Now, juicyful, I would have never predicted this would be the first thing I would find we have in common. First, the poet in me finds “attractive” to be an insufficient word. No still picture I have ever seen does her justice. Her exotic good looks are made even sexier by their being just slightly imperfect, perhaps just a bit too lush to be “beautiful” in a traditional sense, but smoldering hot, made even more so by their slight difference from a boring ideal. And she cooks as well. Be still, my pounding heart and tastebuds. I must use caution and not wax over-eloquent, as this may be unseemly for a married man (whose wife will probably read this, and whose mother-in-law almost certainly will). She cooks, but is not obsessive about a little mess or imperfection. And that voice, articulate AND husky. And accent, elegant, but with a trace of naughtiness. And clearly, a very intelligent woman. And artistic. And she really shouldn’t mix with her hands and then lick batter off her fingers ever again, as this simply is too much for an approaching middle age fat guy diabetic like me, and may provoke a coronary incident. Or at least cause me to blow a cerebral lobe. I imagine if I ever met her, I would have a similar reaction I have to attractive redheads. Despite years of training as an actor, lawyer and public speaker, I would find myself unable to form complete sentences, giggle uncontrollably, and follow her around with mooncalf eyes waiting for her to place something luscious in my mouth. (Boy, I looooove the word luscious. Remember the UnCola Man? Geoffrey Holder? Tall, muscular, bald black man from the West Indies? I took TV acting from him and he taught me a whole new way to say “luscious.”) I would probably commit pathetically over-exuberant acts of fannish, slaveish devotion, like, I don’t know, whittling her a new spoon from a whole redwood. But soft, what scent from yonder window breaks? ‘Tis Nigella, and she’s making jam trifle. With her hands. Excuse me, I must go dunk my cerebrum in ice water.