen. One still needs to feel attractive. If you are a feminist then just stop reading my blog. I am not saying I want to be a Stepford wife! All I am saying is for me, prancing around in my oversized kitchen, dressed highly inappropriately makes me tingle. I am having a Donatella Arpaia moment. If that special someone should knock on the door mid task- Result!
I have had successes with this cake, not for me, myself but as the baker. The cake has lead to 2 independent engagements. Let’s see if it could lead to one more xoxo

Puppet on a String

Its always tough being in limbo, especially when it feels like you are a puppet on a string and the master is pulling you in so many different positions you feel like you may fall apart.
In truth, I feel a little like that now. My perfect, happy life appears to be experiencing some turbulence which I have no control over!!
Let me explain. After spending countless hours building this fairytale in my head, the goblins have slowly chipped away and left a little mess on the ground.

Is it true that if you deliberate and plan too much, it may end up as a not so happy ending?
When it comes to matters of the heart, are we just pawns in a huge game of chess? And therefore, do you need to play a game in order to survive?
When he says “with you by my side I feel like I can achieve anything” is that code for I want you with me until I know what I really am looking for. Why do most girls fall for the lines that make us go weak at the knees? Male folk have been playing games for years, this is why sports has been dominated by men. It is in their genetic make up. They may not know they are doing it, but truth be known, we all do it, men do it well though.

Where does this leave me? It leaves me feeling like my point has been proved and what I have been thinking all a long is true! Trust no body, don’t attach yourself to anybody, you come here alone, you will leave alone.
Unless there is a ring on your finger, you do not have to answer to anyone.
Time to have fun again…..why was I thinking I shouldn’t. This is my life, I shall live it the way I please.

You almost had it

Is it really possible to be the victim of a broken heart when you never had them in the first place? In my recent experience I would say yes. You have it there, you can almost reach it, you can almost touch it and in one fail swoop, it can be gone. Result, heart break.