It’s good to have ready access to headshots of Byran Brown, in case of emergencies.

I have been told that I am a hoarder. This might because I still have my notebooks from Year 11 or a tattered newspaper cutout of Karl Stefanovic that was plastered on my college door by a delightful soul in 2011. I don’t really think it’s a problem yet because I haven’t found any dead mice in amongst my swag of unnecessary belongings (not so for my little sister by the way). I will throw things out or donate items to charity if I think I don’t need them anymore. And since moving interstate and back again, I feel it’s under control. But I can admit that I may have a hoarding problem, or at least hoarding tendencies.

This is not just in relation to physical stuff, but virtual stuff. Namely, Safari tabs on my iPhone.

Funnily enough, I hate having more than three tabs open on my laptop because it’s too much clutter in my address bar. But iPhones allow you keep dozens of tabs open without having them obstruct your view. It’s like a bottomless virtual third draw.

I have about 17 million tabs open in Safari just in case I need to use the web page in the future. I refuse to close them. I know I should, but each time I go to Google something on my phone on an already-open tab, a little voice in my head says, “you might need that information one day” and I open another tab. I see it like taping over something, and I can’t live with that. I still haven’t forgiven my oldest sister for taping over our Simpsons episodes with some sappy Grey’s Anatomy bullshit and that was like seven years ago. I can live with silently resenting my sister, but resenting myself would drive me insane. When you’re your own mentor and spiritual guide, you have to be careful not to let yourself down.

Plus, I feel like keeping your web history in the open means you don’t have any skeletons in your closest. Shutting tabs implies you have something to hide. Putting them out in the open means that, if I were to die and someone had to go through my phone, they wouldn’t be shocked. They’ll know the charred remains (I’m obviously going to die saving someone from an explosion) they’re burying are those of a self-invovled weirdo and hopefully tailor my funeral accordingly. Because the last thing you want is one of those basic funerals where they play Let It Be, talk about how infectious the carcass’ smile was and serve scotch fingers. I want my funeral to be so fabulous that mourners start live Tweeting it.

As such , here are the sites/searches I deemed too important to close:

A Google search for stein glass: I put up an Instagram about eating gravy and mashed peas out of a stein. I wanted to make sure that “s-t-e-i-n” was what I thought it was and not some offensive German word. You don’t want to look like a dingbat on the ‘gram.

Details about a meet and greet with Andy Griffiths and Terry Denton: The Just series was my damn childhood. There’s no chance I’m going to miss meeting these guys. I don’t care if I’m 24. I’ll knee all the seven-year-old little fuckers in the face to knock them out of my way.

A Google search for Diarrhea: I am surprised how often this word comes up in my text conversations yet how much I struggle with spelling it. I don’t know what’s more embarrassing…

A Google search for Brighton The Nanny today: The conversation came up after I was discussing the death of the woman who played Grandma Yetta. Plus, it’s important to know what the stars of yesterday are doing today. I have to say that Gracie is probably doing the best after leaving the Sheffield house.

A Google search for Bryan Brown: Because you need 24-hour access to the face of rugged manhood.

A recipe for moist coconut cake: This is an important recipe. It has a whole container of sour cream in the batter. Sour. Cream. In cake. It’s actually the best. When they say moist, they mean it. This cake is damper than the knickers of a 45-year-old woman a Magic Mike screening.

A recipe for Best Ever Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting: I love carrots, I love cake and cream cheese frosting is so good I would seriously consider eating it off the floor of any bathroom in Fortitude Valley. I would consider contracting tinea of the tongue just for a few seconds of that dairy delight.

Nevamaycakes.com.au: This girl makes great cakes, and sometimes you need to see a great cake to remind you that life is worth living.

A video of Noni Hazlehurst reading Go the Fuck to Sleep: I went to a baby shower recently.

A recipe for pumpkin scones: Dad has recently take his “see, I’m from the country” act up a notch, and is now growing actual edible produce in our backyard. And because it requires absolutely no upkeep and, in fact, happened completely by accident, Dad’s growing pumpkins. It was an unplanned patch, but a welcome surprise.

