Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 31

There’s been an Easter egg sitting on my bench for days. 

Well, it’s not actually an egg – it’s shaped like a bunny. But the term “Easter egg” is kind of like a catch-all way to describe all foil-wrapped novelty-shaped chocolate confections that are produced to be distributed on the first Sunday after the Paschal full moon, juuuust after the spring equinox in the northern hemisphere (you can see that “Easter egg” gets to the point quicker). 

It’s one of the fancier kinds of Easter bunnies. I mean, it’s still one you can get at the supermarket, but it’s the fanciest one you can get at the supermarket. It’s good quality chocolate, so it’s the kind of Easter egg that isn’t all about the presentation, how ever fabulous it is. There’s substance underneath all the bells and golden foil. In short, it’s a good egg. 

Anyway, I bought the egg as a little treat while on a grocery run the other day. My thinking was that it would be a treat separate to dessert. I mean, it’s not that we’re having dessert every night. That’s a little too much for someone who has never had a fast metabolism, which has somehow slowed even further after the “young” from her “young adult” dropped away like a blackened umbilical chord finally breaks off from a newborn’s belly button. 

I guess I was thinking the egg would be enjoyed as something that’s not just mindless eating – something to sit down and savour. It wasn’t something to just go mung ravenously on after a full day at work in that hour of madness where you end up eating literally anything you can gets your hands on and not even realise what you’re doing until you come out of the frenzy and find yourself standing in the hallway, your face slathered in apricot jam. It wasn’t something to be eaten while standing at the fridge door while searching desperately for something else to eat. It’s not as special.

And because it’s a bunny, this egg has eyes, foil ones, but eyes nonetheless. I can feel them bore into me when I consider just scoffing it down. They give me a look that says “really, mate, you’re just going to eat a whole Easter bunny within the space of 10 minutes at 12.27pm, fall asleep on the couch and spend the rest of the day in a cloud of regret?!”.

No, this egg was to be a conscious pleasure, enjoyed slowly when the time was right, I thought. 

But when is the right time, really?

It feels like I should be wait until it’s after dark with a candle burning and while wearing some fancy loungeware (that’s different to pyjamas – loungewear is the stylish comfortable gear you get around the house in when you want to feel like a luxe homebody; pyjamas are the stained, oversized t-shirts or undies you wear when you go bed and actually want to be comfortable enough to sleep). 

But by the time you’ve set everything up, that initial craving has had time to dull. It’s not sure much that you don’t want it anymore – it’s good chocolate, if course you want it! – but that genuine feeling of “yeah, you know what, I really feel like little bit of chocolate” is gone and you’re almost forcing it. It’s still nice, but it doesn’t hit the same.

And, again, those metallic eyes look at me saying “righto, so you need to plan a whole production just to enjoy some chocolate? Live your life for heaven’s sake!”

The problem is that I’m so regimented about the way I spend my days. The shift work I do dictates that I have to be, otherwise my life would be in complete shambles instead of just the partially shambolic existence I proudly maintain. I plan out my meals in advance, I plot my exercise according to a gym timetable and the positioning of the sun when I finish work and I have to book in social encounters weeks in advance. I suppose it’s reasonable that I’m not in tune with what my body wants and that I quash spontaneity because my schedule means if I let my hunger, energy levels and whims dictate my activities, I’d not get anything done.   

But, at the same time, you can’t really schedule in a chocolate craving. It does sap the fun out of things. And you can’t keep waiting for the moment to be entirely right, otherwise the chocolate will go all white and powdery. 

So perhaps I should just go eat it now. 

…but it’s only 9.04am.

Yeah, look, obviously that was a while ago now. The egg in question was eaten but then replaced with another egg on my next trip to the supermarket. Said egg was still sitting in the kitchen until a few days ago, when I put it in the baking section of my pantry. The plan is to melt it down and use it in my next batch of bickies to take into work. I mean, I didn’t eat this one was for entirely different reasons than the frivolous struggle detailed above. To be perfectly hon hon, I haven’t been able to stomach much lately.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 24, 2021

Yeah, look, it’s been a long time between drinks and there’s no illustrations, but don’t go givin’ me any grief, ya hear? I’ve had a bloody gutfull of your attitude.

