Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 23, 2019

I’ve been challenged to write about sandwiches.

Of course, when I say challenged, I mean the subject matter was lightly suggested to me after I found myself without a column topic and begged the girls in my group chat for guidance.

At first I was sceptical of the topic, but the conversation in my Snapchat coven quickly lit up, ranging from revelations about the preferred butter ratio (one woman, whose identity has been supressed for ethical reasons, reckons sangas don’t need butter) to suggestions for new sandwiches to try (I’ve added Vegemite and Doritos to my to-do list). But the most intriguing line of conversation was the discussion about sandwiches of our pasts.

We all used to eat things we might not necessarily put between two slices of bread now, which is an extremely interesting thought when you’re desperately scraping the barrel to fill a newspaper column.

Driven by a desire to make something from nothing, I continued to unpack that thought. If I looked back at my sandwich history, what would I learn about myself?

So I began to list all the sandwiches I’d ever loved before and things got a little weird*:

* It’s at this point that I’d like to point out that I began writing this at about 1.20am, when I had literally no other ideas. I tried nutting out a few others – some were about my chequered dental past, others were about heaven knows what. I couldn’t settle on an idea and my tired, panicky brain flitted all over the place like a scared little mouse. I don’t recall what time I finally decided that misleadingly metaphoric sandwiches was the direction I was taking my column this week, but I didn’t go to bed until just before 4am. So, please, bear that in mind before you read on. 

Roast lamb, potato and gravy: I have referenced potato/hot chippie sandwiches far too often. So I’ll refrain from singing their praises to avoid sounding as if I’m starting a potato-based cult, adding a little lamb to mix things up. I recently made a batch of these for a shared Christmas lunch, using red wine from my glass for the gravy like a grown up and mini dinner rolls instead of everyday bread to make things extra festive – nothing’s more festive than a dinner roll. And, look, I don’t want to big note myself, but they were super popular (I had four).

Pizza shapes and strawberry jam: My childhood best friend and I were a quirky pair. We were wild and whacky and our sandwich choices reflected that. I didn’t mind if people thought we were different, in fact, enjoyed it. So when people recoiled at my lunch, I loved it.

Only, I can’t help but think my desire to seem zany outweighed my enjoyment of this combination. I convinced myself I liked it, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t for me.*

* If you’re reading between the lines here, you’ll assume that these bready insights into my past could be euphemisms for a long trail of lovers. And, heck, that’s fair to assume. But I have a rule about writing about my gentlemen callers. Not that I judge other writers for doing so, but I have never felt a need to write about them nor would I feel comfortable doing so. Perhaps one day my opinion on the matter will change, but I think writing about them would be quite unfair. Plus, it’s the only thing keeping me from typifying the tragic Carrie Bradshaw copycat stereotype.

Two Minute chicken noodles on white bread with a slathering of butter: Whenever I publicly admit to eating this, people react as if I’d used a slice of Wonder White to mop up the sides of a sullage pit. And I can understand that. The addition of bread to a highly-processed noodles seems extremely unnecessary. The whole things sounds like a soggy, claggy mess. And it was. But seven-year-old Dannielle, who had a zest for life, carbs and no nutritional understanding whatsoever, loved them.

I know I should be repulsed by the idea of this sandwich, but I just can’t be. Sure, it wasn’t great for me, but at the time it was everything I wanted.*

* Yep, maybe you also have a Maggi two-minute Chicken Noodle man in your past. I don’t. But can I just say, with no expertise or authority whatsoever, if you happen to run into this fellow while going “back home” for the weekend, don’t drunkenly hook up with him. If you run into him, suggest a nice, sober cup of something generic and warm, allowing you to calmly reassess whether he really was the one who got away or if you’ve suddenly become aware that you’re facing five weddings without a plus one.

Ice cream sandwiches: These were not dollops of gourmet ice cream wedged between soft biscuits. No, this was a scoop from a family-sized bucket of vanilla smeared on just-cooked toast. It was a favourite at my friend’s house. Her and her sister would bang on about it like it was the coolest thing since crimped hair.

And I went along with it for a while, but I eventually realised that this wasn’t some whizbang dessert revolution, it was just runny ice cream on soggy toast. And I was better that.*

* So are you, girl. Be better than milky toast. Accept better than milky toast. You’re at least worth a Maxibon, so don’t settle for sog.   

Egg and lettuce: I once absentmindedly declared that egg and lettuce sandwiches were better than… something that’s supposed to be the best thing ever*. Obviously, this led to an onslaught of justly deserved jokes from those within earshot. And while I may not stand by my exact wording, I do stand by the sentiment. Eggy letty sangs are great. But if you want to make them greater, I’d recommend adding a layer of crushed salt and vinegar chips for a bit of extra crunch**.

* I thought I was very clear that I’d said “egg and lettuce sandwiches are better than sex”, but a few friends told me they thought the something that’s supposed to be the best thing ever was sliced bread. And that’s good, because hopefully the rest of Clifton will also interpret it that way and not equate my sex life to a sandwich you can get at a servo. 

** When you see it through the “better than sex” interpretation, this sounds like I’m advocating for getting kinky with a sensible, egg and lettuce sandwich of a lover. And that’s probably very good advice. But I’m not telling you to go out and buy a gimp mask; I’m honestly imploring you to try putting salt and vinnie chippies on your sanga. 