My father has been trying to produce fruit for years. We have these unidentified citrus trees scattered around our backyard. Each year they blossom and then start growing these yellowy-green citrus-esque balls and each year we hope they turn into something we could make cocktails out of. But each year they stop growing once they’ve reached the size of golf balls and then drop onto the grass like a puddle of wee. We’ve tried cutting into these disappointment balls, and they taste like shit. So it’s a real tease that we have something that resembles fruit but can’t be eaten. I imagine how it would feel similar to being a parent and finding our your child likes Adam Lambert or something.

So when our little block on the edge of town happened to grow something vaguely edible, it was jubilation station. We had a horse living in our backyard (we didn’t own it, it was rescue horse our neighbour wanted to save from being made into Swiss meatballs) and Dad would throw it some veggie scraps, like it’s life wasn’t horrific enough without having to eat our unwanted green waste. Anyway, among those scraps must have been some pumpkin seeds which were magically fertilised by some of the horse’s leavings. And by gum, in a few months we had an actual pumpkin patch. So Dad, not knowing what to do with his newfound fertile power, often offloads them on to me and my sisters; his other accidental fruits.

Long story short, I have a lot of pumpkin in my life right now. You know what they say, when life gives you pumpkins, make pumpkin scones.

A Google search for chicken goujons: Like chicken chippies, but more fun to say. It’s very difficult to spell for a filthy Westerner like me with no culture and no respect for French words.

The weather radar: Because sometimes you want to know what the rains are doing… mostly if you’re looking at having to converse with a man over the age of 50 who has a good Akubra and a work Akubra. You know the type.

The website for comedian Sarah Pascoe: I heard her talking on the radio about books she’d done about the female body. I’m running out of vagina jokes, so I think poking my nose in a book such as that one would be helpful. Like, why should the cervix have all the fun? When will it be fallopian tubes’ time to shine? A Google search for a neo mastiff cross with great dane: My sister and her husband bought a puppy and being four hours away from it is hard for me.

The movie schedule for my local cinema: In a small country town this is pointless because they only play kids movies. Did you know there was an Ice Age Five? Why the fuck does the world need that?! What is wrong with everyone?!

Capricorn Daily Horoscope: Because when you’re as indecisive as me, working out whether you should go for a run at a particular time is a huge dilemma. I find horoscopes, as trivial as they may be, do sometimes help in the realm of using them to justify your decisions. Like not running.

A YouTube clip of Ralph Wiggans saying “go banana”: Obviously.

Nigella’s chocolate olive oil cake: I have a friend who can’t eat dairy and shouldn’t be eating gluten. But she should be eating chocolate cake. Nigella doesn’t want people like this brave soul to miss out, and neither do I. And because this stuff is based on almond meal, I can pas it off as healthy.

Chlamydia symptoms, women: Research. Chlamydia is an excellent metaphor for many things in life, but if you really want it to have the same sting to your verse you need to back it up with facts.

Billy Crystal Lion King: He wasn’t on The Lion King. But whoever played Timon obviously was channelling one of the world’s most delightful men when he was in that voice recording booth. And why wouldn’t you? He’s a wonderful creature. I really hope that he hasn’t done anything creepy or criminal that leaks out as he gets older. I really want him to be as wholesome, yet edgy as I imagine him to be. In fact, if something shady came out from his past, I’d probably ignore it. The same goes for Steve Martin, Diane Keaton, Bette Midler and Kerri-Anne.

They say you can tell a lot about a person by the company they keep. Unfortunately I’m currently in a stage and location in life where I don’t really keep any “company”. The closest thing to “company” for me is the Harry Potter figurines that stand around the rim of my bathroom sink for decorative purposes. You could argue that this is perhaps a contributing factor as to why I don’t keep human company, but I beg to differ.

Anyway, because of a lack of humanoids I choose to surround myself with, you’ll have to find other things that tell at lot about me. Thankfully, there are many things upon which you can base your perceptions of me on. My many split ends and unprofessional-length of hair is an option, so is my DVD collection. But the other night I happened to stumble across The Breakfast Club while surfing the channels, and while it did make me wonder what kind of horrific scars one would sustain from shooting themselves with a flare gun, it did prompt me to think of the scene where The Basket Case tips her handbag out.

