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.