Originally published by the Clifton Courier, December 15

We have very precise ways of measuring time, but that doesn’t mean we’re all that precise about it in practice. 

I mean, I often like to jokingly chime that “time is just a social construct, mahn!” but, at the same time, there’s no denying that time, you know, goes by. And the social construct of time and the shared understanding we all have of it is what keeps this society of ours ticking along in at least a somewhat orderly fashion. 

We humans no longer have to rely on the rooster’s first crow or the curlew’s evening call to be a marker of time (although there’s some romance to meeting your secret lover just beyond the tree line after the evening birdsong sounds, it would be quite another thing to try to schedule a doctor’s appointment around that). 

We’ve got these sweet new gizmos called clocks. 

And while they now come in many forms – the grandfather clock that’s too heavy to move, a smartwatch and a microwave clock that you’re too lazy to synchronise but you know how many hours ahead it is so you do some quick maths to get a rough idea of the time (not that I’m speaking from experience or anything…) – we all generally tick to the same tock, if you catch my drift.  

But just because we’ve got clocks, doesn’t mean this whole shared concept of time runs like clockwork. That only happens when we’re all clear on what time a specific time actually is. 

Obviously when someone says “seven o’clock”, we all know what that means. 

But when you’re a little looser with your language, it no longer comes down to the standard increments of seconds, minutes and hours, it comes down to individual assumptions and expectations. And we’re not always ticking and tocking in tune on that front. 

For example, the other day I received a message from a friend advising me about a meeting which required my attendance. 

The exact wording of the message was “PSA. Bowls club this afternoon 4ish”. 

I’d received that message at 2.41pm, shortly after I’d finished work for the day. I decided that timeframe would give me enough time to get home, put on a load of washing, have a quick nap and trot on over. 

Because, to me, “4ish” is a very fluid term. And, when I think about it now, it’s all about context.  

If it were a “4ish” on a Monday afternoon in early February at a fancy venue that gets busy quickly and requires a reservation, I’d have applied a much tighter window of time around 4pm in which I’d arrive. 

But because it was a Sunday afternoon in the pointy end of the year at a bowls club where people walk around with no shoes on and there’s always a seat, I thought the window was much, much wider. 

There was no set time by which I had to arrive, so I felt that whenever I rocked up would be the right time. Not early, not late, but roughly just on time. 

So I didn’t set myself an exact time I was aiming to arrive by. I’d just turn up when I turned up, I thought. I didn’t expect to be the first person there, but I wasn’t expecting to be the last either.

When I did turn up, five people were already there, some of them onto their second beers. One person had already ordered a round of calamari rings.

And the sender of the “4ish” message raised the question about what “4ish” actually meant to people. She wanted to know what we thought was an acceptable time for someone to turn up either side of the hour the “ish” was applied to. She wanted specifics. 

One person said “ish” covered half-an-hour before and an hour after the hour in question. 

Another said ten minutes before and ten minutes after.

Another said there was no time before, because otherwise they’d say something like “turn up a bit before 4pm” 

Forced to get specific, I said it was half-an-hour before or half-an-hour after.

I hadn’t taken note of the time it was when I arrived, so I assumed that my appearance fell into my window of acceptability. 

Turns out I walked in at 4.33pm, so I was officially late. 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, November 10, 2022

I think my brain is taunting me*.

*Yeah, look, a bit of a central theme here.  

Lately, it’s been reminding me I’ve forgotten something… but only just after it’s too late to do anything about it. 

I’m totally across the definition of forgetting – forgetting is not remembering something. Sometimes that’s because the memory is completely gone, but most of the time it’s because there’s some other thought going around in your brain that’s louder than the thing you’re supposed to remember. And that takes all the focus away from that, even though the thing you’re supposed to remember is still sitting there, somewhere in the background. It’s not so much that you’ve forgotten the thing you were supposed to remember; you’ve just not remembered to remember it.  

That’s the rationalisation I give when I forget to wish someone a happy birthday even when I know the date of their birthday. Like, if you were ask me what day my friend’s birthday is, I’d be able to tell you without skipping a beat: November 4. And if you were to ask me what date it was last Thursday, I’ve have been able to tell you it was November 4. But I didn’t put two and two together until I saw some social media posts about her big day. 