You can tell a lot about a person by what they lug around with them all day, everyday. The old saying “you cannot not communicate” perhaps is best proved by the analysis of a person’s handbag/satchel/hessian sack and the contents inside it. There’s a lot that can be deduced from these objects and the fact that the owner chooses to keep them on their persons whenever they leave the house. These are the objects one determines they cannot face the outside world without being in close proximity to. In short, these are the things that one needs to feel at home anywhere. Like a snail lugging its house around on its back, so too are our handbags which provide comfort and shelter of some emotional kind. Plus revealing what’s in your handbag is really trendy on Instagram and racks up a shit-tonne of likes depending on how expensive your personal items are.

So I’m going to dump my purse out on to the couch/internet:

Here’s a comprehensive annotated bibliography of completely necessary items which goes into my bag that I insist on hauling around with my every day*. I’m going to try to justify each object’s place in my personal sack to myself.

Wallet: obviously. Because we are living in a material world, and I need to be able to trade currency in order to obtain goods and/or services.

Deodorant: because I don’t want anyone to know that I sweat. Ever.

Two plastic forks and a plastic spoon: because you never know when you’re going to be faced with a tub of yogurt or a container of fried rice without an implement with which to shove it into my gob. Think it’s superfluous? Try eating yoghurt with your fingers, then come tell me I’m a hoarder. I’m just prepared for the inevitable.

14 business cards from my old job: because you never know

Just one business card from my current job: because I guess I am a little underprepared for some things.

A plastic bag: to give my items a watertight barrier should I be caught up in an unexpected rainstorm.

A list of my friend’s siblings in the order they were born: in case I forget (because it’s pretty embarrassing when I mix Marcus up with Tom).

A spare key to my car which has the top broken and therefore I can’t keep it on a keychain anymore: because I can’t keep it on a keychain anymore.

A sachet of Vegemite: in case I get stranded in the bush without any source of Vitamin B.

Breast tape: to stick my clothes to my bare chest to hide my feminine shame.

Travel tissues: because when your nose is runny and you think it’s funny, well it’s snot.

My old iPhone 4: just in case I need to access my meaningless photos from 2011.

An iPhone charger: just in case I need to access my meaningless photos from 2011 and it runs out of battery.

An iPhone charging cord: just in case I need to access my meaningless photos from 2011 and it runs out of battery and I can’t find my first charger but I have a USB port.

A blue USB someone leant to me and did come back for: in case I need to save important documents, usually after hacking into the Main Frame.

A scrunchie with Santa Claus on it that my grandma made to match the Christmas dress she made me as a kid: because I have long hair and I like to eat food. You try eating food with a metre of hair blowing around.

White socks: in case I forget my other socks and I’m heading to the gym from work. Running in just sneakers with nothing between the soles and your footskin is awful.

Keys to Grandma’s house: you never know when you’re going to need a Tim Tam, and my Grandma has shitloads of the bastards.

A deck of Greek Ancient Lovers playing cards: in case of an emergency round of Kings Cup comes up and there are no cards.

Blue highlighter: for marking my court notes.

Five wooden beads on a loop of string: so I can be ultra glamorous in an instant.

A bundle of 12 pens and a pencil: because journalism.

Two plastic rings: you just never know.

Diary: because I like to keep track of my meaningless life by colour-coding my appointments.

Glasses case with my old glasses in it: in case my newer, magnifying glass strength glasses are trampled and I need to see things.

Glasses case with my watch and earphones in it: because the I’ll be damned if I’m going to try to run without Jason De Rulo humming in my ears. I keep my watch in there for security reasons. Those reasons don’t have to be rational.

A girls’ night out namebadge sticker: because maybe I am a haorder.

Five empty single-serve Mentos packets: because a kind-hearted councillor feels sorry for me for having to sit through hours of council meetings and throws me the free sugary treats councillors get on their table to keep my body from shutting down.

Anticol lozenges: because I work in an office environment in a cold climate.

One strawberry and one chocolate flavoured condom: in case I get into a hot and steamy situation, I’ll look so wild and spontaneous because I keep favoured contraception on my person at all times. Plus it will also double as a water carrier should I be lost in the wilderness. You always need to be prepared for being lost in the wilderness, and, to be honest, I’m a little curious about what chocolate flavoured creek water would taste like.

A “rump rewards” loyalty card, with one stamp on it: because we all aspire to one day earn a free steak by paying for and eating other steaks.

Three promotional magnets: because I can’t say no to the friendly faces at the court registry office.