There’s a weird smell in my house.

I live in a little, tastefully decorated townhouse. It has a small lounge room after the entrance then, behind the stairs, is the kitchen and dining area. The lounge room is carpeted. It’s a dark grey carpet that looks reasonably new. There are no obvious stains. And the carpets – both upstairs and downstairs – were shampooed before I moved in. 

The townhouse – or, as I like to call it, townHOME – isn’t old, but it’s not young either. Kind of like me. I mean, it still stands upright and doesn’t have any major cracks or lines, but it’s not exactly as hip and with it as the new townhouses in the neighbourhood. 

When I checked it out before I moved in, I noticed a faint whiff. It’s difficult to describe. I smelt a bit stale, maybe. Like it needed airing out and a good wipe down. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen, which is perhaps where the age of the place is most evident. It’s the neck of the house, if you will.

The laminate is separating from the chipboard in parts, particularly near the sink. The shelving lining had worn away and had been sealed by some, I have to admit, expertly applied duct tape. And the person who was in before me left a few things behind. Some of them, like bin bags, light bulbs and toilet paper – in this economy?! – were extremely helpful. But there were a few drawers and cupboards that clearly weren’t emptied and wiped out when old mate left. So I figured that once I gave everything a deep clean, I’d be right.

Once I moved in made sure everything was clean. I opened windows. I lit scented candles. 

Occasionally I’d get a faint whiff of that stale smell, but it wasn’t often. And when I asked guests about it, they didn’t notice it. 

Eventually, the smells my life overpowered the pre-existing pong.  

But then the other day I got home from work and was slapped in the face by said odour, which had intensified during its absence. It wasn’t faint. It wasn’t a slight whiff. It was a solid cloud of stench. 

If I were to describe it, I would probably say it was a mixture between sweaty old gym socks that had dried out in the sun and that dank belly button smell (you know the smell, I know the smell, let’s not go pretending we’re something that we’re not). Sometimes, I swear it also has a faint hint of diesel. 

And I can’t for the life of me work out the source of it. 

I sniffed long and hard like a witch from Hocus Pocus who had detected the presence a child. After much nasal inhaling, I had narrowed the stench to part of the lounge room near the stairs. I had a general idea of where the smell was located but not where it was coming from. 

I took all the cushions from the couch, hoping to find a dank sock wedged in there. But, alas, there was none. I stood on the couch sniffing the ceiling thinking there could be a rotting rodent corpse between the floors, but it didn’t smell stronger up there. None of the plants in the room were dying to the point of giving off the smell of decay (but I think they’ve accepted their fate, it’s really only a matter of time for some of them). I sniffed the walls but detected nothing. I even got down and started sniffing the carpet like a dog tracking a criminal, but no mystery puddle of pong was detected. 

There’s no obvious source for this smell that no one else seems to notice. 

This means two things: that there’s a supernatural force in the house trying to drive me mad by producing mystery smells that no one else can smell or there’s something afoot deeper than the surface level that requires skilled tradespeople to address.  

And for either of these two scenarios, the solution is the same: lighting a scented candle as a calming distraction to the problem and pretending that nothing is wrong. I think we can all agree that this is the best way to deal with any problem, right?

Right, so I’m thinking there’s probably a sink/drainage issue that needs to be addressed with some corrosive chemicals. Of course, I’m yet to address this problem as I keep forgetting to pick up the gear when I duck out to the shops.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 3, 2021

I think I’m on the verge of a breakfast-based philosophical epiphany. 

I was eating breakfast the other day and rather than going for my regular spinach and eggs combo, I had myself a bowl of cereal. The type of cereal is integral to this little rant I’m about to unleash on you, but I don’t want to go ahead and name brands.

I don’t want to make it look like I’ve been bought off by Big Bran to say nice things about this type of cereal. I also don’t want to be accused of being paid off by this particular cereal’s competitors to say bad things about it, even though I must say it would bring my great joy to think of rival cereal makers laying aside their differences to join forces and form a secret cereal cartel to take down the big guy via advertorial disguised as trivial opinion pieces in regional independent newspapers. That would be most amusing (and, just in case the editor – who I like to refer to as the TEDitor because I’m clearly hilarious – is reading this, I’d tell them to book an ad instead).