I knew when her birthday was, but I couldn’t make that connection without being prompted. And maybe that’s a symptom of this busy modern existence, or a consequence of my drinking habits or a sign I need to eat more vegetables*, but I at least understand it. 

* Depression! Depression was the reason!

Forgetfulness happens. 

But what really makes me mad is when you remember something shortly after the crucial time. Like, if you can remember a second after it’s too late, why couldn’t you have remembered it juuust before it was too late?

It’s like when I remembered I forgot my lunch, but only just after I’d left. Or that I’d forgotten to look for my birth certificate at my parents’ house, but only after I’ve just got on the highway home (which reminds me: Mum, do you know where my birth certificate is?). 

Or the time I locked myself out of my own house. 

On this particular day, I’d decided to spend an hour or two wondering around aimlessly outside in the hopes the gentle exercise and exposure to nature would magically solve all my problems before work. 

I usually put my house key in the hidden zip-up key pocket in my running shorts and check it’s in there before I leave the house. But, for some reason, I didn’t do that on this day. I stepped outside, pushed the lock in and pulled the door closed behind me. 

As soon as I heard the click of the door closing I remembered: I didn’t have a key in my pocket.

And I just think that was pretty rude on my brain’s part. 

Like, clearly it had the capacity to remember that I’d not put key in my pocket. It knew that I needed a key to get back in. It knew that I’d locked the door. It had all these facts at its disposal and it had the ability to bring it to my attention. 

But instead of choosing to bring it to my attention at time when I could do something about it, it decided to alert me to these facts a mere millisecond after I was powerless to act on that information. 

And, sure, my knowing that I’d locked myself out straight away meant I was able to pop over to a friend’s place, borrow the spare key I’d given her and get back inside before I had to leave for work, but I almost think I’d be less upset if I’d only remembered I was keyless as I was trying to get back into the door after my walk. That would be easier to swallow, I think, because it would have felt more like a genuine moment of forgetfulness rather than a setup. 

This way felt almost like my brain was luring me into trap, like it was playing a game of chess and had to wait for just the right moment to take me down and then rub my face in it. “You fool!” I imagine it gleefully proclaiming, “you locked yourself out because you forgot your key and I’m not going to let you forget it!”

And I haven’t. 

Now, whenever I leave the house I make sure I have my hands on my key as I pull my door closed, so I guess I’ve learned my lesson. 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, June 2, 2021

Ok, so you know now I said I didn’t want to turn this column into a stream of petty hot takes?

Well, can we start that from next week? Because I’ve got something to get off my chest: I don’t think I’ll ever be an electric blanket person.  

I mean, sure, electric blankets are great in theory. You turn them on before you go out and when you get home, you’ve got this toasty warm bed waiting for you. That’s a lovely concept. 

It’s a cold, cold world out there. There are robbers and wolves and icy winds and unexpected puddles and people who will make fun of you for your totally normal amount of throw pillows. And when you have to brave the cruel realities of life, it’s nice to know that an electricity-generated warming embrace will be there for you when you finally make it home.

I recently went on a trip to the Stanthorpe region with some friends, wisely choosing what meteorologists were predicting would be the coldest weekend of the year to visit the coldest part of Queensland. Thankfully the house we booked had a fireplace, lots of extra quilts and an electric blanket on every bed. 

And, yes, Stanthorpe is the kind of place that gets so cold it actually looks cold, but I don’t think the electric blankets were necessary. Because every time I use an electric blanket, I have a terrible night’s sleep. 

Growing up, we weren’t an electric blanket household, so it was always a bit of a novelty when I encountered one. I’d turn it on, expecting to have the most comfortable, warm sleep of my life and was always bitterly disappointed.

Maybe I run too hot. Maybe my internal self-regulation system is out of whack. Maybe I’m just out of whack. But they’re just not for me. 

When you go to bed with an electric blanket, you have to make a choice – you either turn it off when you get into bed or keep it on the whole night. I don’t know if there’s a rule about what you’re supposed to do, you just choose what’s right for you. But I would argue that both choices are wrong. 

Whenever I choose to keep the blanket running, I always wake up hot and clammy after a few hours. I have vague worries that my sweat will seep through the blanket, damage the wiring and electrocute me even though I’d assume the manufacturers of electric blankets would account for the dampness of man in designing the device. It’s like that feeling when you force yourself to sit in a hot bath for too long – you start to wonder if you’re slowly cooking yourself. You’re now wondering if you’d be able to smell your own flesh cooking and whether you’d smell like bacon and there goes your restful night’s sleep. 

