Hubby has a “thing” for raven-haired, Brit domestic goddess, Nigella Lawson… 

The crush could be based on many factors. There’s the accent, the dark, flowing tresses, the pillowy bosoms and, of course, her ability to whip up a Yorkshire pudding and roast loin of something-or-other at a moment’s notice.

Nigella is a devastating adversary. My somewhat fried blonde locks and mediocre grasp of family’s gumbo recipe make me a distant second. When this Nigella fixation arises (i.e. when her television show airs Sundays, 9a.m. EST), the scenario unfolds something like this:

(Me) “Stop staring at the television and smiling like that.”
(Hubby) “But it’s a brilliant recipe, honey! And so simple. Just look at the way she transforms that ______ (insert offal–kidney, intestines, thymus gland–here) into a plate of genius.”

(Me) “Fine. Then I have a “thing” for her billionaire Saatchi husband who owns more art than the Vatican.”
(Hubby) “Huh? What was that, sweetie? I was just taking a few notes on her fried sweetbreads bathed in a lemon, butter, caper sauce.”

Hubby then returns attentions to Nigella and yellow chef’s notebook.

SO. Just short of licking wooden spoons with wild abandon and wearing plunging-V-neck-cashmere-sweaters-that-I-can’t-afford whilst cooking, I’m going to start whipping up rustic (i.e. fast and simple) irresistible treats that make our apartment smell like Nigella’s flat. (These recipes also fall into the “On the Hip” category.)  

My great Aunt Violet, who just celebrated her 100th birthday, had her own set of domestic shortcuts. Before Uncle Billy came home, she’d boil onions and garlic to make the house smell as if she’d been cooking all day. Really, though, she had just finished a power session of Bridge at the community center and thrown together a tuna casserole at the last minute. 

My fig crostata accomplishes the same task as great Aunt Violet’s onions and garlic. The baking crust fills our kitchen/living room (the same tiny space as we live in Overpriced Real Estate Land) with the smell of warm butter while the honey and figs impart a light sweetness to a room that has taken on the permanent scent of baby powder and baby booty ointment. And because this is a crostata–a free-form tart and not a pie–it can be thrown together in 15 minutes.

Recipe is coming. First, I have to pry my husband off of me…

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