So, I’ll just say that I’m referring to a cereal that comprises of bran flakes and dried grapes. 

Now, I love dried grapes or, as they’re more commonly known as, sultanas. I have a long history of adding them to things that others may raise an eyebrow at. Cornflakes. Rice Bubbles. Coco Pops. All of these cereals are greatly improved taste-wise by a handful of sultanas. And while I sometimes poke fun at my mother’s early 90s version of “stir fry” – being beef mince with grated carrot and zucchini severed on a bed of Magi two-minute chicken noodles – I have to tell you that the sultanas she added this concoction really lifted the whole dish. In more recent times, I’ve been known to add sultanas to rices dishes and drool over a sultana-studded couscous.

I love sultanas.

And I particularly love the sultanas in this type of cereal. They just taste so good. I’m not sure exactly why, but I like to imagine it’s because they’ve been roughed up and laced with bran in the cereal-mixing process, rather than some kind of artificial chemical-based procedure.

So when I don’t get enough of them, I’m disappointed. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m partial to a bit of bran on its own – because I’m just that exciting of a person – but the addition of sultanas to the mix really makes those fibre flakes sing. I don’t want to be rude to bran, but it is rather bland. It’s boring. And while we all know that bran is a large part of the cereal, I don’t think nearly as many people would be eating it if it weren’t for the sultanas.

But you can have too many sultanas, I’ve learned. 

You start off being like “oh boy oh boy, look at all them sweet, sweet sultanas in my bowl, it’s my lucky day”. But after the first few mouthfuls, it’s too sweet. It’s sickly. It’s too gunge-y in your gob. You begin to miss – nay, yearn for – the bran.

Like the Spice Girls famously sung, too much of something is bad enough. And when you’ve got like five sultanas to spoonful of bran, it’s not great. Of course, you’ve got to have a bit of perspective – if the worst thing that happens to you all day is that you had too many sultanas in your bran, you’re going alright. But it makes for an unpleasant bowl.

It’s just like when you don’t get enough sultanas because, as the Spice Girls also sung, too much of nothing is just as tough. And this often happens within those first few bowls from a fresh box. You get mostly bran as the sultanas are cruelly taken by gravity to the bottom of the box. Maybe you’ll get a couple of sultanas here and there, but it’s not nearly enough. You feel ripped off. You feel like you have to start rationing sultanas, strategically selecting them for each spoonful. You can’t just blindly dig in your spoon without paying attention because you might eat your entire allocation of sultanas in one mouthful and be doomed to finish off a bowl of sultana-less bran.

My friends, it’s all about ratio. You need the sultanas to make the bran interesting. But you’ve got to have those bland fibre flakes to offset the sweetness of the sultanas. It’s a delicate balance. 

It sounds like there’s some kind of life lesson in this. I mean, there’s always a life lesson in something if you look hard enough. But if you look too long, your bran will go soggy and you’ll be left with a bowl of slop.   

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 24, 2020

I’ve never been big into tennis. 

Tennis was one of those sports that required you to show some degree of athleticism, which wasn’t really my jam as a youngster. So I never took to the courts. 

And I grew up in quite a strict rugby league household. Footy – which is to say, the NRL, not Union or that scrappy AFL business – was the only sport that was ever played on our green-tinged television (back in the day we had this big old TV which had a dome-like glass screen encased in a chipboard box with a classy wood-look vinyl finish. We had no idea how green the screen was until people came over and informed us we were watching the world through green-tinted lenses).

Tennis never got a look in. 

So I’ve never had an in-depth grasp of the mechanics of the game. I mean, sure, I knew it involved a net, a ball and a whole bunch of groaning, but that was kind of it. 

Last year I went to a friendly tennis competition, which is to say a friend had a bunch of us around for beers and a barbecue at his family property, which had an old tennis court out the back. There were enough of us there to play in pairs, which, for those of you playing along at home, is also called “doubles”. 

