Originally published in The Clifton Courier, October 17, 2018

Yes, it’s been while since I’ve forced my thoughts down the throats of Clifton Courier readers like rambling corn kernels jammed down the necks of foie gras ducks, but that reprieve is now over.

Delightfully, it has left me with a few spare columns I’ve not yet posted online, which means that I don’t have to pretend to have thought/done anything interesting to write about for today. 

I’m hoping to eventually get back into my weekly Wednesday and Sunday posting sched, but given I’m now a shift worker who is still living out of suitcases, it may take a while until I’m in a regular rhythm. 

Please bear with my though this strange, it’s-ok-I’ll-just-buy-Guzmen-again-instead-of-preparing-meals-for-work time. 

There are few times when saying “I bloody knew it!” to yourself is a positive thing.

These rare occasions are usually right after someone whose belly you’ve been watching with suspicious interest makes a pregnancy announcement or when you picked the killer half-way through an episode of Midsomer Murders.

Usually an “I bloody knew it!” follows an unfavourable occurrence. They’re times when you could just kick yourself for not listening to your gut, like when you were going to order the seafood fettuccini but, against your better judgement, ordered the boring cheese spaghetti, which came in a much smaller serving size. It’s painful, not just because of the outcome, but because you should have known better.

And, with that in mind, I’m going to recount my weekend in a collection of short stories I like to call Three Things I Learned This Weekend That, Deep Down, I Already Knew:

Jäger bombs belong in 2010 –  There was a time when the combination of a energy drink and hard liquor was a great idea. It was about the same time LMFAO was a commercially-successful musical act and skin-tight bondage dresses were cool. But those days are behind us.

Now, with the blessing of hindsight, we know dresses that resemble glittery bandages are uncomfortable, extremely unpractical and result in constant self-conscious tugging at both ends. We have realised lyrics such as “Party Rock! Yeah! Wooo! Let’s go!” pehaps isn’t poetic genius at work. And we know that mixing dark, syrupy liquor and caffeinated devil juice creates a hateful elixir that will make you feel as if your blood has been replaced with puddle water from a petrol station.

It’s a terrible, terrible concoction that will only bring misery.

And I absolutely already knew this. It has been at least five years since I last ingested such a potion of pain. And yet, over the weekend, I became reacquainted with it, despite my knowing it was poison.

It was a strange series of events which lead to this unhappy reunion, which started with a casual Friday afternoon trip to the pub*. Add to the mix the pomp of Eugenie’s wedding, a brown leather jacket and someone actually being generous/stupid enough to shout the entire group a round of drinks and there I was, guzzling pure, concentrated regret with what might as well have been lighter fluid.

* It was the first of my two work leaving dos, farewelling me from Sydney. I had to have two because some of my top tier colleagues were going to be away for my actual leaving do, but also because I’m that extra of a person. Nigella Lawson says that life is there to be celebrated, and I follow her gospel.

And then I was transported back to my 2010 self, who couldn’t hold things down, who felt way too uninhibited in public and who abruptly sent herself home from social outings. After seeing my extremely nutritious dinner (which comprised of wedding-style red velvet cake, two types of slice and hot chippies) for the second time, I found myself sitting on the wet footpath dialling for a lift home shortly after the (Jäger) bomb went off. And I had only myself to blame.

That ICE could easily be misconstrued as something else –  So, in my column last week, I mentioned a line about the Maguire House contact in my phone ending with the letters ICE. In this case, ICE is an acronym, standing for “In Case of Emergency”. I’m not sure if that’s a universally-known acronym, but someone else I know had that next to the important contacts in their phone, so I decided to do the same.

However, acronyms can be subverted and misconstrued all the time. LOL, for example, can mean “lots of love” and, as it’s more commonly known, “laugh out loud”. A great demonstration of LOL mix up going around the internet is a text from someone’s mother telling them something along the lines of “You great aunt Emily died, LOL”. Of course, we assume the mother meant “lots of love” in this instance. But the younger person, to whom LOL is used as in expression of amusement, clearly didn’t read it that way.

So, when I said “ICE”, I meant to convey that the Maguire household should be informed if I end up in hospital after slipping on a banana peel or something. But after a chat with Dad on the phone on Sunday, I was reminded that others might have read it as a reference to something else. I knew I should have clarified what the ICE really stood for, because I didn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.

I mean, what if someone thought it said “Maguire House… Is Coloured Ecru”? That would be a total lie; it’s more of a beige.

I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise for any confusion caused in regards to the Maguire House.

