Monthly Archives: April 2019

This one did not

Salmony saviour

Do you feel like a piece of shit? Are you dripping in self-loathing? Have you neglected all responsibilities and blogging obligations for the past five days while your diet consisted of 60 per cent cheese-based goods? Well then, you useless sack of humanity, I have the recipe for you.

salmon 2

It’s a salmon rice dish that I’ve just recently started cooking which never fails to make me feel like less of a glob of patheticary and it’s super easy to throw together. I’ve just made it for myself after a bit of a write-off of a week and thought it the decent thing to do to share it with the world.

I started cooking this about the time I started reading Samin Nosrat’s Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, when I decided to open my heart up to the joys of salt, which will be evidenced throughout the following recipe. I have even started using the super fancy Maldon salt, which makes me feel like a real grown up. I haven’t yet finished the Fat, Acid or Heat chapters yet, but I already feel like I have been armed with the knowledge I need to boldly cook without a recipe, so long as a sprinkle my swanky salt about the place.

salmon 6

And so this isn’t so much a recipe as it is a remedy. It includes some generally healthy foods and inflates me with a sense of accomplishment, which can be quite healing.

I like to use it as an edible Control Z, undoing all the undesirable dids you did in the past. It will make you forget that most of your liquid intake over the past few days was a rich, almost meaty red wine. It will make you believe that you might actually do some meal prep and reply to your emails and wash your sweaty, sin-stanked clothes in the laundry basket. Maybe you will become a kinder, more wholesome person, perhaps you will go on that bush walk and, heck, you might even call your grandmother. This bowl of salty goodness will wipe your metaphorical slate clean for at least a few hours into the digestive process.

So are you ready to transform into a higher being? Let me take you through this evening’s process.

Step 0: Put on a podcast to play while you cook, which will feel like a multi-tasking wonder woman who fills her head with knowledge. Also, brush your hair, because doing it now will mean you won’t have to later. And pour yourself a glass of water to drink/flush out your filth while you cook. Chances are you’re in need of hydration.

Step 1: Grab a single vacuum-sealed portion of salmon from the freezer. Sure, you COULD use fresh salmon, but you’ve probably been in no state to rush to the supermarket in the past 24 hours. I like to buy my frozen salmon in bulk when it’s on special because I really get off on the idea that I’m saving money. I don’t like using so much plastic, but I need the fish to be individually-wrapped because I’m only ever cooking for one independent woman who honestly can’t stand the sound of other people breathing when she’s trying to sleep. I mean, I’m actually surprised single-portion salmon isn’t more aggressively marketed towards single women to be honest; it’s the perfect food for women empowered by the fact that they don’t have to fuck around cooking for some slob but the health factor taps into that secret better-not-get-fat-because-no-man-will-have-me fear.

salmon 1

Step 2: I know, the salmon is frozen. And you’re hungry now. But don’t get getting your knickers in a twist, for I have a somewhat-questionable-but-hasn’t-given-me-food-poisoning-yet trick I learned from my fast food days that changes everything. Submerge your frozen fish – still in the vacuum-sealed plastic – in a dish/sink/puddle of room temperature water. That guy will be ready to go in about 20 minutes.

Step 3: Meanwhile, swan out to your collection of potted herbs to both forage for ingredients and fill you with a smug I’ve-not-killed-these-plants-yet-and-am-therefore-an-earth-goddess feeling. I have a shitload of mint at the moment, which is practically impossible to kill so long as you water the bastard every day. Grab seven-to-eleven of these mint leaves, depending on their size. Of course, I just made up that quantity then by pulling the number out of thin air, so maybe it’s best to listen to your heart when it comes to the exact number. I also grabbed three green oregano leaves and like five half-dead dark brown ones, because I’ve nearly killed this plant and there’s not much for the taking. I’m also obsessed with thyme at the moment, partly because of the taste, partly because of the pun ammo it provides and partly because I’ve recently bought a big-arse bush of it and want to use it before it inevitably withers and dies (or, that it’s THYME has run out) like all good things in life. Grab a spring of thyme measuring roughly 14 centimetres (again, a completely made-up quantity).

salmon 4

Step 4: Grab a flat-bottomed bowl, one with enough of a surface to eat a piece of delicate cake off but with edges high enough to cater for an overzealous amount of custard. Using a pair of haphazardly wiped-down kitchen scissors, snip your home-grown herbs into the bowl.

