If you want to impress your guests but can’t be arsed to put in a lot of effort, this is the starter for you.

I mean, you can always just tip a bunch of that sweet’n’salty popcorn into a trough or give everyone their own personal kabanas to mung on all night. That’s some high impact snackery. In fact, I’d recommend giving it a crack.

But if you’re in the mood for making people think you’re one of them fancy folk, you can’t really go past a bit of baked cheese. There’s something about the oozing and the greenery and the wooden cutting board platter that really gives the impression that you were posh enough to have grown up with heat lights in your bathroom. It looks fan-bloody-tastic.

However, it’s an absolute piece of piss to chuck together.

Here’s how ya do it, mates:

Get yourself a wheel or two of soft cheese. I reckon camembert is getting the way of semi-dried tomatoes and focaccia – it used to be the epitome of class but now has an air of washed-up-pop-star-turned-talent-show-judge. It’s still good, but it’s no longer hot shit. Nope, I reckon you at least need to go for a brie in this case. Make it triple cream too, because if you’re going to hit the cheese, you may as well hit it hard.

Line a baking tray with brown, recycled baking paper, because not only does this make you appear more environmentally aware, serving it in the brown paper has a certain rustic-fance charm about it.

Score the top of the cheeses with a sharp knife, but don’t do those criss-crosses too deep – you don’t want the wheel to lose its shape as it bakes.

Now, you’re going to want some rosemary sprigs, fresh is best, but leaves from a dried spring would be OK too. Just don’t go using that dried stuff you get in a shaker from the supermarket, because that’s going to make your cheese look very low-end. The idea is to add flavour but also an air of garden chic. You want to make it look as if you’ve dashed out to your thriving collection of pot plants and plucked some herbs straight out of the garden. No one needs to know if you nicked it from someone’s overgrown bush down the street after dark.

Shove a few rosemary needles in between the cuts you made in the cheese.

Next grab a handful of nuts – pine nuts, cashews, macadamias, walnuts or chopped almonds would work, just make sure they’re unsalted. Try to avoid tipping the Nobby’s salted nuts in there if you can; save those bad boys for fudgy bickies. Sprinkle these over the top of your cheese in an effortlessly-scattered-messy-chic kind of way.

Lastly, finish this off with a few artful drizzles of honey.

Now just whack this in a medium oven for about 10 to 15 minutes until the cheese starts to ooze and the honey bubbles a little. A bit of browning is good, but keep a close eye on it in case it burns.

Finally, take the cheese off the tray and place on a wooden chopping board, the more worn and rustic, the better. Arrange some crusty baguette slices or some crackers that look like they were made with sand alongside the cheese for dipping, but grab a few knives for smearing once the cheese cools. Do not, under any circumstances, serve with thin water crackers – they won’t have the strength for dipping and they’re pretty fucking dull.

Serve immediately to your guests and let the country club invitations roll in.

I don’t have a lot of time, but think I need to share this with the world. Today.

It’s a new drink that could really change things for you. The idea for this cocktail came to me as not so much as a brand new recipe, but as more of a “happy hour hack”.

A friend and I have recently started doing something we like to call Maragrita Wednesdays. The event is linked to the delightful Wing Wednesday phenomenon, where respectable establishments discount their chicken wings, often to ridiculous prices. We’ve found a chain that does 25 cent wings each Wednesday, much to our delight. This place is a Mexican joint, so obviously they do margaritas. And when you and your best friend are eating 25-cent wings, you obviously do margaritas too.

Last time we celebrated Margarita Wednesday, we had settled in for the long haul, setting up shop at a table and building up an impressive pie of chicken bones. But we couldn’t hang around all day and decided that, after a few hours, we best move on.

By that time it was happy hour at the next stop on our tequila tour, during which basics were just $5. We wanted to keep up with our Margarita Wednesday ethos, but the prices were a wee bit too high to justify. We were after a cocktail that packed the same punch of a margarita, but was kinder on the wallet.

