From The Guardian:
Does my photo on the front cover remind you of anyone? Can you imagine my tongue flicking the last drops of a strawberry lassi from my lips as my dark brown eyes fix your gaze? Yes. I am the Nigella of Indian food. I am the woman who can ooze sex into a cucumber raita and persuade the chattering classes that a curry is not just a fumbling Friday-night drunken grope, but also a Sunday-morning, Agent Provocateur smooch fest.
Indian food is often held to be unhealthy – full of cream, ghee and nut pastes. But the cuisine is so much more than overweight proles burying their faces in a tub of chicken tikka masala. It’s food for the thin, the glamorous, the middle classes. People like you. The secret is in the ingredients. Get one thing wrong and a whole dish can be spoiled. Now I know how intimidating a different culture can be. I was brought up in London and Switzerland and when I visit my relatives in Delhi, I, too, find the noise and the smell overpowering. But I never let this stop me from sending the servants out to the market to track down the best spices. And you must do the same. If it means sending the au pair in a cab to Southall, so be it.