Step 5: Cut off about a third of a lemon and squeeze it over the herbs.

Step 6: Sprinkle some of that fancy salt over the top, with flair. You’re a free-ballin’ cook making up your own rules, you’re allowed to be wanky with your salt.

Step 7: Grab a handful of snow peas, trimming the stem off and breaking larger ones into two.

Step 8: Try to remember the last time you had a decent serve of veggies, and decide you probably could do with another handful of greens.

Step 9: Time to get that rice cooking. Of course, you could totally cook your medley of brown, red and wild rice properly with saucepans and all that jazz, but I cannot be arsed and, honestly, am mildly fearful of all the mishaps rice cooking can bring, so just get a microwavable mix from the supermarket. Does it make me less of an expert and a culinary coward? Sure, but I really don’t like washing up extra stuff. So you hold you head high and just nuke that sachet of shame according to the directions on the pack.

salmon 3

Step 10: By this time, the salmon should have been thawed. Take that sucker out of the packet, pat it dry and set aside.

Step 11: Warm a family-sized frypan over a medium-hot heat, adding olive oil to the pan once it’s warm.

Step 12: Once it’s pretty flipping hot, place the salmon in skin-down, enjoying that sizzlin’ sound. Sprinkle a bit of salt over the top and give it a light squeeze of lemon. You’re going to have to trust yourself when it comes to crispy skin. If it’s sticking to the pan, it’s not ready to be flipped. The skin will remain on if you give the salmon enough time on one side. Hold your nerve, soldier.

Step 13: Fill the sink with a good five centimetres of hot water and a squirt of detergent. You’re feeling like a pile of stink, you really don’t want to be battling the washing up later on.

Step 14: Tip half the packet of cooked rice into the bowl over the salted, lemony herbs. Reserve the rest for tomorrow night’s meal repeat, or for ravenous snacking later on. Give the rice a good mix so the greenery is evenly distributed. Give it another squeeze of lemon and an extra wanky sprinkling of salt.

salmon 5

Step 15: Flip that fish! Give the crispy skin a wee saltin’, because salt has filled the void in your heart.

Step 16: After about a minute or two, chuck the snow peas in the pan, being careful to not throw them on the salmon. I know, I am someone who really only eats raw snow peas, so cooking them seems wild, but I promise you that a two minutes in the pan will change them forever. Make sure they get a good coating of oil and, of course, a theatrical sprinkle of salt.

Step 17: Layer the snow peas on the rice mix, before adding the salmon skin-side up.

Step 18: Dump the frypan into the water, giving it a decent scrub – it won’t require much effort if you do it straight away. I know it’s a hassle, but doing it now is better than putting it off for hours, with the knowledge that you’re going to have to scrape that grimy bastard weighing you down with the tangible mass of the carton of stubbies you drank in the weekend and the emotional heaviness of not knowing what embarrassing behaviour said beer inspired.

Step 19: Set yourself up at the dinner table with another big glass of water. Ignore the call eat slumped in front of the TV, create a bit of ambiance and give yourself a break from a screen so you can feel superior about not needing streaming services to distract yourself from your underwhelming life. But you don’t want to be sitting there alone with your thoughts, so block out the echoes of your inner dialogue by continuing whatever podcast you were listening to or with a bit of a tasteful background music. I recommend playing thank u, next on repeat or putting on some Fleetwood Mac, but only the songs with Stevie Nicks on lead vocals (HOWEVER, you’re going to want to avoid Landslide, unless you want to sob about how you’re getting older, too). This evening I decided to listen to some generic piano while I continued reading the aforementioned cookbook, hoping to learn about how all the cooking advice I just gave was completely wrong.

Standard
This one made it to print

Extra office breakfast

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, April 10, 2019 

I can be a little bit extra.