So the time came to improvise.

This drink could have many names such as Sly Margarita, Thifty Margie, Margs for Thinkers, or a Cheeky Margot Robbie, but when we told other friends about our creation, it was dubbed the Bogan Margarita.

We’ve since given it a nickname, in true Australian style, shortening it to Borgan Marg, a name that could be trademarked but we feel it is something that belongs to the people. Everyone should be able to get one of these into their gobs. So we’re not sitting on this secret. We’re letting it out.

Here’s how you can get your hands on one.

You ask for the house tequila, with something lemony as a mixer. I can say from personal experience to avoid lemonade if possible, instead opting for lemon squash. It takes better but you also want it to be a nice looks-lemony-but-we-all-know-that-colour-is-the-colour-of-chemicals yellow for atheistic reasons. Make sure you get a bit of a ice in that one (however, given it’s a basic spirit at happy hour, you’re probably going to end up with plenty of ice-cold filler).

Then, either ask the bartender for a salt shaker or snag one from a nearby table and shake yourself a good dusting of salt into the glass.

Give it a pretentious swirl and Bob’s your aunty, you’ve got yourself a fine imitation margarita which isn’t all that different to the real McCoy.

Congratulations, you’ve seen the light.

Here’s the recipe in case you want to make this for yourself at home:

Ingredients:

• Cheap tequila
• Solo/lemon squash/pub squash
• Ice
• Table salt

Pour a nip (the volume of which is entirely up to you and your needs at that particular time) of tequila into a glass. Next, add a few cubes of ice. Top up the glass with some pub squash. Vigorously shake salt into the glass before swirling the ice around – use your finger if you must.

Note, you COULD dust the rim with salt and garnish with a lemon wedge if you were feeling a little fancy, but I think we all know this is not really the beverage for you if you’re feeling a little fancy.

Marks of success according to my younger self are a wee bit different to those I have now.

For example, finally getting to a point where my super is more than my HECs debt is not something 12-year-old Dannielle would have dreamed of, but it’s something 27-year-old Dannielle feels pretty darn smug about.

27-year-old Dannielle thinks that having enough savings for a house deposit is a measure of success. Her goals include having a kitchen stocked with French cast iron cookware in coordinating colours and being able to grow her own potatoes on her hobby farm. She wants a rustic wooden dining table long enough to seat 12 friends. She’d like to write a book. She’d froth a pair of customised RMs.

But success looked a little different to 12-year-old Dannielle. And when I compare my current state to those pre-teen KPIs, I feel pretty good about where I’m at right now:

Having a laptop: Far out, watching people hack into the main frame with a laptop made them seem so badarse back in the day. I really wanted to type something with purpose, like a Charlie’s Angel or a glamorous executive working in fashion with a report due. Needing a computer was the dream, but being the kind of mover and shaker who needed a computer on the go was the pinnacle of greatness.

I have a laptop top now and I don’t exactly feel like Lucy Liu or Christina Applegate (Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Deadwas a formative film for me), but I sure as shit love the sound of the keys making noises as I press them. Sometimes I just write “the the the the the the the the” over and over and over because I love the sound. As I write this, I am using a laptop on my bed. If you could see me now, young Dannielle!

Needing a personal assistant: I used to play “offices” a lot a child. It was my favourite game. I would set up a corner office with a window with lots of papers and a typewriter on my desk, then get to work on some urgent tasks. I was a very important executive with lots of decisions to make and reports to prepare and files to have one people’s desks by five. I was under a lot of pressure, so I needed a person assistant to do some bidding for me. Her name was Channel and she was only available on mobile phone. I would bark orders at her on my toy flip phone, angrily slamming it shut when I had to repeat myself yet again with a simple request.

I don’t have a Channel, but I hope to one day become important enough to require one. I like to think that 27-year-old Dannielle would be more of a mentor than a highly-strung Charlotte Pickles type of boss – not that I have anything against Angelica’s mum. She’s an icon and a role model and I am not ashamed to say it.