The other option is turning the blanket off as you crawl into bed. Sure, you won’t overheat in the middle of the night and there will be no cannibalistic musings, but you’re still in for a rough trot. Because when you go to sleep, you’ll be doing so at a temperature that doesn’t require many layers on top. But that temperature is temporary. Soon you’ll cool off and eventually wake up shivering and cursing yourself for poorly insulating your body from the cold. This could also lead you down a thought path about how even your electric bed warmer won’t keep you warm at night and then you’ll start thinking about the folly of man’s reliance on machines and that will lead you on to your inevitable and inescapable loneliness and, look, no one wants to be thinking about at any hour of the night. 

I’ve been through that and now that I’m of an age where I’m too old to have a quarter-life crisis, I like to think I’ve learned from my experiences. 

So when faced with the option of using an electric blanket, I decided not to switch it on. 

I was very smug when my two other roommates (we may have been fancy enough to go to wineries, but we weren’t too fancy to share rooms) complained about being too warm with their electric blankets. And I quietly and respectfully agreed with them that electric blankets can be a bit much. Not that I’m the kind of person to bang on about my opinions on such matters…

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, May 26, 2021

I try not to take any hardline stances in this column.

I don’t want to alienate people or make them feel like their way of life is wrong. And I don’t want to be using this column as the geyser from which my angry bubbling stream of hot takes spits out. I don’t want to push any agendas – I mean, besides that whole anti-bin-in-the-cupboard thing – I just want to have a harmless little laugh, you know?

But good heavens, I think cafes that don’t have table numbers need to take a good, hard look at themselves. 

I was at a cafe the other day which was very much on the trendy end of the spectrum. It had waffles and fried chicken as a breakfast option, which very much taps into that American comfort food trend that hopefully, for the sake of cholesterol speckled arteries around the country, falls out of favour somewhat soon. It listed a side of chips on the menu as “chippies” instead of just “chips”. It had a well thought out colour scheme so the decor matched the staff’s uniforms – which wasn’t even really a uniform come to think of it. All the staff wore the same shirt, but paired with their own pants to give the impression of being less forced and more individual. This was a venue created with Instagram in mind. It was an aesthetic. In short, this cafe knew exactly what it was doing. 

So when there were no table numbers, it was no accident. It was a deliberate design decision. 

I can understand where they’re coming from. Those standard table numbers on the silvery metal stands can be a little tacky. They’re also very common – every bar and grill has them. And, look, I understand the notion of wanting to be a little bit different from all those other basic cafes – that’s pretty much my whole thing. But, in cafes and in life, going too hard on the “a little bit different” just for the sake of being a little bit different can be just as tacky as being like everyone else. Take, for example, those places that have plastic toys jammed on sticks as their table numbers. They’re a bit of fun I guess, but they’re not everyone’s cup of tea. And this wasn’t the kind of cafe that leaned into that kind of caper. This was the kind of cafe that was serious but approachable but cool. 

So they just went without table numbers.

And, look, that’s fine when you have table service. If you have waiters coming to the table taking your order, bringing your food to you and then taking the eftpos machine to you so you don’t have to ever refer to your table with something as soullessly practical as a number, there’s no need for there to be a public-facing table numbering system. That can be done behind the scenes.

But when you have to go up to the counter to place your order, you have to inform the person behind the cash register where to plonk your food down. There’s got to be some kind of system in place to ensure the food you ordered ends up in your general vicinity, otherwise the wrong person would be given the wrong order and the world would crumble into anarchy. 

So when I went up to order my food, the person behind the counter asked what table I was at. And I blanked. 

I had just been grappling with the extremely taxing mental work of trying to decide what to order for breakfast so my brain had not been taking in my surroundings. And before that I had been chatting to my friends, but I hadn’t committed any of their outfit choices to memory and therefore could not use their fashion decisions as landmarks to direct the cafe worker. 

It made me realise how unobservant I can be. If my friends had been kidnapped and I had to make a missing persons report to the police, I would be of absolutely zero help to them. Here’s how I imagine that would go down: “Uhhh, one was wearing a dress, I think. Both of them were definitely wearing shoes – that I know. Can you just tell the officers to look out for two women who look like nice people?”