For people who don’t spend at least 59 per cent of their time on the Internet, “extra” is a term bestowed on people who are flamboyant, indulgent and, well, perhaps a little bit much.

brekafast 3

It’s about the only word the young folk use that I fully comprehend, perhaps because it applies to me to on a fundamental level.

Extra is being someone who believes “corporate sequins” is an office-appropriate look. Extra is imagining yourself immortalised as a Barbie doll. Extra is writing about how extra you are and what you eat for breakfast in a column dedicated entirely to you and assuming people want to read it*.

* I had many more examples of my behaviour that qualified as a “extra”, which I didn’t have room to include. But because I have the luxury of eternal space on The Internet, I’m going to list those now: 

Extra is repeating Natasha Bedingfield’s made-famous-by-reality-TV-trash-The-Hills Unwritten the entire way home so you can nail the chorus.

Extra is demanding strong-looking strangers lift you Dirty Dancingstyle when Darryl Braithwaite’s The Horses plays on the dance floor.

Extra is having two going away parties, one goodbye breakfast and a farewell bottomless brunch when you move cities.

At least, that’s my understanding of what “extra” is.

Being extra can be exhausting – particularly for those who have to endure your presence – but it has its uses, too.

This particular combination of intolerable personality traits means you eat quite well. You’re not content with just eating a stale, store-bought jam roll. You’re either going to opt for a insufferably wanky clean treat made with spelt and cashew butter, or you’re going to get a pastry so elaborate, it looks like something from Versailles.

breakfast 1

When I’m faced with an office breakfast, I don’t settle for sad microwavable porridge packets or milky poppers promising a fibre hit. No, I go with something that looks like a full on café brunch. And all it takes is a wee bit of preparation the evening before.

If you want to be like me (may heaven help you) and eat like a non-gender-specific monarch, just follow these easy steps:

Step 1: Make yourself a cup of tea, because everyone deserves a decent cuppa at the end of a day.

Step 2: Boil two eggs. I’m currently dealing with an induction cooktop and have no idea what that means, so I just boil them until the kale’s done and my tea’s gone.

Step 3: Warm up a frypan over a medium heat, glugging in a good tablespoon of olive oil.

Step 4: Grab a few stalks of kale, give them a rinse and pat them dry. I know, kale is associated with a lot of douchbaggery, but rise above that. It’s a good, leafy bugger that’s excellent for your rig and can actually taste great.

brekafast 4

Step 5: Rip the leaves off the stem and all its branch-like offshoots. Chuck the leafy bits in the now-warmed oil.

Step 6: Sip your tea.

Step 7: Fill the sink with about an inch of hot water and detergent.

Step 8: Once the kale has a bit of crispness to it and is coated in oil, tip it into a microwavable container, seasoning it with salt and pepper to make the kale taste less like kale and more like salty oiled dreamflakes. Place the frypan in the sink.

Step 9: Remove the eggs from the saucepan, whack them in the container and tip the boiling water into the sink. Place the saucepan in the dish rack to dry – as far as I’m concerned, that fella is clean.

Step 10: Group kale container with a piece of bread and an avocado in the fridge, ready for the morning.

Step 11: Pull the soaking frypan from the dishwater, give it a quick, effortless wipe clean and let it dry.

Step 12: Seize the night, whichever way you deem appropriate – I recommend staying up too late trying to decide on something to watch, falling asleep the couch, then struggling to empty your mind after relocating to bed.

Step 13: You’ve managed to wake up, dress yourself and, hopefully, arrived at work on time. You’ve succeeded in not being frogmarched out of the office in disgrace, so celebrate with breakfast. Walk to the kitchenette with a spring in your step.

Step 14: Put pre-packed bread in the toaster making sure to readjust the setting in case some heathen switched the dial to “burn-the-arse-out-it”. Remove the eggs from the kale kontainer and microwave dem leavez for one minte. Boil the kettle.

Step 15: Peel the eggs.

Step 16: Spoon half the avocado on the toast, using a fork to mush it up.