Having Austar: If anyone reading this is not a regional Australian born in the early 90s (I know my demographic), Austar was the equivalent of Foxtel, or pay TV. It had shows like Spongebob Squarepantsand Dariamarathons and no ads.

Austar isn’t a thing anymore, but I do have Foxtel, which is even better because it suggests that I’m living the big city life as well as paying for premium entertainment. I got it especially for Game of Thronesbut they’ve really won me over because they have EVERY EPISODE OF GRAND DESIGNS EVER on there at the moment so I’m going to hang on to it for another month or so.

Having a day planner: I mean, these were just so fucking cool. Having things to do and needing to write them in a diary to organise yourself? That’s the funnest.

I’m proud to say that I do have a diary now, which I need to professional and personal purposes. I mean, I do write things in there such as “chatted with Grandma” and I don’t use a pen with a fluffy top, but I feel like I have fulfilled this dream.

Driving a convertible: If you were rich and successful in the 90s, you drove a convertible, most likely a red one. You had a cup holder. You blasted music through the speakers. You drove along like hot shit. Of course I wanted one.

I am currently borrowing my dad’s x-trail because I had to sell my unregistered Camry for $100 and I needed wheels when I moved back from Sydney. It’s a really roomy vehicle. It holds a lot of stuff. I’m not complaining at all. Plus, I feel like my hair would get really knotty if I drove around with the top down.

Being on Better Homes and Gardens: We didn’t have Austar, so our television choices were limited and I loved craft and home decoration tips. It was my ultimate goal to host this show (while being an Olsen twin).

I have let myself down. I mean, I don’t have to be on Channel Seven, I could film my own version on my smartphone and create a YouTube channel. Modern technology makes it totally possible. But still, I ignore my dreams.

Having a double bed: I dreamed of being the kind of young adult who talked on the phone laying on my belly while flipping though magazines, something that looks much more glamorous on a double bed. I wanted the bed to have a funky doona cover and tasteful throw pillows that I could flop on to after having my heartbroken by a square-jawed dreamboat. I wanted fairy lights on the bed head. I wanted it all.

Now I have a queen-sized bed, which is a whole couple of centimetres bigger than a double bed, which would make my 12-year-old self very happy. I have a total of seven pillows, which match my doona cover. I even have a throw blanket that ties the whole look together. I’m a fucking goddess.

Although, I rarely talk on the phone in bed while flipping through magazines – I prefer to go hands-free and do housework while I’m on the phone because it’s more efficient that way.

I’ve done lazy recipes before, but this may be the laziest.

This concoction is, as the title suggests, a low-effort, warming dessert perfect for filling your tum to distract you from the unfillable void in your soul.

It’s three simple ingredients: frozen raspberries, Greek yoghurt and sturdy oats. And it only requires three pieces of equipment for both preparation and serving. You’ll need a cup/mug/non-metallic chalice/bowl, a spoon and a microwave.

Yep, not food processor here. This is Sunday evening snackery at it’s laziest (well, besides just opening a packet of Digestives, which I highly recommend).

Here’s the process:

Get your raspberries out of the freezer. Yes, they do have to have first been frozen. I know fresh raspberries look great in your shopping basket. They look great in the fridge. They look great on a kitchen island. But this isn’t the time to be fancy with your fresh produce like you have all the perks of living in an unrealistically clean but rustic farmhouse without the realities of crippling uncertainty and mud. No, you need the raspberries to have come from a packet in the freezer aisle of a supermarket.

Now, bung them into the vessel of your choice and zap them in the microwave. There’s something about the transition of going from frozen to nuked in a radioactive box that completely fucks up the raspberries, causing them to have a complete breakdown at a cellular level. It all becomes too much that they just totally lose all sense of self and fall apart into a jammy mess.

