Originally published by The Clifton Courier, May 9, 2018

Now, we Maguires aren’t much of a Paul Kelly family. Dad’s into Slim, The Eagles and, as all sensible people should be, Diana Ross and the Supremes. Mum dabbles in a bit of Johnny Farnham and Petula Clark. And ever since it made its cracking debut back in 1999, Britney Spears’ banger Hit Me Baby One More Timehas been getting spins in the Maguire house. Last time I looked, it was still next to radio in the kitchen, ready to be played at a moment’s notice.

As such, we’re not too familiar with the framed Kelly gravy recipe. Thanks to a bit of incidental exposure due to the boom of ironic bogan culture in metropolitan areas, I know to shout about giving my love to someone called Angus when the song comes on at a house party, but that’s about it.

I’ll also point out that I’m from a staunch Gravox family. We’ve tasted perfection and we don’t want to muck around with all the variables that can spoil a gravy. We’re not going to chance it with a risky pan-juice-and-flour combo when there’s a ripping lamb roast at stake. Nah. We like the powdered stuff you get from the box.

But that doesn’t mean we settle for a weak, salty dam water concoction of a gravy. We like a nice, rich glob of flavour to drown our potatoes in.

And just because our gravy is made up of hydrolysed vegetable protein and “natural flavour”, doesn’t mean we don’t make it our own.

Mum, for example, will sometimes mix it up with a few sliced mushrooms. When she’s cooking sausages under the griller, Mum will spice up a batch of gravy with a few slices of onion – this particular recipe calls for Dad gleefully calling out “onion gavy” at least twice, which I believe stems from an inside joke about a bloke he knew who pronounces “gravy” without the “r” and loves his onions.  Some traditions are best left unquestioned.

I however, have put my own stamp on the goo of the gods.

I like to say that it’s “a secret”, as if I’m from a cultured family that passes recipes down through the generations. It sounds wholesome.

In reality, most of my recipes come from the back of packets and the only things passed down my family trees are a tendency to hoard things and scoliosis. So this is the best I can do.

The secret: rosemary.

Thrilling, right?

But there’s more to it than that. It’s not about the rosemary, it’s what ya do with it:

The first thing you want to do is to get the Supreme Chicken gravy. Don’t get the instant just-add-boiling-water stuff – it will only disappoint you and make your potatoes/entire life limp and soggy.

The next thing you want to do is get your hands on some oil. If you’re cooking a roast, collect the juices from the roasted hunk of meat and tip this rich, bloody oil into a non-stick frypan. If you don’t have meaty juice, just use a good olive oil.

Then, chuck in a few teaspoons of dried rosemary. Now, you could defs use fresh rosemary from the garden, but us Maguires aren’t great gardeners so the concept of plucking some herbs from a functioning veggie patch is foreign to me. And considering we’re using powdered gravy, we may as well go down the highly-processed path.

Speaking of highly processed, now is the time to make your gravy paste. It’s like curry paste, except less natural. The box says to use one-and-a-half tablespoons of powder, but because of my undeniable zest for life, I tend to end up with two heaped spoonfuls. I put this powder in a cup measurement, adding a splash of water to first make a paste, then gradually adding more water once that’s been mixed. This process makes me feel like a real cook, but also prevents lumps from ruining your day.

Next, fry the rosemary on a medium heat until the leaves start crisping up.

Gently pour in the gravy water, stirring with a plastic spatula. Why a plastic spatula? Because it’s usually already dirty by this point and I can’t be arsed washing up unnecessary spoons.

The wide surface of the frypan should make your gravy thick and rich in a few minutes, so keep watching it until it reaches your desired viscosity.

Next, tip this delightful brown sludge into a jug of some sort. You can either place this on the table with your roast, or grab a straw and take the jug into a darkened room to watch reruns of The Nanny by yourself.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, May 2, 2018

For those of you who have come late to the party, this right here is another entry in a series of autobiographical recipes I’ve whipped up earlier and chucked in the freezer for later.

And after being left to defrost in a metaphorical sink at the Clifton Courier office and reheated by the great microwave that is the printing press, all I can say is that I hope no one ends up with food poisoning from this latest serving.