Back at the counter, I gestured vaguely in the general direction of the table I came from. Thankfully, one of my friends was wearing a hat, which caught the cafe worker’s eye and gave us a mutual reference point. If it wasn’t for that hat, I could still be there right now.

It was a very inefficient system and, geez, I thought we were better than this. This is a city that’s tipped to host an Olympics, for heavens sake!

Of course, there’s always the possibility that I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s not that big of a deal. Maybe being able to describe your location is a basic skill that most people should possess, especially if you’re someone who has an actual communications degree. Maybe, just maybe, I’m just ranting about something pointless and trivial to distract myself fromthe ache of my own pointless and trivial little existence.

But come on guys, we need table numbers.

* Yes, the title IS a direct quote from the cinematic masterpiece that was Holiday In the Sun. The Olsen Twins will not tolerate line cutters, even if they are Megan Fox.

Each week I write a column for The Clifton Courier.

I keep it light and trivial because with so much serious stuff going on about the place, I’m primarily there to make people laugh – or, as least, exhale slightly heavier in a begrudging display of slight amusement.  

I like writing funny things; it’s a great distraction from the real world to get stuck into my trifling little rants. But I’ve been finding it really hard to think of anything trivial or funny to write about lately.

Because I can’t stop thinking about what’s going on in Australian politics right now. 

I can’t stop thinking about the allegations I’ve read. Of the stories women are sharing. Of the responses people in power have given. And I’m just so fucking angry.

I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want to have to think of this. But with all these stories going around, it’s practically impossible not to be. 

I’ve seen a few articles floating around about how a lot of women are in distress right now. They go into how stories about sexual assault allegations can bring up traumatic memories for women. They point out that so many women have either dealt with or helped a woman they love deal with sexual assault. And how seeing the kinds of stories that are dominating the news cycle right now are making women anxious and depressed. 

And I suppose the knock-on effect of that is that it makes it hard for women to function in other aspects of their lives. Because thinking about these things takes up a lot of brain power. Being angry about these things burns up a lot energy. And trying to deal with these situations just takes up so much time. 

I often wonder how much productivity is lost because of all the extra stuff woman have churning over in their heads that focusing one hundred per cent on their jobs or their studies or their passions is straight up impossible. 

Imagine, just for a second, how that energy could be better spent if women didn’t have institutional sexism to be riled up about. Imagine if the energy in that burning rage could be directed towards athletic performance or fuel a creative passion?

Imagine if, instead of all those conversations between women trying to make sense of their experiences and consoling one another, they could talk about literally anything else. If, instead of being supportive of their friends about sexual assault, they could be strategizing about their careers or discussing the stock market or planning grand adventures?

Imagine if, instead of women thinking about how they should respond to a situation or trying to work out how to articulate their feelings so that people understand it, they could be focusing on their course material or figuring out how to better do their jobs. If, instead of digesting horrible stories or having graphic details playing on a loop in the background of their brains, they could be listening to a lecture or coming up with a time-saving idea or just, perhaps even more radical, were simply enjoying themselves, blissfully oblivious of how much freedom the undisturbed peace in their heads affords them.

It’s impossible to quantify how much this is setting women back, and that’s part of why it’s so infuriating – we’ll never know what these women could have been without this handicap.

This news cycle is distressing but it feels like we’re on the verge of something big here. These stories are fuelling a movement that feels like it could bring about real change. It’s electrifying and unifying, but I keep thinking about all the things we could be doing instead if we didn’t have this to deal with.

There is so much that we could be thinking about. That we could be devoting our time and energy to. That we could be writing funny, entertaining columns about.

But here we are. 

Also, it’s International Women’s Day tomorrow. If you’re looking for a charity to donate to in honour of the day, here’s a link to the Queensland Women’s Legal Service.

Guest written and illustrated by Shiralee Rudolph, LLB, BAS

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, November 18, 2020

Inappropriate sentencing can have long-lasting implications.