Tonight, I grabbed about a handful of frozen rasps and microwaved them in the kind of glass tumbler you’d expect to see a spoiled American girl on a teen movie take one sip of freshly-squeezed orange juice out of before skipping breakfast, running out the door and getting tangled in a series of events that changes her whole outlook on life as a popular girl. The berries were on for about one-and-a-half minutes, with a wee bit of stirring in between. Here’s a washing-up-saving tip: stir with the wrong end of the spoon, so you can use the same spoon to dish out your yoghurt later without the risk of cross-contamination.

The next thing you’re going to want to do is grab a small handful of oats and chuck them into the hot, sticky raspberry victims in a manner similar to throwing confetti at your former fling after their wedding, which they conveniently didn’t tell you about until after you gave them a wristy but before they returned the favour (OK, no one is allowed to steal this for the movie script they’re working on, I just came up with it then and it’s my idea).

The whole idea is that the oats will soak up the raspberry’s tortured essence, acting as an instant, albeit slightly soggy, crumble.

Next dollop on a big of yoghurt, to cool the raspberry goo to the point that it won’t burn the arse out of your tongue.

Serve immediately… to yourself.

The other day I was out jogging and nearly fucking died.

I came within like half a metre of being hit by a car, but it was also like I almost hit it the car. I was running along a footpath that had a slip lane running through it. It was one of those lanes where the pedestrian would technically have right of way because the car would have to turn into the pedestrian’s path (it checks out, I just looked it up on the Queensland Government website) buuuut it also would make sense for the pedestrian (i.e. me) to check that no bastard was coming before crossing the road because getting banged up by a car is a huge hassle.

There was this moment of near impact where things looked a little bit like I could have had a very real excuse to skip the gym for a few days.

If we were just two people walking in opposite directions along a hallway, it would have been one of those times when you nearly bump into someone, make that “oooop” noise and shuffle away with a stupid non-confrontational grin in your face.

But when one of those people are in a car, it’s not an awkward encounter, it’s a near death experience.

Like, I’m not angry of anything, I mean, if I died, I’d probs have had to make myself come back as a ghost to tell the driver, “oi, like don’t be too hard on yourself mate, I probs would have done the same thing aye”.

The thing that gets me is that my near death experience would have been more poignant.  I just assumed it would have been a profound moment for me. Like, that a switch inside me would have flicked and suddenly I was super focused and thankful and started milking every once of joy from the dry, chapped teat of life. You see near death experiences on movies and they often tend to change people. They start carpeing diems and embracing love and building something worthwhile.

So after I was gifted a whole extra day on earth, I decided to see how I spent this gift. Here’s a rough outline of my behaviour following the incident:

Immediately after: I kept running for about 30 seconds before needing to deeply inhale and exhale on a park bench. I mean, this could have been more dramatic. I could have been having a full-on freak out, but I was underwhelming in my performance. I just sat on the bench, breathing deeply. To unaware passers-by, it would have looked as if I had tried running too soon after a large bowl of porridge.

Perhaps if I overacted a little more, a charming prince-like character could have come to my aid, whisking me off in his Tesla to get me a calming cup of chai at a quiet coffee shop where we would have a chance to talk. Obviously this would lead to a life-affirming romance where we help one another to evolve for the better but, ultimately, know we could never be together. I haven’t quite worked out where our story ends, but I like to think maybe Prague (his family money has interesting origins and I really want to go back to that little gingerbread shop).

A little after immediately after: I decided to jog at a leisurely pace to my playlist of upbeat female singer songwriters, going through the park to soak up some nature. Only, it was a wee bit cold and the park was pretty much just the green space along the oversized drain running through that side of town. I told myself I would seize the day by treating myself to a decadent chai after finishing.

About 30 minutes after: I decided to try to pinch a few pennies and made myself wait until I got home to make myself a cup of tea. That’s ok though, I do like the tea I make myself.

