It was Esquire who named her the Sexiest woman, and now Esquire is showcasing her sexiness in the February issue which is on shelves now.
She cannot cook, she says, but she’s learning. This chicken thing, with its components handpicked at her grocery store — two organic breasts, five slices of prosciutto, two avocados not yet collapsed in ripeness, a nameless jar of spice — is her one thing, her one dinner. There’s no apology or excuse. She’d made an offer: this in lieu of a restaurant. She knows this one thing, one reliable ritual of assembly, leaving her free to stand and cook for a guest who sits schlumped on the other side of her kitchen island. This is so she can offer wine, tend to her guest without apology for the things she can’t do.