I didn’t know how to play tennis exactly, but I had a rough idea of how to hit a ball with a blunt object. I’d played softball (not well, mind you). I’d held my own at handball back in the day. And, most importantly, loved that scene on Parent Trap where one of the iterations of Lindsay Lohan says “I’ll take a whack at it”. I was willing to have a whack at it.

What we ended up playing was something I dubbed “keep it live”, which was a hybrid of tennis, volleyball and that game you used to play as a kid when you had a balloon that, under no circumstances, was allowed to touch the floor. 

Basically, you had to keep the ball in motion, even if that meant hitting it a few times on your side of the net. There were no points, but you were the loser if you failed to keep the ball bouncing. This approach to the game made for some dramatic, desperate hits that were fun to watch and participate in. 

In my highly educated opinion, it’s much more enjoyable than the regular way of playing the game. In most circumstances, I’d recommend it over the current, strictly regimented game. This version is much, much cooler.

For example, this… more organic form of the game is well suited to family barbecues and Sunday seshes. But I understand that there are more formal tournaments out there that call for more structured play.

I suppose the Australian Open is one such tournament.   

Like, I can only imagine the online bickering that would erupt if the rules were loosened just a bit. And I’m not saying that tennis isn’t great to watch, but while watching the finals the other night, it occurred to me that the addition of a few new rules would make for even more interesting viewing. I made these observations to my couch doubles partner, but the reception wasn’t as warm as I was hoping for – except for one suggestion. I mean, said couch doubles partner hates the idea of Keep It Live and is a real stickler for the rules on the court, so I suppose it’s it no big surprise that my ideas were shot down. But, look, you can be the judge – here are my humble suggestions: 

Play on: I know that when the ball bounces out of the square, it’s out. But I reckon there should be a rule where, if someone plays the ball after it goes out, they should lose the point unless they shout “play on!” before the ball comes into contact with their racquet. Just like handball. It keeps both players on their toes. It means they have to ready to call out their opponent. 

Net rebounds: I don’t think that nipping the net should be the end of it. Not if you’re hungry enough. Not if you want it that badly. Not if you’re willing to go in and keep it alive. If it hits the net but you’re able to play at it, rebound style, then it should be play on. 

One racquet per game: If you smash your racquet in a fit of rage, you have to keep playing with it. This was the rule that got the nod of approval. Reckon I’ve got a shot at getting it accepted at an international tournament level?

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 17, 2020

There’s so many things I’ve had to actively un-teach myself about life based on lessons I unconsciously soaked up from movies and television.  

And, look, I’m not just talking about the ridiculous personality distorting ones about women and their sexuality or women and their weight or women and… well, basically everything most movies imply about women. That’s a whole other column. Or two.

I’m talking about more trivial things I’ve picked up from movies that aren’t true to life. 

Like, I understand that movies can’t follow all the mundane goings on of the main characters’ lives. We’re not going to see their uneventful trips to the shops where they don’t run into their big love or the times they look out the window and there isn’t a heartthrob staring up at them with a boom box over their head. That would make for a boring movie. I get it. 

But movies often have people meeting who they want to meet at the exact moment they would like to. At the airport departure gate. At the school prom. In the hallway of a hospital as the woman is being rushed to the delivery room minutes before her unborn baby claws its way out of her. 

The timing of meeting these people of interest is always impeccable. And that’s totally unrealistic. 

After nearly three decades of living, I have learned you can’t expect the rules of the movies to apply to your own life. 

KNo one is going to meet you on the outskirts of town and tell you to “pick out a white dress”. You’re not going to get a message over the PA system of the airport. And the late-night text message you hope is from your sweetheart declaring their affections for you is most definitely going to be Optus, informing that you’ve gone over your data limit and you’re going to be charged an extra ten bucks for each gigabyte you use.

So when I was sitting at the pub the other day, wishing for a certain someone to step through the door, I knew it was in vain. 

I’d gone out to dinner over the weekend, deciding to shout my mother and sister to a cheeky pub feed with all the trimmings (which is to say, we got garlic bread to start off with). 