Six half-used tissues: yeah, that’s not hygienic. They won’t be going back in there.

13 small, golden safety pins: in case of emergency tears in fabric/good try ribbon presentations at primary school ball games carnivals.

An A5 notebook: for ideas about my television series.

Two types of dermatitis ointments prescribed to members of my family: because I never think to go to the doctor and I have a tendency to scratch my afflicted areas when asleep/drunk/asleep while drunk. I get it on my fingers and that’s not great for handshakes.

A pack of “visiting cards”: this impulse buy was an aspiration to leave actual calling cards when my plans to spontaneously burst into the living spaces of my friends and families are thwarted by them not being there/pretending they’re not home. I have yet to leave a card, but when I do turn up unexpectedly and my victim isn’t there, I’ve be ready for them.

A fictional docket detailing the cost of each of the items in one person’s home mailed to me for promotional purposes: so I could question the drongo who estimated someone would own $200 worth of socks. I planned on weaving Rob Kardashian’s weird sock venture into my rant about conniving insurance companies. Watch this space.

A form stress ball shaped like a traffic light: because you should never depart on red. My dad actually gave one of these to each of my siblings for Christmas one year. They were given out back in the days when he would drive a lettuce truck. He’s a strange man.

Two nearly empty tubes of coldsore creams: because those bastards need to be nipped in the bud or else you end up with leprosy of the face.

An old hair tie container with a single outstretched hair tie and one of the two nearly empty tubes of coldsore creams: I live in fear of being without something to tie my hair back. I used/lost all the ties already except for this one which lost its elasticity. Even if it does a terrible job this will get me out of a sticky situation. The cream is in the case for ointment containing purposes.

A small blue mini notebook with a golden pencil: because I need to write down the deep and completely poetic thoughts I have while out and about. I might also be a little bit glamorous.

Four Zyrtec tablets: sometimes my eye swells up for no reason and I refuse to not pat dogs I come into contact with. The two are absolutely not related. Absolutely not.

A single pain killer tablet: I might find myself with a headache that’s painful, but not too painful that it requires two tablets to put an end to my suffering.

My tax return summary from 2013: if those blood sucking auditors come for me, I’ll be ready for them.

An astronomical bill for keeping my 20-year-old car running: it’s paid; it’s just there. I can’t really explain it. Maybe I’m trying to remind myself that even though my car is being held together with thumb tacks, it’s still one expensive ride.

The menu from the place that does Indian wraps: we all need somebody to lean on.

Seven pieces of rubbish paper I haven’t thrown out yet: because I haven’t thrown them out yet.

One bobby pin: honestly, it’s amazing I have this. It’s the sole survivor out of heavens knows how many. You get don’t question its presence, it deserves your respect.

*Ok, so this here is actually the contents of my bag a few weeks ago. I spent far too much of my weekend moving my glut of possessions interstate to be able to throw something together for my Sunday feast (of my words). This here is something I prepared earlier. Interestingly, the inventory of items in my bag has increased astronomically. So I may just serve up a round of seconds later on, depending on how crippling my writer’s block is. Grab a fork my friends! 

There’s nothing like packing up all your worthless possessions to remind you how cool you are.

A lot of people bang on about moving house like it’s the worst thing on earth you could have to endure. And I understand that to a degree – you have to do things instead of lay down, and there’s a lot of wiping involved. But the actual packing and boxing of one’s personal goods? That’s hardly a chore for someone with stuff as cool as I have and a memory as selective as mine is.

I’m actually kind of enjoying it. This time I’m actually using boxes instead of precariously stacking my breakables in those Princess Polly bags we inexplicably hoard as sturdy yet depressing status symbols so when we unpack our new housemates know they’re living with a classy bitch who can afford to shop at stores which have fancy paper bags. I usually jut shove everything that can’t shatter into a giant garbage bag and cram it into the boot of my Camry and go on my way.

But this time I’m doing it properly, by wrapping glassware in newspaper, placing them carefully into boxes and labelling them accordingly. And I have to say that I’m quite enjoying this. Not only do I get to look at my cool personal goods, but I also get to wrap things like I’m one of those women with wealthy husbands who work in homewares shops for social reasons (essentially Prude and Trude). But then I get the pleasure of categorising my life into boxes.