One year my three sisters and I were given the ultimate Christmas gift. Santa had left us a petrol-operated go-kart. I still remember the excitement and awe we felt as we raced out the flyscreen door to see this beautiful piece of machinery waiting for us. We were the happiest girls in Hinz Street (pay no mind to the fact that we were the ONLY girls on Hinz Street). We spent hours hooning around in that baby. Friends, aunties, uncles, cousins… pretty much everyone we knew would love coming around to take her for a spin. It was true, the go-kart brought many happy memories, but not without some heartache. 

Our parents are not particularly strict. They let us watch The Craft before we were 10, they were not sticklers for homework or bedtimes, and they always let us go to sleepovers and parties. However, as I would soon learn, some of their rules were made to be followed. 

There is quite a considerable age difference between the eldest and youngest Maguire sisters. While us older three were able to cruise around as we pleased, supervision was required if we wanted to take the youngest on the go-kart. The eldest sister can be a bit of a rule-breaker; and at that time had a reputation for doing what she pleases with little concern for the consequences. She was 10-years-old and, don’t let her driving record fool you, she was a confident driver. 

With full knowledge of the supervision rule, one sunny spring day she decided to take our two-year-old sister on the go-kart sans parental regulation. She was acting like a lunatic; driving around the paddock at top speed. Granted, she did keep her arm across the younger sister less she bounce right off the pleather seat. Still, I could not sit by and let this flagrant disregard for the rules fly. I had to call for authority. I raced inside to inform dad of her offence. Obviously, her joyride soon came to a halt. 

I was proud of myself. I had done the right thing… or so I had thought. 

Dad promptly handed down the orders. Suitably, the eldest was penalised with a one-week grounding. Chuffed with myself, I applauded this order. That was until Dad turned to me. 

He grounded me for two whole weeks; double the amount of the offending sister.

Dad’s justification for such a sentence? “You don’t dob on ya mates.”

This was ludicrous. How could Dad seriously think this was just? My sister knowingly broke the one rule of the go-kart. I merely sought for this behaviour to be reprimanded. 

Now, maybe I am jaded or maybe I have always been passionate about just punishment. But some 22 years later and I still struggle with Dad’s message: if your friend is getting into mischief it is always better join in, regardless of the consequences; don’t trust authority; and never report bad behaviour. But perhaps he was on to something. 

If you provide unconditional support and back your friends no matter what, they will do the same for you. Being able to rely on your peers in troubling times has proved invaluable. I have amazing friends who I would trust with my life. Plus, you’re more likely to have fun yourself when you are actively participating in capers. 

And maybe Dad didn’t mean to imply that I shouldn’t trust authority, but to instead question it and, by extension, question everything. He has a point; curiosity really is the best learning tool. 

Finally, what Dad may have meant by discouraging reporting bad behaviour was to try deal with problems for yourself without always depending on someone else to do it for you. As an independent woman, I respect this message of self-sufficiency. 

Through his harsh punishment, Dad was encouraging me to be a trustworthy mate, a life-long learner and a capable independent woman… well, at least, that’s what I assume he was getting at. I’m sure he planned that all along.

But while I appreciate the lessons Dad tried to teach me, I still don’t believe I should have received double the sentence of the perpetrator when all I did was snitch. I can’t recall if my older sister ever re-offended, but I can tell you that I still think twice before I tell on anyone. I guess the justice system really is an imperfect beast. 

The real moral of the story? No one likes a dobber. 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, October 7, 2020

I went to a friend’s place for dinner the other night.

She casually messaged me the day before saying she was having a few of the girls over for dinner and invited me to join. It was a little last minute and I knew I’d have to leave early because I had an early start the next day, but you don’t say no to dinner invites from this particular friend. 

I mean, she’s obviously great company and all that, but she’s also one heck of a cook. 

So I enthusiastically accepted her invitation and asked her what I could bring along. She didn’t reply. So I turned up empty-handed. But, to be honest, she’d made such a feast it would have been excessive for me to have brought any more food. 

She whipped up a spread of chicken shawarma pie, spiced chickpea salad and this garlicky silverbeet stuff. She also baked a lemon, blueberry and almond cake. She cooks like this all the time, so I didn’t think any of this was out of the ordinary. 

Then, the morning after, I checked Facebook and was given a reminder.

It was her birthday. And I’d had absolutely no idea.

I turned up empty handed, sat through dinner and ate all her delicious food without acknowledging the anniversary of birth in any way whatsoever.

To make matters worse, I had to leave early to get to bed before a 3.55am alarm the next day. It was before dessert was served, so she cut off a slice of cake and packed it in a container for me to take home. 