Throughout the meal, I’d remembered previous visits to that establishment, when I’d go out for a round of ribs and beers on a Friday after a long week of work. And it seemed that, whenever I was being shouted a meal, this one character happened to be close enough to the action to overhear that someone else was picking up the tab. 

They were never around when I was paying, though. They seemed to have some kind of cosmic timing to only ever be passing by when it was someone else’s shout. Eventually this became a bit of a running joke. They’d always make some remark about how I’d scabbed a beer or tricked someone into getting the garlic bread.

So, as I was mopping up my mashed potato the other night, I briefly entertained the idea of this person popping by just as I was going up to the counter. But only for a second, because I know this isn’t how the world works. Life is a random combination of inconsequential coincidences, not a series of events expertly timed to give a satisfying payoff. There’s no meet cutes. There’s no grand gestures. And you never get the closure you crave. 

So when I went up to pay, I’d resigned myself to the fact that this character would never be forced to eat their words. 

But then, footsteps. A greeting from the bar staff. A familiar voice. 

It was my tormentor (I mean, don’t get the wrong idea, it was good-natured torment). 

And while I rarely ask for a receipt for my meal purchases (I don’t need to be reminded of my frivolous spending by a judgmental piece of paper) I made an exception this time. 

I took my receipt and waved it right in the face of my pub persecutor.

And, look, maybe everyone gets one chance to run into the person they want to run into right at the exact moment they need to. And maybe I could have spent mine on a grand gesture at an airport or being stuck in a lift with some dreamboat, but instead I spent it on this petty exchange.

But, if that’s the case, I regret nothing. 

Read the receipt and weep, mate! 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 10

I know someone with very strong feelings about bananas. 

This opinion-haver says the fruit – which, after a quick Google, I’ve learned is botanically a berry – has no place being eaten after lunchtime. He says it’s a morning fruit and recoils at the idea of bananas in dessert form. 

Personally, I disagree. In fact, a cracking desert is a few slices of banana being fried in a bit of butter and then being slopped on a bit of Greek yoghurt with some shredded coconut. 

I thought it extremely close-minded of him to completely shut off a food just because of where the little hand happened to be pointing to on a clock, you know?

Like, I like to think of myself as a free spirit. A renegade. Someone who doesn’t confirm to the norms of society, mahn. I mean, I detest those meal delivery boxes that force you to cook according to their strict regulations and use only the meagre provisions they provided. I can’t follow those kinds of rules. As that unnamed spice company’s commercials say, “why cook when you can create?”

When I was a youngster, I was always rubbish at colouring in competitions because I never coloured between the lines.  And, yes, it may have been because I was messy and lacked the fine motor skills to stay within the lines, but I tell myself that it was because I couldn’t conform to the constraints of the lines before me.

So I thought I wasn’t someone who restricted themselves to these petty kitchen rules. 

But then, as I thought about it more, I began to realise that I actually held a lot of discriminatory views on foods.

Sure, there’s some elements to this that are purely chemical and biological. You’re probably not going to have an espresso right before you go to bed. And you’re probably not going to have mug of warm milk right before going for your morning jog.

But I hold some morning and evening food stipulations that, upon reflection, just don’t really make sense. It’s like these ideas about the appropriate time of day to consume a certain food are hardwired into my brain, but I never think about it. 

Here’s a few examples. 

I think you can only really have pancakes for breakfast, but I’m fine with pikelets for afternoon tea, even though pancakes and pikelets are pretty much the same thing. Like, I’d call a glob of batter cooked in butter in a frypan a pancake before 10am but anytime after that, I would classify it as a pikelet. 

A sausage could never be breakfast when presented only in a single piece of bread with onions and eaten with bare hands. That’s strictly a lunch, swimming club breakup dinner or hardware impulse buy kind of thing. I mean, it’s kind of the novelty of it. It’s an occasional thing -Like, you wouldn’t typically serve is a breakfast food but you could – and many do – eat on at breakfast time based on where they are (such as, for example, a particular brand of hardware store). It’s kind of like microwaving pizza from the night before for breakfast the next day. You wouldn’t usually go out of your way to prepare a pizza for breakfast, but you’ll eat it because it’s there and the idea of eating something at a time when you don’t usually eat it fills you with a thrill you don’t want to unpack too much because then you might realise that this microwaved pizza is the only thing you’ve been excited about in four months. But as soon as you start eating a sausage with a knife and fork, it becomes a conceivable breakfast food.