I’m not sure if compartmentalising your life is cause of concern or will earn you an achievement sticker from your psychologist (I’ve just sent a test to my friend studying her masters in clinical psych, so I’ll let you know*), but compartmentalising your possessions is a real thrill (if you have nothing else going on in your life, hence my elation).

Already I have two boxes from my kitchen/living area packed away. One says “fragile – frivolous glassware”, which is essentially a bunch of steins, French-style champagne glasses and some delicate tumblers I absolutely don’t need but picked up for a bargain. The other box is labelled “hipster party accessories” which contains bunting made from scrap fabric, two jugs to be used for Instagram-worthy cocktails, vintage scotch glasses and mini milk bottles (these were actually from a pack I picked up at the dump shop; I think there was a juice supplier that went bust and I reaped the benefits).

I actually had to put a stop to my little spree after running out of newspaper (but I know where I can pick up more, eh?) but I think more than anything it was delayed gratification. Like when you save a piece of cake until after you finish work or put off watching a new episode of something until after you’ve showered and put the dishes away – it’s a little treat I am setting aside for my future self. A dangling carrot to get through a busy Monday, if you will.

Because I am already daydreaming about the next few labels I’ll be making with my Nikko:

Horse-related knick knacks

Swan figurines

Novelty crockery that looks like it’s not crockery

Tedious glassware I received as gifts

Pictures of people I don’t yet hate in frames from op shops

Assorted containers to use as vases and tell the world I’m unconventional

Candles and associated goods

These are all categories of items I thought of off the top of my head. It doesn’t take into account all the forgotten treasures I have hidden in my drawers and cupboards.

In fact, I just opened a draw in my desk to discover that I own a harmonica. A harmonica! I had this sitting in a drawer, on the bottom shelf of my mind. And this joy giving, completely un-annoying find may not have been uncovered for years had I not have had to move. Thanks to unpacking the very same drawer I also was reminded of my uni graduation thanks to a bunch of hard-copy photos; discovered my formal partner was either subconsciously filthy or consciously very filthy but incredibly sly as evidenced by his hand making what appears to be the barracuda sign in our portrait; and was reminded that I’m not a total piece of shit thanks to a slightly tattered print out of comments from supervisor on my last ever uni assignment.

Maybe I’m a Sentimental Sally because I recently watched the Playschool 50^th anniversary special or maybe I’m delirious from a lack of sleep and a lingering head cold, but I can’t help but think that this is all good stuff. Maybe by emptying our drawers and cupboards and packing everything into boxes is the best way to unpack our lives. Maybe, by taking stock of all your possessions and deciding what to keep, throw away or store in a trunk for another few years, you’re best placed to decide what you love and what you need to get rid of from your life and what trash you don’t think you can deal with right now. Maybe moving is the ultimate live overhaul. Or maybe that’s all bullshit.

All I know is that I now have a harmonica, which will not go back into a drawer. It’s going into my handbag, for emergencies.

*I’ve since been told that compartmentalising isn’t the greatest if you’re doing so to supress negative emotions or painful memories. She says it’s best to find healthy ways of expressing such feelings. As such, it’s bloody lucky that I’ve also come across my novelty one-piece collection while moving. Because if there’s a healthier way to express one’s feelings than interpretive dancing in a fringed leotard while playing the harmonica, I’d like to hear it.

This weekend I was sweeping with a broom I had stuck together with sticky tape, a fistful of wooden skewers and determination.

Sometimes I feel like the things that happen in my life would make other people concerned for my welfare. I mean, if you chose to read it a certain way, particular incidences in my life in recent months would be viewed as red flags for an impending mental breakdown. Based on my Instagram feed over the past few weeks, I’m surprised no one has come up to me and asked, “Dannielle, is everything ok?”. Separately they’re amusing anecdotes. But when viewed as a whole, they paint a pretty bleak picture. Two out of the last five are dedicated to gravy. Another one is about my getting soup in my hair. There’s one there about how I was so cold I shoved cardboard in the cracks of my front door.

Sure, when you frame it a certain way, my life isn’t thrilling. I’m about to be unemployed, I’m quite poor and I live at least four hours away from my nearest friend. I spend my weekends watching DVDs I bought heavily discounted from one of the last remaining Civic Video’s closing down sale and counting the days until I move back to Queensland. Some people call this soul crushingly depressing, but I like to re-frame it as “character building”. So when another thing goes wrong, it’s not a kick in the teeth, but more a test of spirit, ingenuity and innovation. The more limited your resources, the more satisfying the victory.