About an hour after: I’d booked myself a haircut about two months prior after being prodded by my new hairdresser, appalled by my split ends. You’d think this would be the time I’d say, “fudge it, let’s make my hair fairy floss pink” or something, but I actually quite like the colour of my hair and I don’t have the energy to maintain an edgy bob so I just got a trim. I mean, I did crumble and buy the shampoo my hairdresser suggested, because apparently the stuff I was using was coating my hair in silicone, so that’s something. Life’s too short to have your hair coating in silicone.

About three hours later: I went a little wild and made myself some pasta for dinner – I lashed out and finally used that low-carb, high-protein pulse pasta I’d bought on special months ago. I even used the last of my goats cheese. It was delicious and, as far as I’m deluding myself, super healthy. I mean, if I was going to live on and, hopefully, get entangled in a life-transforming romance, it’s best to keep a tight rig.

About three-and-a-half hours later: I started watching Gavin and Stacy as per a friend’s recommendation.

About six hours after: I went to bed at a reasonable hour because I had work early the next morning.

About 12 hours after: I woke up, washed my face and had a cup of tea. I usually don’t eat until mid-morning when I work early shifts, but today I went wild and had a small, measured portion of bran and oats with yogurt.

About 15 hours after: I went outside for my break after I was urged to “go outside and stroll in the sunshine for 15 minutes” by a work friend who I swap gardening and cooking tips with. I came back inside about seven minutes because it was brisk and my ankles weren’t covered.

About 16 hours after: I had second breakfast, being my boiled eggs and kale office special. I used a lot of butter, but that wasn’t a you-nearly-died-so-treat-yourself kind of thing. I always have had a lot of butter in my life.

About 20 hours after: I bought myself two sticks of kanagaroo salami at a fancy deli. Then I shopped around for the cheapest veggies, finding my way to a store with an interesting international food section. Out of all the options, I selected a rhubarb and ginger preserve.

About 22 hours after: I ate the leftover pasta and finished watching The Bodyguard (the TV series, not the Whitney Houston epic).

About 24 hours after: I decided not to go to the gym.

Yep, that’s depressing.

But I would like to point out that I intend to make up for this slack seizing of the day today by observing Margarita Wednesday, a glorious holiday where my nursing friend and I find ourselves with the same Wednesday off, so we celebrate by getting margaritas.

Today, we’re also incorporating Wing Wednesday into the festivities, where we go to a joint that sells chicken wings for 25 cents a piece and become human stains.

Happy Margarita Wednesday everyone!

This week I’ve got a serious case of the s’pose’das.

The s’pose’das is a term first introduced to the world via that episode of The Simpsons where the family move to Cypress Creek and Bart is put in a remedial class. He points out that he’s supposed to be in the fourth grade and the teacher responds with “sounds like someone’s got a case of the s’pose’das”.

It’s a nice, fun term to use instead of the slightly confronting terminology to describe the unrelenting standards schema that rules my thoughts, behaviour and life. In a nutshell, a schema is a pattern of thought and behaviour that stems from an unmet childhood need. It can manifest into a dominating and unhealthy way of thinking, which makes things kinda unpleasant in the old thinkbox.

The schema compels me to be as productive as inhumanely possible, often fuelling an irrational desire to keep ticking off to-do lists when the only box I should be ticking off is “relax”.

It’s especially dominant when I have days off, because there’s voice in my head drilling into me that I should be utilizing my days off the best way I can, but getting a whole lotta stuff done. Remember Brian’s mum at the start of The Breakfast Club? That voice is kind of like her, except this fictional character which exists only in my head is much better dressed.

One of my biggest s’pose’das is to be consistent with my blog posts, keeping to the Wednesday and Sunday schedule. It’s usually not too demanding, especially because my shift work means I have a lot of downtime can’t be used for socialising.  But sometimes, things get away from me. I had planned on posting something on Wednesday, but then I went out for burritos and returned home far too late to be posting anything online. As I went to sleep on Wednesday night, I resolved to post something on Thursday afternoon, following a well-earned sleep-in and a hardcore gym session. However, after doing the bare minimum at the gym, buying groceries and putting my sheets out on the line, I didn’t feel like doing much. I had a nap and woke up feeling a little more “nah” than “yeah”.