Corn is something you eat at a barbecue. Or in a cobb loaf. You pop it, smother it in butter and jam it into your mouth like you haven’t eaten in 14 days while you watch a movie at night. Corn is only an afternoon or evening food. But then you stir some kernels into a batter and turn it into fritters, maybe chuck a poached egg and some avocado onto the plate and by gumbo it’s a bloody breakfast thing. 

Eggs are absolutely a breakfast food. Poached, scrambled, fried, boiled. They’re all good. But while I love an egg and lettuce sandwich, I would never eat one for breakfast. Ever. The very idea of it makes me queasy. Because an egg and lettuce sandwich is very much a lunchtime food. Maybe it could be a morning tea food if it’s cut into tiny portions and served alongside assorted slices. Whatever if is, it’s certainly not a breakfast food.

And what about bacon? By itself, bacon is a classic breakfast food, but I’d never cook up a bunch of bacon for lunch or dinner. It has to be in something and it’s never in one full rasher that you eat with a knife and fork like you do at breakfast, it’s always chopped up – like when it’s in a risotto or sprinkled over baked potatoes.

It seems I’m not as free-spirited in the kitchen as I thought.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 3, 2021

It’s funny how one person’s set of rules is different to another’s.

I know someone who washes his pants after every wash. And I’m not talking about the British interpretation of pants – which is what they say when they really mean “knickers” – but the long “leg prisons” that society demands people wear in public. You know, trousers.

Now, I’m in no way attempting to berate him or rubbish his clearly incorrect position on pant washing but, to me, that seems excessive and equates to an unnecessary use of resources. 

This person works in an office environment most of the time. He doesn’t come home with the mystery liquids splattered on his clothing that, say, a nurse or a plumber would. He doesn’t sit on the ground. As far as I know, he doesn’t use his butt to touch high-traffic surfaces like elevator buttons and door handles. 

When I brought this up, his reasoning was this: he believes that pants are in greater need of being washed every day based on pure anatomical geography. The pants cover the parts from which things excrete – be they solid, liquid or gas excretions. As such, there are particles that are embedded in the fibres that make said pants dirty. 

And, look, it’s sound logic. 

My view, however, is a little bit different. 

I don’t wash my pants after each use. If there’s no visible dirt, grime or gravy stains, I pop them back in the wardrobe to see another day. This not only saves me from overloading the washing machine – and cuts back on water and detergent usage – but also means less time drying in the sun, which equates to less fading, thus increasing the lifespan of said pants.

But I will, more often than not, wash my shirts after each wear. It’s just something I’ve always done without really overthinking it too much. But when I drill down to why the tops are washed more often than the bottom, I think it comes down to the armpit.

Shirts have un-buffered proximity to the armpit, which gently emits a stench as the day goes on. With nothing between this source of stench and the skin, the smell is transferred directly into the fabric, infusing with each individual thread. As such, it must be washed after use. 

I explained this to my daily-pant-washing acquaintance who retorted “what is between your legs but one big armpit?!”

I mean, once you get past the obscene imagery that statement evokes, you do have to admit that he has a point.

The bottom region is where the majority of concentrated bodily odours are born. And, unlike the gradual release of pong you see in the armpit, the nether regions tend to be more… explosive.

But the pants have a layer of protection between the orifices from which stink is expelled and themselves – that’s where the knickers come in. They act as a buffer, heroically sacrificing themselves to shield the pants from the stink. It’s all quite heroic, really.

And, look, if you’re using your toilet paper correctly, no solid or liquid sources of said smells should be able to come into contact with the knickers, let alone the pants over the top. 

My daily-pant-washing comrade also says that you shouldn’t have different rules for laundry and perhaps that’s where we differ the most.

Because we’re not just talking about the washing here, not anymore. 

