Nigella’s Caramel Croissant Pudding


Like bread and butter pudding, only sweeter,
she totters round the kitchen in her heels.
She is the cream of her neoliberal father,
the starch of her socialite mother.
As always, she is back from a party
(her red dress tells no tales),
the insatiable goddess
absolutely inebriated, guzzles bourbon.
This, she pours in the pan.
She has caramelized the sugar.
She did this like no other;
toying cleverly with her assuring painted smiles.
And the croissants are sodden,
those tawny sickle moons
lathed in the stars.
They bake in their dish, crisp-up
and bubble.
All the while their queen
longs by the stove.
The lights here are kind and mellow,
they bow to the worktops like servants.
This space is always spotless, naturally.
She waits on her barstool-throne,
drains another goblet.
She tilts her head back in ecstasy
the fumes are so powerful—
they fill the kitchen up like a bath.
If you could see it, the stove would be unfurling
golden tentacles of succour.
They’d be running their arms around the fridge,
along the walls.
They would wrap themselves around her hips
as a lover might, hot
with affection.
Now, she pulls the oven door and takes her prize.
The drawers and cupboards sing.

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This is a poem I wrote inspired by one of Nigella's recipes. Let me know what you think of it in the comments!

Most of the clips were used from her Nigella Express TV Series, from which this recipe originated.

I wrote this poem myself so please do not copy it without my permission.

Thanks,
xoxo

IG @gagging4lit

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