I considered doing something productive, but instead ended up bingeing on five episodes of Dead to Me, watching the last three-quarters of Double Jeopardyand sitting through the entirety of The Holiday, while finishing off a bottle of red wine I’d opened weeks ago and a small bottle of dessert wine that, by the taste of it, was bought at the very end of a wine tasting trip when I was quite sauced. I mean, I cleared much-needed space in the fridge and felt fairly relaxed by the end of the evening, but I had a terrible sleep.

Sure, you could say that the staring at a TV screen in a dark room for hours and the sleep-disrupting properties of cheap wine disturbed my slumber, but I blame a violent case of the s’pose’das for those tosses and turns. I’d not posted anything. I’d abandoned my responsibility. I turned my back on duty. And it was excruciating. So, some time around 1am, I got out of bed and scribbled a note on my hand to alleviate the symptoms I was suffering. The thought process was that even a few scribbled words was better than nothing.

Of course, in the light of day, the erratic script on my hand is quite difficult to read, but can just make out what I intended to say. And that very important message which could not wait until morning was: “no dramies, chicken parmies”.

It’s a cutesy spin on “no dramas”, incorporating rhyme and Strayn’ pub feed culture. It communicates to the receiver the general message of “no worries” and impresses upon them that I enjoy breaded chicken topped with tomato sauce, ham and cheese.

I don’t know if it’s as powerful as the wonderful phrase of Hakuna Matata, but it seemed to do me some good. So in case you’re in need of a cheeky chicken-related saying, I’m passing it on to you.

Well, I feel like complete poo.

I am still significantly hungover and very much unable to function. My brain hurts. My mouth is full of pre-vom saliva. I somehow got a stitch from getting up and walking to the kitchen just now. I am not in a good way.

And yet, here I am, sticking to my commitment to myself to make a contribution to the literary world.

I chose to do so in the form of another self quiz, again pillaging the Bumble conversation prompters I would never actually use myself.

If I had an extra hour in the day I would: Still take ages to text people back. Let’s be honest, I’d spend that time staring at the wall, ruminating on something I did several years ago. I would not use it as wisely as I’d like.

If I were famous, it’d be for: My cook booklet. Obvs.

Favourite quality in a person: An appreciation of Cougar Town.

We’ll get along if: You’re a member of the Outback Club.

Go-to song is: Outback Club, Lee Kernaghan

I’m most grateful for: Tampons and indoor plumbing. Honestly, just think about it for a moment. How good is running water? How great is not having to sit on a bed of sawdust to soak up your uterine lining? People say we’re living in dark times but at least we’re not weeing into buckets.

If I could guest-star on a show, it’d be on: Midsomer Murders. I just recently followed them on Instagram and the suggestions that were thrown up as “more like this” were fantastic.

Ideal night out: Right now, as I’m still hungover from more than 24 hours ago, I really don’t want to think about doing anything that would require me to put on shoes and support my head with just my neck.

But I would have to suggest something in a natural amphitheatre setting, enough room for interpretive dancing, whimsical lighting and perhaps some fire.  I’m wearing comfortable shoes and no one has tried to steal my hat. The weather is warm enough to be wearing shorts but cool enough for a flanny. Fireworks would be great.

My mother would describe me as: Her best fucking friend. Of course, she wouldn’t use the F word, but I felt it was appropriate there.

Must-see movie: Drop Dead Gorgeous. There are so many layers of hilarity. It’s just bloody perfection.

If I would eat only one meal for the rest of my life it would be: Right now I’d say that salmon and rice dish I told you about a few Sundays ago.

My secret skill: I can make fart noises with my neck.

Today’s questions are sourced from the list of conversational ice-breakers Bumble suggests you add to your dating profile to let potential interests learn more about your personality.

