From time immemorial the crossover between culinary delights and sexual frisson has inspired writers, poets, painters, chefs, television shows. Now, just as I’d recovered from (and begun to feel sufficiently jaded about) Nigella Lawson, whose approach to cooking once left me at a loss for words (she is a genre in her own right, summoning equal parts fascination and horror) here comes the next sexual revolution in cooking for TV audiences.

Enter The Delicious Miss Dahl (yes, granddaughter of writer Roald but also former plus-size model and cookbook author) who suddenly makes Nigella’s domestic antics seem downright nunnish. Sophie Dahl’s mood-cooking show, which premiered last week on BBC2 throws yet another cuisine conundrum at you.

Again: uncategorizable.

Here at least, no horror (save for the staggering amounts of sugar in that peanut-butter fudge–first 500g then another 200g confectioners’ for good measure) just unabashed sensuality. And those words coming at you fast and furious: voluptuous, I am obsessed with it, like walking into a bordello, smashing into it, the seduction of it and (my favorite) you know how you want it.

I watched, hypnotized, as she squished and fondled the buffala, popped spears of roasted sweet potato into her mouth, repeated the expression self-indulgent selfish pleasures about—oh—25 times! It was a full 10 minutes into the show before I even registered that my husband was watching too and that, surprise surprise, he was as transfixed as I was (though adorably claiming “I was not!” when I teased him about this later).

The fact that delicious Sophie wields a knife in a way that would make most cooks cringe is irrelevant as her come-hither blue eyes and double-entendres easily make up for any cooking transgression. Except transgression is, ahem, the entire point.

——–

P.S. Did I mention the suggestive close-ups of meringues and other foods rising in the oven, in accelerated-motion, with the music’s volume surging in synch?

In this no-holds barred depiction of the events of July 16^th & 17^th 1942 in Paris, director Roselyne Bosch pulls her audience into the lives of Jewish families, violently rounded up by French militia forces, doing their utmost to help the Nazis.

Émile Hennequin, then director of the Paris police, ordered that “the operations must be effected with the maximum speed, without pointless speaking and without comment, the arrested can take only a blanket, a sweater, a pair of shoes and two shirts with them.” Starting 4am on July 16^th, 13 152 Jews were ripped out of their homes (and retirement centers and even hospital beds)—among which 5802 women and 4051 children—and thrown into the infamous Vélodrome d’Hiver (an indoor cycling stadium) under unbearably unsanitary conditions, to await deportation. Twenty of those individuals somehow survived the horrific fate that awaited them.

Like most people (or maybe not) I was fully aware of this dark chapter in French history, studied it in school, read about it, etc. Yet the graphic scenes in this jolting film will mark me forever. What so many French citizens did during the German occupation, and on that hot July night in 1942 in particular, is impossible to understand, let alone justify or forgive. A courageous minority did defy the Nazis, taking a risk by hiding Jews wherever they could. Over half a century later, these Jewish survivors provided testimonials that helped flesh out this movie.

La Rafle is an important reminder. It is about the pain, the horror, the terror and the trauma that French Jews underwent. As shocking and extreme as the film is, the reality of what happened 68 years ago was undoubtedly a hundred times worse, utterly defying imagination.

No one should ever forget this.

Me, I went through an entire pack of Kleenexes, stuffing one after every saturated one into my empty coke cup, until well after the credits rolled.

Turns out, you can.

A post-lunch stroll through innocent Maastricht last Saturday led us to the breathtaking Selexyz, aka the uber-cool bookshop cum café housed in a Dominican church. Like fusion cuisine, this architectural juxtaposition of ancient stone and religious bits with starkly modern steel lines gives one pause for thought. And all I could think as I struggled to keep my gaping mouth half shut was, well, whoodathunk? The audacity of Merkx+Girod, the architectural firm behind this momentous tour de force says “yes we can” in a way that makes you want to skip. And how about seamlessly integrating an entire (aesthetically perfect) black shelving system throughout the nave—complete with impeccable lighting, stairs and gangways—without drilling a single hole? Yes we can. Lift your dazzled eyes from the international magazine selection, the El Bulli cookbooks and the latest Elisabeth Gilbert novel (they have it, in English) and behold the beauty of the original frescoes (dated 1337) still adorning the ceiling. 1200 square meters of retail space, an unapologetic merging of centuries, respect mingled with nerve. Amen to all that.