When nutting out my self-indulgent cookbook idea, I wrote a list of dishes I wanted to include. It featured things like risotto, pumpkin pie and “coconut wanker porridge”. But I realised these were things I cooked to impress people or made on special occasions. It became clear that, if I was going to be truly autobiographical, I needed to include the day-to-day stuff I shove into my gob. So I came up with a list of stuff I eat depressingly often, calling that list Underwhelming But Still Good.

Enjoy this taster plate of culinary insights into just how dismal my life is.

Breakfast Routine

Ok, so some people think my breakfast routine is a little on the sad side. I’ve been mocked for how regimented and soulless it is, devoid of toast, joy and life. But I disagree.

Not squandering my carb intake on breakfast frees me up to enjoy bread at any time of the day.

And the fact that it is so fine-tuned means I don’t have to think of a morning; I just have follow the same steps to get to work on time with a good serve of veggies on the already on the board.

Step 1: Place two eggs in a small saucepan of water, turning on high.

Step 2: Flick on the kettle to boil.

Step 3: Place a teabag in your tea cup/vat-sized mug.

Step 4: Place three portions of frozen spinach and three portions of frozen kale on a plate, placing the plate in the microwave without turning it on.

Step 5:Once the kettle boils, tip into the teacup. Fill the water almost to the top, so that drinking your tea will also scold your oesophagus.

Step 6: Turn the microwave on to cook the unappetising green bricks for three minutes.

Step 7: As the microwave beeps, put one teaspoon of honey into the tea, which should be of a strong stout after steeping for a little more than three minutes.

Step 8: Take the plate out of the microwave and use a spoon to remove the eggs, placing them on a folded tea towel to soak up the water.

Step 9: Stir your honey, which by now should have dissolved and diffused with the water. Add milk, but only just enough to change the colour – won’t have you drinking creamy tea like a milky heathen.

Step 10: Place eggs on plate, then sit down to eat this bountiful meal.

Step 11: Eat kale first, because it is terrible.

Step 12: Eat spinach second, because it is slightly less terrible.

Step 13:Now that you’ve eaten your veggies, you get to enjoy a dessert of hard-boiled, eggy goodness. Do this by cutting the egg right through the guts with a swift whack of a knife right in the middle of the egg and scooping out the innards with a spoon. Treat it like a kiwi fruit, rather than chicken ovulation.

Step 14: Finish your tea, mentally preparing yourself for another meaningless day in your mediocre life.

There, what’s so gloomy about that?

Onion and Bacon Bowl

This was something I pioneered while quite hungover, craving a hearty risotto to fill the void inside me. But after completing the first few steps, I became unable to continue standing upright and settled for whatever I’d prepared up to that point.

I wasn’t disappointed in the food, only in myself.

Step 1: Slice and dice a whole onion. There’s no need to be precise with your cutting because if you’re at the point where you’re making this, it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re not going to impress anyone. You’re probably hunched over, in need of a shower and all alone.

Step 2: Slice and dice about three rashers of bacon. Five if you’re really hungry/sad.

Step 3: Chuck this into a small saucepan with an angry slap of butter (about a tablespoon, but who cares?) and a dowsing of oil.

Step 4: Cook over a medium heat, stirring as you can be bothered to move.

Step 5: Once onion is fragrant and translucent, tip into a bowl, an oversized mug or eat it straight from the saucepan while watching a rerun of a TV show you’ve seen at least seven times. Avoid mirrors on your way to the couch, otherwise you’ll take a long, hard look at yourself – and you won’t be impressed.

Step 6: Curl into a ball and hope sleep comes for you.

Yeah Good Yog

When you need a treat, but you don’t actually deserve a treat.

Step 1: Slop a few spoonfuls of Greek yoghurt into a bowl

Step 2: Crumble a few walnuts over the top. This works best if you equate the crushing the nuts to crushing the patriarchy.

Step 3: Drizzle with honey.

Step 4: Pretend it’s a decadent desert and eat with imitation glee.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, April 25, 2018

I realise this post does not fit into my strict Wednesday or Sunday schedule, but considering I got motion sick from my computer and passed out at 5.30pm today, the irregular posting seems appropriate.

