God Bless Nigella, whoever she is.

So, we’re watching the Iron Chef this evening and it’s a Gruyere cheese battle between a French chef
(who won) and the Iron Chef Italian (which I didn’t even know they had one of). And, when they’ve got all
of their dishes ready to go, the challenger begins serving up his Gruyere creations. The first thing he
offers is a puff-pastry kind of thing stuffed with Gruyere.

There are three judges in this thing, someone whom I forget, some dame with the most unfortunate name
of Nigella (an effeminate form or Nigel for god’s sake; as if Nigel wasn’t bad enough) and a French chef of
some renown. They all taste this little puff-pastry thing and the French judge is first to comment.
Apparently, according to him, the thing could have used a little more Gruyere. Then this lady, Nigella, has
her turn and she says, “I think it has just enough cheese; it’s not overwhelming but quite satisfying…”
And the French judge, sitting beside her, interrupts to roll his eyes heavenward, and with lofty disdain
speaks down to her from a very great height indeed, saying, “Oh, but you must ask yourself how much
you really know about Gruyere cheese.”

Take a moment to imaging the bluster behind those words.

And—get ready to cheer—Nigella (my new hero) turns to this French chef-judge-blowhard-moron-guy,
and she looks him directly in the eye, and with a lovely dryness, says, “Actually, the only thing
I have to
ask
myself is whether I like it or not, and I like it quite a bit.”   

Of course this response had no effect whatsoever upon the French judge, but for the rest of us—who  
suffer under the relentless tyranny of knowing that every French male on earth has superior judgment
and much greater insight into every aspect of existence, while we must muddle along stupidly through our
small, dull, and miserable lives—it came as a wonderful and somewhat surprising little victory.