Step 17: Pour hot water over the teabag of your choice into the sassiest office mug in the shared cabinet.

Step 18: Slice eggs and arrange artfully atop the avo. You could microwave them, but I’ve learnt that may be too precarious a pursuit for a communal microwave.

Step 19: Upturn the kale on top of the toast so you have a mound of smugness – seasoned appropriately with salt and pepper.

Step 20: Finish making your well-steeped tea.

Step 21: Walk triumphantly back to your desk, batting off compliments about your healthy, café-worthy breakfast as you strut.

breakfast 2

Standard
This one made it to print

Yeah, but why?

Originally published by Clifton Courier, April 3, 2019

Sometimes, you need to ask yourself the big questions.

And that big question is always a derivative of “Why?”.

why 3

Way back in the day when I was a goon-soaked journalism student, we were taught the basic building blocks of a story. We were given the five Ws (and the one H) to answer to keep our stories from being nonsensical dribble. You had the “Who?” your “What?” the “When?” and “Where?” and, most importantly, there was the “Why?” You also had to squeeze a cheeky “How?” in there too, but “how” doesn’t conform to the handy alliteration that we journos love so much, so it’s not given the same reverence. Despite my insistence on regularly destroying my brain cells, I eventually learned that the Why? was always the meatiest question. And, more often than not, it’s the juiciest part of entire story.

If you keep asking “Why?” like an annoying seven-year-old, you eventually boil away the bullhonkey and get to the real spice of what’s happening.

“Why?” is a powerful question.

I recently read about a great goal-setting strategy where you ask yourself five “Why?”s to suss out what’s really driving your desire to achieve whatever task you’re wanting to accomplish.

And I think this badgering method should be applied not just to council meeting reports or evaluating of your ambition create a cloak made entirely out of human hair (although, there’d be a few other questions you’d want to ask yourself if you had that goal on your vision board).

Being an introspective/extremely self-absorbed kinda gal, I decided to turn this method into a way to analyse my behaviour so I learn more about the type of person I am. Because learning more about myself is what I like to do for fun. I guess it’s a hobby. Some people climb mountains, others teach themselves to play the guitar; I sit in silence and think about myself.

But my personal “Why?” question usually comes in the form of “Why am I like this?”

It’s a question I would ask myself on average 2.7 times per day. And it’s usually more of a rhetorical thing.

why 1

But actually answering yourself can be enlightening.

For example, asking myself why I was feeling a little bit dusty the other morning led to a few revelations. This splintered off into two lines of enquiry, one related to the consumption of wine the night before. I had three to four glasses at the most, but was feeling rubbish the next day. Why? Because my body can’t bounce back from abuse the way it used to. Why? Because I’m getting older. Why? Because time marches on with a callous continuity and it stops for no one.

why 5

Cool, right?

The other line of thinking was related to my poor sleep. Why did I sleep so poorly? Because I was having nightmares about having too many leftovers and I kept getting so stressed in my sleep, I kept having to wake myself up to calm myself down. Why? Well I obviously have some problems with stress that I need to address before my frettings manifest as blood clots.

why 4

See? It’s a fun game!

It can help you rationalise behaviour that, to an outsider, probably doesn’t make much sense.

For example, if an outsider saw someone standing in the kitchen wearing an old t-shirt and no pants while eating cold stuffing out of the arse end of a chook, they might see a broken, irrational person. But by asking yourself “Why am I doing this?” you’ll know your behaviour makes total sense. Why are you eating just the stuffing? Because your body needed fuel after a long day and the brown rice and nut combo of the homemade stuffing was a nutritious choice. Why aren’t you wearing pants? Because you wanted to keep your work clothes stain-free and the oversized shirt was the fastest outfit change option available. Why are you spooning the stuffing straight out of the carcass, treating a hollow, dead chicken like an ice cream tub? Because you didn’t want to cause more washing up by using a plate.

why 2

I mean, this is all strictly hypothetical, of course, but it helps you to find logic in your behaviour.

So next time you find yourself asking “why am I like this?”, maybe try to answer yourself. Even if it’s not your idea of fun, at least it’ll be interesting.