I’d like to point out that I’ve just returned from a month in Europe, not as an apology or an explanation for the lack of activity on this here blog, but merely to brag. I’ve been to the Trevi fountain. I’m cultured now.

And on that note, I’d like to offer you the first dish that featured in my autobiographical cook book gimmick I prepared for the paper in my absence: a soup-mix-based cob loaf. The epitome of culture.

Rip off a side and dunk right into it:

Boxing Day Cob

Now, just because it’s called “Boxing Day Cob”, doesn’t mean you can’t eat it year round.

The name is less about the date and more to do with the social conditions of the occasion. Most people will have Boxing Day off, meaning you’re probably going to a gatho of some kind. And the beauty of Boxing Day events is that they’re significantly less formal than their Christmassy counterpart.

You can wear thongs. You’re probably a little hungover. And you’re wanting to make the most out of one last day where it’s socially acceptable to eat like the disgusting slobs we all have raging inside us.

And while I’m in no way disrespecting the hallowed cob, its low-key properties makes it an absolute banger at casual parties.

Another thing about Boxing Day: the leftovers.

Chances are there are still a few roast taties and bits of lamb sitting in a Tupperware container in the fridge, just wanting to be made into a sandwich.  Not that I have anything against leftover sangas – I’m a strong advocate for the roast potato sandwich – but this is one way to use up the uneaten goods while appearing to be some kind of culinary wizard.

This particular recipe came into being last Christmas. Dad told our Boxing Day host that “the girls will bring three cobloaves” when we rocked up. Now, that’s a bit of pressure.

Of course, the classic cob mix was brought out, but I felt the need to bring some variety to the table. With a bit of imagination and a sprinkle of fatherly fate, the Boxing Day Cob was born.

Step 1: Using a serrated knife, cut the top off a cob loaf. Pull out the innards like you’re disembowelling your worst enemy, putting these bready guts on a tray with baking paper. You could coat this in cooking spray or brush it with garlic butter if you really wanted to impress people. But because I tend to win people over with my sparkling personality, I don’t need garlic butter.

Step 2: Whack the tray in a moderate oven, placing the hollowed-out loaf and the top in as well. Keep an eye on these throughout the cooking process, removing them when they’re golden brown.

Step 3:Slice and dice a large brown onion. My hospitality teacher, Barb, once said the secret to cutting onions without crying was to cut off the root of the onion last. I don’t know if that’s a failsafe method, but it seems to work for me. And I’m not someone known for holding in my tears: I once cried in The Goofy Movie.

Step 4:Slice and dice five rashers of bacon, choosing to trim or not to trim the fat rind based on how disgusted you are with yourself after Christmas dinner.

Step 5: Chuck these in a medium-sized saucepan with about 20g of butter and a good glug of olive oil.

Step 6: Sauté over a medium heat, stirring the pot to the beat of the Shrek the Halls promotional Christmas CD your family’s still playing 15 years after getting it from Big W.

Step 7:Add one tub of cream cheese and one tub of sour cream – they’re roughly 250g but you don’t need to be super precise.

Step 8:Melt this down to a thick, off-white sludge, stirring occasionally until well-combined.

Step 9:Stir in a whole packet of the powdered soup mix you asked your father to buy from Foodworks while it was still open. You thought you said onion, but he came back with tomato.

Step 10:Roll with it.

Step 11:With your ego inflated by the bold choice of adding tomato powder to cob loaf mix, let inspiration guide you to the container of leftovers in the fridge.

Step 12:Tip in some leftover roasted veggies, pretending you’re freestylin’ on Masterchef.

Step 13: Add a handful of store-bought “pizza mix” pre-grated cheese, because you were “far too busy” to grate it yourself.

Step 14:Be honest with yourself and add another two large handfuls of cheese.

Step 15: Once that’s melted, pour this slop into the hollowed out bread roll and plonk it on the table in front of your guests still on the oven tray. Don’t bother transferring it to a fancy serving platter, because no one can be bothered to wash up at this point and, if it really is being served up on Boxing Day, chances are your guests are close enough relatives to have seen the real you. Too much damage has been done for a bit of fancy serving gear to repair. It is what it is. Accept it.