I’m pretty cynical about these kinds of questionnaires on dating apps, but decided they’d make a great fodder for when I next found myself with nothing to write for a blog post. That’s the position I’ve found myself in this evening. I came home from work super tired and in the kind of mood where I just wanted to have a cup of tea and stick my middle finger up to my responsibilities. But there’s a part of me that won’t let me neglect my deadlines unless I’m in a state where I could legitimately obtain a medical certificate. And, unfortunately, a serious case of the Yeah Nahs doesn’t cut it in the medial world. So I’ve forced myself to post something before I tune out for the night.

And I think I’ve clearly demonstrated just why I don’t actually answer these kind of bullshit questions in the context of a dating profile.

My dream dinner guest is: Right now I don’t want to have dinner with anyone, I just want to eat my tomato rice bake and watch people struggling to project manage their ambitious self-builds on rugged British coastlines in Grand Designs.

But if I wasn’t in such a grumble bum of a mood, I probably say Nigella Lawson. However, I wouldn’t want our dinner to feel like some boring obligation for her, so I’d want to earn her attendance by doing something cool first. Like, if my cook booklet ended up as a best seller and she reached to me out via a hand-written card asking to catch up. In reality, I’d go over for a lunch meeting, which would spill over to afternoon tea, then wines, then dinner, then dessert, then more wines, then us drunkenly re-enacting one of her iconic sneaks-to-fridge-while-wearing-a-dressing-gown scenes. This is my dream dinner, I’ll do it how I want to.

Two truths and a lie: No, I’m not doing that. This isn’t fucking O-Week. Sit down, mate.

My third grade teacher described me as: A pleasure to teach because I was a people-pleaser who loved doing schoolwork because I was too fat to get the validation I so desperately craved from my athletic abilities.

The person/thing that holds me most accountable is: My unrelenting standards schema. It’s one panicky, demanding bitch, but sweet baby cheeses does it make me efficient.

I’m doing schema work with my psychologist at the moment, which is where we nut out the things that fuel my anxiety. You take a test and the results tell you what informs your thought patterns and behaviours. It’s kind of like when you read a reeeeeally accurate horoscope, except it’s a manifestation of your past experiences instead of being made up by some bored magazine intern.

My most recent act of kindness: I put away the dishes that were drying on the washing up rack so my housemates didn’t have to do it. However, this also benefited me because I hate dry dishes cluttering up the counter when they could be put away where they belong.

After work you can find me: Answering questions about myself in a snarky tone like I’m better than other shallow, narcissistic, basic people, when I’m actually the kind of person who spends hours answering surveys about themselves for fun…

Beach or mountains: Obviously this question is about more than the scenery you prefer, it is something that reveals a great deal about your personality. It’s because of this that I’ll have to say “mountains” because when you think of someone who would prefer the beach, you picture a relaxed, super happy kinda person who is chilled out enough not to get annoyed by sand and has washboard abs. I mean, I do enjoy a good swim in the ocean, but I feel my personality is more aligned with the moody, deep-thinking mountain climber. Plus, I also love wearing baggy jumpers and sitting by big windows watching the rain with a cup of tea, which feels like more of a cabin-in-the-mountains sort of thing.

Childhood celebrity crush: Ryan Girdler?

Nightclub or Netflix: Despite my answer above about snuggling up to Grand Designs, I’m going to say nightclub, but stipulate that it’s one of those establishments which has lots of seating in a quiet area on a different level to the dance floor, a band that takes requests screamed from the crowd and a strict you-don’t-have-to-wear-shoes-if-you-don’t-want-to policy.

If I could only have three things on a deserted island, they’d be: Geeez, I don’t fucking know. I mean, the reasonable answer involving equipment that would ensure your survival isn’t very interesting so I guess I’d go with a pair of ice skates, a dress with some mesh-like skirt layers that I could use as a fishing net and a soccer ball with my bloodied handprint on it. Is that interesting enough for you?! Fuck.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.