You see, I like to think of myself as “resourceful” rather than “dirt poor”. I’m “inventive”, not “stingy”. I’m a great fan of Bush Mechanics, and I firmly believe there is a solution for every malfunction, even if it is a little rough around the edges. Only the other night I used the end of an ointment tube in the place of a flathead to screw the base of my heater back on. I have stapled my shoes together before. The two pairs of stockings I own have severe runs in them, but I haven’t needed to replace them because when you wear them both at the same time, they cover each other’s shortfalls. A fun bonus in this little scheme is that the double layers give you extra warmth and hold your paunch in like a pair of poor-man’s Spanx.

I have this broom right, which cost me all of seven bucks from a popular discount department store (we’ll call it Fay-Fart) known for its criminally cheap products knocked-off from people with actual ideas and mass produced by near slave labour. Because no one gives two shits if a malnourished seven-year-old Bangladeshi girl loses a hand in a sweatshop if it produces ceramic fucking pineapples at rock bottom prices, right? Anyway, because this broom was made with the lowest quality materials under assumedly horrific conditions, the handle split the other day while I was sweeping.

The handle kinked in the middle, with the bend making the cheap metal crack. As a result, the brush part and the top of the handle were only connected by about two centimetres of handle. It was like a straw with a cut in it. I could have gone out to buy a new one, but I prefer to spend my money on unnecessarily expensive hummus and magazines. I don’t think twice about paying $35 for a fucking candle (but it was four dollars off!), yet I can’t justify dropping $7 on a new broom. So I just carried on sweeping and returned it to its home ready for another use.

This morning, I realised I couldn’t live in my filth any longer and needed to get the swirling mass of hair, All Bran crumbs and flakes of my dead skin off the floor and into the bin. But unfortunately, I don’t have a vacuum cleaner.

So I had to break out the broom with a broken spine. The way it was cracked meant I could either sweep with no downward pressure at all or hold it just below the break and sweep like I was the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Instead, I decided to improvise.

I got the handle, some packing tape and a fist full of skewers to act as a splint. I placed the broom on my kitchen bench like a doctor prepping for surgery. I strapped a bundle of skewers over the crack and tightly wound the tape around the handle. Upon a quick test, I realised the handle needed greater structural support, and taped more skewers around the outside.

After a few tentative sweeps, I was thrilled. I caught myself saying, “look at that, no bloody worries mate” like I as Russel Coight hosting Better Homes and Gardens.

Everything was going great guns until I was sweeping up my final mound of floor scum. I realised I had stabbed one of my fingers on the points of the skewers and had covered the broom handle in splodges of blood. Ever the keen journalist, dedicated to reporting the up-to-the-minute news I decided to take a photo of my predicament for Instagram and harness my pitifulness for a few LOLs. I had to put the camera on my phone into selfie mode because the other lens was smashed and turn it around to face the broom (which meant I couldn’t see what I was taking a photo of because the screen had to face the subject) in order to take a clear shot of just how pathetic I was.

It was around about this moment when I realised just how sad this situation would have looked. I laughed deliriously and said “this is fine” to myself like that meme of the dog sitting in a burning house.

I move in less than seven days.

I’m currently sitting at home watching Nigella Bites.

I’ve never seen an actual Nigella show before today, now that I think about it. I only knew about her after seeing sketch shows making fun of her for being hot and knowing how to make food. I’m not sure why that’s worth making fun of someone for, but that’s prime time early 2000s Australian comedy for you. It’s like how I only knew about CNN was because of the pre-Chaser’s War on Everything satirical smash hit CNNNNN… etc.

Anyway, She’s talking about the recipe books passed on from Her (yes, Nigella gets a capital for all her personal pronouns, like Jesus) mother and grandmother. These aren’t just those shitty Four Ingredients paperbacks that every bastard seems to have in their recipe book drawer. I’m talking about the personally-collated recipe books. She is telling me – She talks directly to you when She talks – that these recipe books are essentially like photo albums, but with less slut strands (you know, those thick, greasy belts of hair you used to pull out of your slick-back pony tail to make you ultra glamorous – don’t pretend you never had the) and slogan tees. These are collections of “signature recipes” and basic shit ever bastard should know. Some of them are hand-written, others look like they were cut from a British Women’s Weekly equivalent.