I happen to think that, rather than applying a blanket ruling to everything – laundry-related and otherwise – one must consider the nuances that apply to each individual situation. Because not every situation is the same, each situation should be taken on a case-by-case basis. And, yes, you can have a generalised rule that you use as a guideline, but you can and should veer from that if the situation calls for it. And when you do this, you end up making better decisions for each individual situation. 

Although, it must be said, you do end up spending a lot of your brain capacity deciding whether or not to chuck a pair of pants into the washing machine. You could argue that this is too much thinking to dedicate to a simple load of washing. And, look, that’s a fair point.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 27, 2021

Hot cross buns are back on the shelves. 

There’s no point fighting it, those spiced buns aren’t going away until any time soon. Trying to stop their pre-Lent emergence in supermarkets is like trying to stop waves from crashing on the sand. Resistance is futile. 

As a hot cross bun lover, I’m all for the over-commercialisation of this religious baked item. Capitalism has its flaws and there’s varying schools of thoughts on the benefits of the economic and political ideology, but I think we can all agree one of its major perks is the increased availability of spiced buns.   

And, just as there are robust debates about the merits of capitalism, so too are there debates about the best way to heat and eat a hot cross bun. 

I mean, there’s no law against just eating it unadorned and uncut at room temperature, but that seems like a wasted opportunity. And I think we’re all on the same page there. Think about it, have you ever seen someone just biting straight into a hot cross bun like they would an apple?

It would not be an unpleasant experience, but that’s just the base level – you can take a hot cross bun so much higher. The magic of a bun is in the temperature and the addition of butter.

This is where people vary. 

You’ve got the microwavers. You’ve got the grillers. You’ve got the oven bakers. And you’ve got the sandwich pressers. 

I must say that I dabble in all four options, depending on my mood. But when I’m warming a bun in the office, I go for the double-pronged approach: warming the halved bun first in the microwave and then giving it a lovely crust by putting it face down on the open sandwich press. 

I have seen people squishing buns by clamping the heavy sandwich press lid down and while I try not to judge anyone, seeing someone desecrate a bun in this way really tests my resolve.

But over the weekend I learned of a revolutionary new way of heating a bun to perfection. It came to me via a friend via her family friend via Facebook. It involves a toaster. 

Now, we all know that a halved bun is far too wide for a standard toaster slot. Jamming one in there not only smooshes the bun, but leaves you open to extreme charring – and while charring is great for the flesh of a cow, it’s not so delicious when applied to the flesh of a bun. 

But this friend of a friend suggested slicing the bun into thirds horizontally, thus creating slices narrow enough to fit in the toaster slot. It’s a revolutionary thought. 

So I gave it a crack and, as you can imagine, I had some thoughts. 

First, if you’re going to attempt something like this, you have to employ more knife skills than your standard bun halving. I sometimes forgo a knife and just rip my bun in two – it gives more surface area for crisping up, making it a good option if you’re going to whack it under the grill. Plus, there’s something nice about tearing at it with your own two hands; it’s violent but wholesome. 

But you can’t employ such methods here. You need to be precise. I would recommend keeping the bun in the fridge to firm up the bun flesh to make it easier to slice with a serrated knife. 

Also, you need to really watch your timing on the toaster, the bun is awful close to the heating elements. I recommend keeping it on the lowest setting unless you want to eat charcoal*.

* I mean you COULD just scrape the charcoal off with a knife, but once something is burned, there’s no unburning it. The flavour of ill-judged timing and kitchen negligence can never be scraped away. You’re then faced with two choices: throwing it away and living with the shame of wasting something so precious; or eat it anyway, knowing those extra calories you’re jamming into your post-Christmas body are not worth it. Save yourself the grief – watch the fucking toaster.

And, look, each slice of hot cross bun was crunchy and warm. It was an efficient way of heating. 

But felt the essence of the bun had gone. The slices were thin enough to be bread. What I had on my plate was no longer bun, it was It raisin toast. 

The magic was gone. 

And while I don’t want besmirch raisin toast, it just wasn’t as a special as a hot cross bun should be. I mean, I think the real joy of the bun is in the fluffy flesh inside. It’s decadent. It’s not something you have every day. It’s special. 