Bega cheese and strawberry jam: I credit this sanga for preparing my for my gourmet days of smearing goats’ cheese on crusty baguettes with a bit of a quince paste. I recommend all parents start feeding these sandwiches to their kids if they want them to grow up to be the kind of adults who eat cheese platters as a weeknight dinner. Go ahead, make the world a better place!

*** Another thing to come out of my writing this column was the rediscovery of this song, after I suggested to my Snapchat coven that we could have a sandwich dinner party where everyone brings their fave sanga. It not only was hilariously relevant, but it took us back to a time when we watched movies taped from the TV on the VCR. It was at the end of an Austin Powers movie, recorded by the oldest sister in the group, who was way, way cooler than us. 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 16, 2019

Sometimes your “good enough” turns out better than your best.

It’s rare, but it happens.

I recently hosted a picnic, making a flippant remark about putting on a few trays of slice when I proposed the event. In my mind, I’d whip up tray after tray of impressive food in slice form while maintaining an aura of calm, like a competent mother in a baking paper commercial.

But, as a normal person would expect from making 10 trays of slice, it didn’t pan out that way. I was up late. I got distracted and whoooooy boy did I get sweaty. The output was very different to how I’d envisaged it, but no recipe was as different as my attempt at lemon slice.

Instead of a fudgy, zingy icing-topped treat, I ended up with a large golden brown crisp. But, amazingly, it was the most popular “slice” of the day. I don’t know if this was because it was actually super tasty or because it happened to be located closest to the hungriest picnickers who didn’t feel like extending their reach to fill their gastric voids, but it quickly disappeared.

And, because I’ve learned nothing else over the holiday period, I’m choosing to pass on my wisdom to you, should you ever desire presenting your guests with a impractically-large biscuit.

Step 1: Select a packet of bickies that are somewhat sugary, but so plain you would always pick them last if they were in an assorted packet. If these mild biscuits took a human form, they’d be that person who always turns up at barbecues on time and is polite enough, but who never really has that much to add to the conversation. Have this person in mind when you’re perusing the biscuit aisle. One of my guests was allergic to nuts, so I paid special attention to the list of ingredients when selecting my packet of underwhelming biscuits to insure she wouldn’t go into anaphylactic shock, thus stealing all the attention away from me.

Blitz up your inoffensive bickies in a food processor and tip into a mixing bowl.

Step 2: Note the recipe pitifully suggesting 100 grams of butter and scoff, knowing you’re not going to all the effort of using kitchen scales* or settle for such a small amount of butter. Plonk seven decent tablespoons of butter into small saucepan, then tip in half a can of sweetened condensed milk.

* Getting out and putting away the kitchen scales is one of those things that really irks me. I don’t understand why it is, but I find it infuriating. Perhaps there’s some undressed trauma there I need to explore.

Step 3: Become infuriated the recipe doesn’t call for a whole can, because you’re not going to be able to resist the temptation of an open tin of sweetened condensed milk in the fridge. You just know you’re only going be rid of it once you inevitably cut your hand on the rim of the tin while dipping in a finger, bleeding into the enticing milky elixir. Then you’ll have to explain to people how you injured your hand. “Ah, yes, well you see this half-empty can of sweet, sticky milk called to me from inside the fridge, bewitching mind, body and soul – turns out I couldn’t resist the power of an inanimate can.” It’s the deepest form of shame.  Resolve to use the remaining milk in another type of slice within the next hour to maintain your dignity.

Step 4: Slowly heat the saucepan until the butter has melted, stirring to blend the two sinful substances as one.*

* Feel free to cackle here, if you like. I don’t think there’s enough opportunities for witch-like cackling and stirring, so do take up the chance to do so wherever you can.

Step 5: Attempt to zest a lemon, despite not owning a lemon zester. Try all sides of the cheese grater until you find a side that doesn’t also zest your skin. Add zest to the mixing bowl. Decide to use the word “zest” as often as possible.

Step 5: Add about half a cup of shaved coconut to the zesty crumb mix, feeling defiant by not levelling out the cup measurement, thus adding an incorrect amount to the mix. You don’t live life by the rulebook and this rebellious spirit is reflected in your slice.*

* You could reasonable cackle here too, you free, untameable spirit. 

Step 7: Pour the buttery mixture into the bickie crumbs, mixing until you have a grainy gunge.

Step 8: Press into a shallow slice tin, place in the fridge to set and pledge to ice it later.

Step 9: Realise the summer heat will melt the slice, which is so weak-willed it cannot maintain its own structure.

Step 10: Angrily slam it into a moderate oven for about 20 minutes so it will firm up and get some backbone.

Step 11: Place it on the bench to cool overnight, pledging to make an icing for it in the morning.

Step 12: Sleep soundly, waking up later than you originally planned the following morning.

Step 13: Decide you cannot be bothered with icing and that it’s good enough as it is.

Step 14: Chuck oversized biscuit on the picnic rug, declaring to your guests that it’s a non-sliced slice designed to be picked at, like it’s some kind of baked revolution.

Step 15: Revel in its popularity. The taste of success is lemony. Savour its zest.*

* Yet another chance to cackle; your plan worked!