It makes me think I should collate one of these myself. Because I don’t have too many recipes from my grandmother, who assures me she used to bake things like jam bloody turnovers even though I’ve only ever seen her serve up packets of Tim Tams or those weird lemon biscuits I assume she bought a wholesale-size crate of because I don’t think Arnott’s makes them anymore. I also don’t have many from my mother, come to think of it. But at the top of my head, I can think of a few. The titles would read:

Deputy PM Fruitcake – how to create a brick of fruit and spices good enough to feature on the front page of a regional masthead in the gob of Barnaby Joyce.

After-birth Bolognaise – a sloppy mince dish that freezes beautifully and makes the perfect gift for a friend who has just given birth/is sick/is going through a rough patch. Not to be confused with Placenta Bologaise.

Tiger Toast –cheese creatively-placed on bread.

There are, of course, a few of my mother’s gems which don’t need to be inked, because if you can’t say something nice about someone, you sure as shit shouldn’t write it down. And the same thing applies to recipes. There are some “dishes” that are best left in the past.

A good example of this is Mum’s Stir Fry. Now, when most people think of a stir fry they kind of a wok brimming with fresh, crunchy vegetables. They’re usually Asian delights, healthy and full of flavour. For the Maguire children, a stir fry meant something completely different. It meant beef mince, grated carrot, grated zucchini and sultanas cooked together to form poo-like clumps of sadness. Sometimes if Mum was feeling particularly exotic, she would team this with a packet of Maggi’s Two-Minute Noodles – chicken, of course.

This train of thought also makes me wonder about the kinds of food memories I would be passing down to my children – should I ever get knocked up. I’m trying to think of what I would call my “signature recipe”. The kind of foods my family would eat while choking back tears because I’ve died in a heroic, glamorous way and the delights in their mouth makes them think of my wholesome, fantastic soul. I don’t know if it’s possible to contain the essence of my fabulousness within a food without extracting my DNA or at least grinding my bones down to create some kind of Dannielle Salt (which I reckon would go well on a bit of avo toast).

But there are a few things I’ve cooked before which say a lot about me. There’s the famous Diarrhoea Arancini, which is of course an artery clogging risotto rolled into balls, coated in parmesan and ground corn flakes and deep-fried to the point of disintegration. The goo is then piled haphazardly on to a plate to create a mound of failure. There’s also my gingerbread, my pretentious slice and this pumpkin pie ooze I like to put inside things (pastry and my mouth, mostly).

But because Nigella was getting all nostalgic, I thought I would emulate her sentiment with the same articulation of elegance and culinary wisdom. I’m recreating the idea she presented of wholesome, family food prepared with love. And there’s one recipe that fits this description for me. I know I’ve been banging on about food and baking in some recent posts, but I’ve decided to share that with you.

NUGG-CHOS

The crux of this recipe is to mimic the world’s greatest creation besides the Quik Braid: nachos. But there’s a cheeky twist I’ve added to spice things up. Instead of the customary tortilla triangles or corn chips, I use chicken nuggets. Sometimes, I use dinosaur-shaped chick nuggets for authenticity. I like to think of it as a healthy spin on the snack, but this is debatable among people with actual knowledge about the nutritional values of foods.

Step 1: Follow cooking the instructions of the chicken nugget of your choice, otherwise known as: make chicken nuggets hot enough to cook out the salmonella. I recommend an oven.

Step 2: Cut up an onion, two large tomatoes and a medium red capsicum.

Step 3: Open a tin of black beans, making sure to open lift the tin lid off slightly. One day you’ll understand why.

Step 4: Drain the thick water off by skilfully leaving the tin in the sink for about five to 10 minutes.

Step 5: Grate some cheese. If you want to be really traditional, I’d recommend a kilo block of Bega.

Step 6: Open a jar of salsa. Medium works best, but if you can’t handle the authentic spice extremes of mass-produced, Westernised store-bought Mexican food you uncultured swine, go with the mild.

Step 7: Wait for nuggets to become gloriously browned and crisp.

Step 8: Put all ingredients that aren’t nuggets on to the nuggets. I recommend putting the cheese on last to create a nice blanket of fat.