But this felt wrong. 

What this left me in a philosophical dilemma. Is a hot cross bun still a hot cross bun if it’s sliced differently? What’s the point of eating a hot cross bun if you’re going to warp it into something that tastes like common raisin toast? What’s the point of anything?

So, I would only recommend this hot cross bun heating method if you find yourself without access to a microwave, grill, oven or sandwich press and you have enough time for a spiral about the meaning of hot cross buns and, indeed, life.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 20, 2020

The other day I went grocery shopping and it occurred to me that someone might judge me based on what I had in my trolley. 

To be clear, when I say “the other day” I mean “about an hour after the Premier announced a three-day lockdown for Greater Brisbane”. 

I had the day off and, because one of the four reasons for leaving the house didn’t include going out for a few cheeky beers for my birthday, I decided I may as well duck down to the shops for some essential supplies.

Of course, everyone else had the same idea. 

By the time I got to the supermarket, a long line had formed at the checkouts, snaking its way along the inside of the store. But it was a surprisingly nice time.  Shoppers were making lots of jokes while they waited in line and people seemed to be going out of their way to be polite. It seems we were all working towards the same collective goal – avoiding supermarket brawls over toilet paper. 

And that’s a good thing too, because some fellow with a bulky camera had ventured into the store talking photos for The Media. 

It made me consider what kind of impression someone might get of me if they saw my picture. 

Luckily, I had chosen to wear the coolest shirt I own – a sloppy, long-sleeve shirt with featuring a scene from that episode of The Simpsons where Bart gets a fake driver’s licence and drives to Knoxville. 

I was wearing a facemask, which not only made me compliant with health advice, but it covered any possible flecks of food stuck in my teeth. 

That would suggest I am fashionable, conscious of my impact on the community and that my teeth were clean. 

But what about the contents of my trolley? 

I know someone who once saw a bloke at the checkout with a few boxes each of gravy powder and KY jelly in his basket. Nothing else. It’s a combination that would raise eyebrows at any time. And you can make certain assumptions based on those two consumer choices. But as this sighting was on Valentine’s Day, that escalates things.

In a similar sense, given the situation that was unfolding, the choices I made were more significant and, therefore, more telling than a casual shop.

I took a snap of what I had loaded into the cart for reference and now I can go back to analyse said contents. Some of my purchases – like the wanky flour and an emergency roll of choc-backed Digestives – were buried in the middle and were secret. Only the items on the outside of the grocery mound were visible and thus open to judgement. Here’s my explanation for my choices:

Two bags of spinach: I have spinach for breakfast most mornings and that stuff wilts down to practically nothing. So while two bags might appear excessive, it was very much in line with my needs. 

A box of “proper strong” teabags: Look, I did already have half a box of teabags, but given I was going to be spending a full day at home, it was possible I may exhaust my supplies. And, look, it was a grey and drizzly day – reinforcements were necessary.   

Two bunches of flowers: It was my birthday and, at that point, the climax of Birthday Week. Flowers were a necessity. (I’ve since made the executive decision to extend Birthday Week to Birthday Fortnight).

Chicken goujons: These are essentially chicken nuggets, but goujon,  with its French origins, sounds fancier. I don’t think I need to explain the presence of this in my trolley. 

Potatoes: Because I don’t want to be longer than 40 minutes away from the perfect roasted potato.

Two types of butter: Even for me this seems a bit much. But one was for baking with. The other was for smearing on this rich, rummy fruitcake a real sweetheart of a friend gifted me. 

Two cake tins: I decided I was going to spend the day making an extremely extra cake, the recipe of which called for two cake tins. I’d just moved and didn’t have any baking tins to my name. 

Easter eggs: Because I’m not waiting for the onset of Lent to start consuming oval-shaped confectionary. I’m an anarchist like that.

A jar of goats cheese: It’s just good stuff. It’s not an unhealthy compulsion or anything. I could stop eating it if I wanted to, but I jut don’t want to. OK?!

Greek yoghurt: It’s just so versatile and feels healthier to binge on than ice cream.

Thickened cream: Because maybe it’s time to have another crack at making my own butter…