Standard
This one did not

Spending suggestions

I recently read an article that said banks were making decisions about who to grant loans to, based on their daily spending habits. The gist is that banks look at you’re your reliance on Ubereats and Afterpay and coffee habit and make a judgement on that spending about the kind of person you are.

Look, I totally understand that rationale, especially in the economic climate we find ourselves in. And as someone who adores making judgements about people based on tiny snippets of information, I can totally get around this. However, there’s more to a purchase than just the dollar figure.

Now, I’m not in the process of applying for a home loan – even though it now feels like an actual achievable possibility since moving from stinktown Sydney – but I do wonder what a bank would think about my purchases and what they would say about me. So I’ve gone through and had a quiz at my weekend spendings with a view to working out what someone would deduce about me as a person based on my purchases.

spendings 6

Item: Jewellery (specifically, a pair of silver earrings shaped like kangaroos, a bottle green wooden bead necklace and a pair of sparkly gold resin earrings with obnoxiously-large pink plastic prawns dangling from them)

Price: $69

What a bank would think: This person is reckless and ridiculous. Not only would she be unable to make mortgage repayments because she buys stupid stuff, but her house would be crassly decorated. Do not trust her!

spendings 3

Well, actually…: These accessories, which all cost less than $35 each, gives otherwise plain outfits much-needed pops of colour and personality. I’m someone who prefers a black shirt and denim shorts combo or, if I’m feeling particularly jaunty, a shit shirt and demin shorts combo. I already have the shorts that somehow make the large-hip-flat-arse arrangement I was… gifted look less odd. Black and white t-shirts are quite cheap and I already have many. These small jewellery purchases allows me to re-re-re-re-re-wear my denim shorts combos by giving them a fresh update. And this means I spend less on clothes.

So suck on that.

spendings 5

Item: Very fancy matches with white tips instead of red ones

Price: These were a gift so I won’t say exactly how much, but I will say it was roughly the same amount you would spend on a coffee-and-cake combo at one of the flasher cafes in the food court.

What a bank would think: This person spent how much on matches? Who does she think she is?! Beyoncé?!

Well, actually…: I bought these while at one of those fancy homewares stores, looking for a card to shove cash in for an engagement party. Cards at this shop weren’t much cheaper than the fancy, fancy matches and I figured that, since the card was essentially just a vessel for the cash gift, I may as well make that vessel something useful. So this was not a gift, per say, but a practical card alternative. And I think that shows that I am an innovative mind and a rational decision maker.

* Also, I feel ethically bound to point out that a science-loving friend of mine made the “with money to burn” joke at the end of brunch, after she explained to me where candle wax goes when it burns. She’s very clever. 

spendings 4

Item: A Saturday morning Uber trip

Price: $25

What a bank would think: This young woman has the use of a vehicle and yet she gets chauffeured about the city like she’s in Gossip Girl? Bin her!

Well, actually…: I opted not to drive this morning because I was going to a boozy breakfast and didn’t want to risk drink driving, thank you very much. A stuffy banker may think that getting on the sauce at 9.30am is somewhat concerning, but I think my foresight to not put my own safety and the safety of others at risk suggests I’m a responsible adult who has the capacity to plan around her worrying drinking habits. Surely that’s the kind of person you want to lend money to.

spendings 2

Item: Mexican food for one

Price: $26

What a bank would think: Look, Mexican food is great but twenty-six bucks on a burrito is not economically sound. Also, the fact that she bought a meal for one on a Friday night suggests she is single AF and will probs be buying a house on one income.

Well, actually…: It was a fajita bowl with extra veggies, no cheese and brown rice, which is way healthier than a heaving burrito. And the fact that I was able to abstain from cheese for a TGIF take away meal not only suggests that I have the willpower needed to tackle a mortgage but that I will also live longer than someone who gets fish and chippies with their boyfie every weekend and will therefore generate more income.

spendings 1

Item: Groceries (specifically, four zucchini, washing up gloves, microwavable brown rice and a five-metre long extension cord)

Price: $21

What a bank would think: Look, this isn’t a lot of money, but figures show she when to the supermarket the night before and frequents the place multiple times per week. This is someone who clearly forgets things and her slippery mind will probably forget to make mortgage repayments.