That cake was technically birthday cake. That she made for herself. That she didn’t have a chance to stick birthday candles in. That she didn’t get to stand next to awkwardly while people sung Happy Birthday to her. 

I just took it and left.

I mean, I was used my manners while doing so, but still.

Like, I was the celebrant (by proxy, technically, I’ve not been bestowed with the legal authority to bind two people in matrimony) at her wedding. I should be on top of that. I like to think of myself as a good friend, but apparently I’m not. Which is confronting.

But, I suppose, wouldn’t mind all that much if someone forgot mine. Birthdays are starting to become non-events these days. 

What’s also confronting is that I’m already at the age where I forget birthdays and birthdays aren’t such a big deal anymore. 

Birthdays were HUGE when I was a kid. 

First off, they’d guarantee you at least a bit of attention that day. You’d get a present. And you were given complete authority to choose what the family would have for dinner. This was an awesome power to wield. You could say whatever you wanted and the rest of the family would have to go along with it. I mean, I’d usually opt for safe, restrained variations of chicken tenders, something with chippies or something smothered in gravy, but the power to make that call and have it be entirely out of left field was truly intoxicating. 

Not only that, but you could have cake.

But, as a mature young woman with my own income, I can have cake anytime I like. In fact, I had that cake I brought home from dinner for lunch before writing this column.

I have an Instagram account, so I don’t need to rely on annual celebrations or scholastic achievements to get my attention fix. I buy myself presents whenever I want – last week I ordered a strobe light on a whim, this week I treated myself to a box of Sultana Bran. And I am faced with the responsibility of choosing my own diner every. Single. Night.

So maybe birthdays have lost their sheen, just a little bit.

The fact is I’ve reached an age when birthdays aren’t all that special anymore. And when birthdays used to be the most special time of all, this sounds a little grim.

But, hey, I get to have chicken tenders for dinner tonight, so it’s not all that bad. 

Ok, so I get it. Having a lot bullshittery before an online recipe is annoying. And as much as love a good waffle on, I always scroll right past the lovely anecdotes and well-lit photos of artfully arranged ingredients to get down to business.

As I’ve said before, none of you bastards have been brought here purely for a recipe. I’m willing to bet none of you were brought here because you were searching for “rhubarb goo” on Google. What kind of maniac types “rhubarb goo” into Google? If you fall into this category, take a long hard look at yourself. But, still, I shan’t dilly or dally, here’s the bloody recipe:

You need:

• A bunch of rhubarb
• Like 60 grams or three tablespoons of butter
• Three or four tablespoons of brown sugar
• A dash of fancy vanilla extract
• A teaspoon of cinnamon 
• Three handfuls of frozen strawberries 

Step 1: Chop your rhubarb planks into chunks, roughly 5cm or about length of the middle bone in your rude finger. I like to cut it on a diagonal, because it lets more flesh come into contact with the hot pan and generally feels more chef-like.

Step 2: Chuck the butter in a medium to large frypan and let it melt a little over a low to medium heat. I said “like three tablespoons” because I usually just chop a slab of butter off the block without measuring. I feel like the chop method is better than mucking around with a buttery spoon and have been freeballing it this way ever since I learned that one tablespoon of butter is equal to about 20 grams. I usually go by the weight guide marks on the butter wrapper and just chop like a mad person. 

Step 3: Add the brown sugar. Again, my measurements are rough. I usually just tip the sugar straight into the pan from the sugar container and stop once I feel like I’m going overboard. Stir it around a bit. 

Step 4: Add the rhubarb chunks, stir them around and let them sit for five minutes or so. 

Step 5: Add the vanilla and the cinnamon and gently stir those flavours through. The vanilla usually generates a bit of a sizzle, do not be alarmed. Embrace the sizzle. By this time, your whole house should smell fantastic.

Step 6: After the rhubarb softens a bit and the colour of the flesh darkens, chuck in the strawbs. These guys will go pretty much to mush on account of them being frozen, so they don’t need as much time in the pan are the rhuby.

Step 7: Turn down the heat a little and let the mixture bubble until it turns into a thick goo.

Step 8: Pour over some fancy vanilla ice cream, trip into a pie crust or just eat it with a spoon like the little piggy you are.