Step 9: Put that tray back in the oven until the cheese starts to brown and bubble.

Step 10: Mash up some avocado and dollop it on with a few spoonfuls of sour cream/thick natural yoghurt.

Step 11: Put tray on to table give everyone a fork and hoe into that bastardisation of Mexican culture like the capitalist pigs you and your guests are.

Step 12: Eat until you have reached a satisfactory level of self-loathing.

I’ve completely lost faith in the human race and it’s all because of chicken tenders.

A little while ago I bought a box of chicken tenders from the supermarket. I was facing a few busy nights and thought it would be good to have some oven-ready poultry on hand. Because when you’re a gal on the go, you don’t have time to muck around. You need a dinner you can throw into the heated shelving in your kitchen and leave it while you organise your manila folders, live tweet and press buttons on your Blackberry. Behind every powerful, professional woman is a box of processed chicken that can be cooked in the time it takes to shower.

I’d had almost a lifetime of experience with these crumbed bits of dead bird so I was confident that I was putting a few delightful, easy meals into my trolley. I thought I knew what I was buying. I had no idea I was putting a box of frozen lies into my freezer when I got home.

A few nights later, I was tired, I was hungry and I needed a little treat. The tenders, which are produced by an Unidentified Chicken Company, fit these criteria. So when they carb-covered chicken carcasses came out of the oven, I was pretty excited.

Until I took the first bite and realised I had been taken for a fool. I have reasonably low expectations in life; it’s one of my coping policies to prevent my mediocre existence from driving me insane. I usually can shield myself from crushing disappointment by setting the bar low, that way if the outcome is shitty I at least get the satisfaction of knowing I was right. If it’s better than expected, it’s a nice surprise. But I hadn’t set the bar low when preparing for a bit of this chicken, because I had already experienced it’s chickeny goodness on countless occasions. This chicken being tasty was as much of a sure thing as someone in my family digging out the Shrek’s Christmas CD in December. It wasn’t fancy, but by golly was it glorious.

I had become accustomed to the tenders from the Unidentified Chicken Company containing a meat product that resembled real chicken. In fact, I think it actually was real chicken, or at least a very close alternative. But the goo coated in breadcrumbs the other night didn’t even look like it was once alive. It looked like the innards of an old, mouldy couch that had been left out in the rain. It looked like a massive collection of that residue that is left on your skin after leaving a non-brand name Band-Aid on your shin for too long. It looks like that gunk that gloved hands would squeeze from the artery of a dead smoker public health campaign ads. But aesthetics, when it comes to chicken, doesn’t matter too much. What was really offensive was the taste. It tasted like betrayal. It tasted like crushed ambitions. It tasted like the world had given up.

I sat on my couch seething, staring angrily into the air for its ultimate betrayal of being available to be breathed into the lungs of my enemies, the chicken tender manufactures. The people – if you can call them that – who did this to me did not deserve to breathe the same oxygen as me. This was the ultimate act of treason.

I had been tricked. Clearly, this was an example of cost cutting at its most sinister. Quality had been traded for profit, and we were all poorer for it. This isn’t a new concept, but I felt the rug had been completely pulled from under me. Nowhere on the box was a warning that the much-revered recipe had changed.

I know you can hardly write “new, shitter recipe” on the box. I know nobody is going to make an ad telling customers they’d replaced the chicken in their products with the fluff taken from vacuum cleaner bags mixed with salt and water. The tagline isn’t going to be changed to “the taste of poverty”.

But I feel like some kind of warning should have been given to me, an outraged consumer. I should have been given some warning that this clump of mystery meat was in crumbed in lies and seasoned with disappointment. Never before have I had so little faith in bread-coated chicken, or the world.

I’ve always believed in the good in people, but now I’ve completely lost faith in the human race. I assumed that humanity was stronger than greed and that people would do the right thing. But now I’m not so sure. If man is good, man would have never let that mass of concentrated evil be produced.

Now is not the time for cowardice. History will condemn those who stood by and did nothing with the conspirers. We will look back decades from now and hang our heads in shame. We have to do something with the little power we have. And so, I plan on standing up to the lions of injustice. I will stare boldly into the eyes of corruption. I will brandish a sword at the pillars of greed.

I’m going to write a letter.