Well, actually…: Yeah, you got me there. I’ve got a memory like a sieve. But now that I’ve got rubber gloves for dishwashing, the psoriasis on my hands won’t be so inflamed and weepy, making my handshakes at least 47 per cent less gross, which can only be a good thing.

Standard
This one made it to print

Did list

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 27, 2019

I’m someone who feels the need to achieve things everyday.

This makes me sound like some kind of young, enthusiastic entrepreneur with a bright future of property investments, bold blazer choices and eclectic collection of celebrity ex-boyfriends. It sounds as if I seize the day.

However, as my psychologist and I have worked out, I’m not overly ambitious. I’m not out there demanding my app/product/unnecessary social movement get more and more successful. I don’t really have any goals, at least not the big, life-changing ones. Nope, I think smaller. I just need to feel as if I’ve done something productive with the 24 hours I’ve been allotted to quiet the bees buzzing around frantically in the glass jar that is my brain.

did 2

So when I have a day of doing very little, I find myself feeling quite wretched and wasteful. I feel as if I cheated myself.

To avoid this, I write out cheeky to-do lists to keep myself on track so at the end of the day, my self-loathing is diminished ever so slightly because I’ve managed to organise my lunch for the following day or something.

But last week I was sick. And I actually called in sick rather than sniffing my way through a workday, spraying germs on my colleagues. This meant I had a whole 24 hours to fill, something that was not lost on me despite my losing my sense of taste and extreme tissue dependence. I was pretty much useless.

But at the end of the day when I assessed my productivity I was unable to accept that, by doing nothing, I was recovering, which would eventually mean my returning to full productivity sooner than if I’d tried to do something. No, that would be too logical.

So in the absence of a ticked off to-do list, I wrote myself a… did list; documenting everything I did that day. And look, it did help. Because I was able to go through that list and see that I did manage to achieve some things, however inconsequential they may be in the long run.

did 5

Watched a lot of TV: Specifically, one episode of Nigella Express, one episode of Grand Designs, half an hour of Morgan Freeman trying to answer questions about God, ten minutes of doco about Scottish witch hunts (I turned it off when a torture scene got a little bit too much), A Secret Garden, an hour of Anthony Bourdain hanging out in Budapest (which made me want to eat dense, meaty stews), three episodes of Ricky Gervais’ show After Life, four episodes of Daniel Radcliffe and Steve Buscemi’s show Miracle Workers and the first feature length film documenting the inspiring story of Paddington Bear. I mean, the sheer length of that list is impressive in itself. But I’m going to attempt to extract some meaning from it. Watching two newly released shows have boosted my pop culture knowledge, something I desperately need to top up after years of watching nothing but Cougar Town and Gilmore Girls reruns. Anthony Bourdain informed my dinner choice, Paddington lightened my soul and I got to revel in Collin’s “I’m not sour” face in The Secret Garden. It was extremely beneficial.

did 4

Showered: Considering I never left the house, you could argue that showering wasn’t entirely necessary but that’s why it was such a big victory. Showering when you’re covered in mud is something you do without requiring much motivation, because you can see the immediate benefits. But showering when you’re super comfy, have no energy and have a nose too blocked to be aware of your salty musk requires a lot of will power.

did 3

Followed Big Bird on Twitter: There’s a lot of snarky drams on Twitter, so I prefer to pad out my feed with as many wholesome contributors as possible. I also follow Paddington Bear. And look, I’m well aware that it’s a PR exercise and the accounts are written by social media managers posing as these fictional delights, but I don’t care.

Encouraged friends in my group chat to follow Big Bird on Twitter: I think it was the “thank u, nest” tweet of his that really did it for them.

Wrote a to do list for the following day: I had the next day off and I’d be damned if I was going to waste it. However, I did put really achievable goals on that list, such as lighting a scented candle and checking to make sure I paid a bill I know I already paid.

did 1

Standard