Eating two chocolate biscuits right before going on a run is a bad idea –  This is especially true if you haven’t gone for a run in a while and you’re already feeling a little on the sloppy side. Choc-backed Digestives are not in the energy bar aisle for a reason.

This, I feel morally obliged to warn you, is not my best stuff.

I decided to keep this running list going saved in a Word Doc on my desktop for a day when I really, truly felt as though I had nothing worth scooping out of the innards of my skull and arranging into a column. A day when I can’t even scrape off a few dried, caked on shavings from my head and present them as anything.

I knew I’d have this day, because I’ve had many of them before. Some people would call it writers’ block, whereas I would refer to it more as a paralysing realisation that I nothing worthy to write.

When this happens, I usually like to distract myself by completing other mindless, practical tasks to make myself feel accomplished, distract myself with junaty, light-hearted entertainment and practise self care.

By the end of that, I reason, I’ll have experienced something that I can unpack, overanalyse and fashion into something someone might find entertaining.

And that’s what I did today.

The mindless tasks were easy: I made lunch goo. I bought groceries. I pulled part the vacuum cleaner, emptied the filter and ripped out clumps of my hair from the rotor. But even though I love emphasising my I’m-just-so-weird-LOL-telling-it-like-it-is I am, I couldn’t even pull something out of my arse about how much I love pulling long, filthy clumps of hair out of the vacuum cleaner.

I watched all the new episodes of The Good Place, and was unable to stitch together even a weak piece about how I am essentially a mix between the self-absorbed white girl and the guy who suffers from decision-making dysfunction, weighed down by the what-ifs of life and the possibly meaningless doom we’re all facing.

And I even put some cold teabags on my eyes and couldn’t even punch out a think-piece detailing all the hilarious, quirky things that went through my head when I was forced to spend time alone with only my thoughts (because I’m such an over thinker haha LOL).

Nothing.

So I’ve turned to a Word Doc saved on my desktop, squirrelled away for when I was at my most useless. Although I do feel I’ve been in much worse shape for today, I’m far too lazy to think up anything else. And so, after that rather lengthy intro I wrote about having nothing to write about (I’m so meta), please enjoy this lukewarm literary dish I’ve reheated for you. Please, if you don’t mind, imagine me saying the below in an impressive tone while running my hand along an imaginary title in the air, right in front my face:

“Things I like that I used to not like”

Yep, inspiring, right? This was supposed to be an ongoing list I’d add to as time went by, banking up stuff for when I was really creatively skint. And yet, I only had three entries. All of them food. There was nothing juicy about sex positions or illicit substances or anything to indicate that I was in anyway interesting. This might be the most mild list ever. Prepare to be underwhelmed.

Cherry tomatoes: Not really sure why I was  against these guys. I mean, I liked tomatoes. I liked cherries. I liked the idea of mini foods. But I just never got around the cherry tomato.

I’ve had a life without cherry tomatoes and so I’m still learning how to eat them, much like a toddler being introduced to cutlery.

Because I’m not totally used to them, I bit into one the other day at my desk. I had no idea you couldn’t just bite into them like any other salad ingredient. I had no idea about the projectile nature of these bad boys. I sprayed tomato guts all over my keyboard and computer screen. It was carnage.

Red wine: I’ve already written about this. Long story short: I used to be an uncultured swine who only drank wine as a last resort to get pissed, I matured slightly, I went to a winery and now I like red wine.

Mashed potato: I love potato, but I used to be dead against it in mash form. It was too gooey. It was too gunky. It felt too much like vomit or some other yucky slop going down my throat, making me gag. I mean, really, there aren’t many gloopy, chunky mushes you encounter in life that are actually good. They’re usually bad things – like pus or Grandma’s depressing mushy peas or a build up of pond scum. I didn’t like the idea of that going down my throat.

But then, I had it with steak. And hooooy boy, did that change things. I suddenly realised that mashed potato was more than an off-white confusing mixture between liquid and solid, it was a gift to humanity. I mean, it’s butter and potato, for heaven’s sake. I really should have opened my heart to it earlier.

I still find it difficult to eat without the presence of a good steak, but I have made a complete turnaround when it comes to mashed potato. I’m a changed woman.

* Yeah, this title has a “Part One” in it, which suggests there might be a Part Two. Or even a Part Three. Perhaps a Part 17. The point is that this title implies a follow-up of some kind. Now, I’m going to go ahead and assume there will be another Sunday in the not too distant future when I don’t have any cracking ideas to write about and will instead lazily fall back on the crutch of a mediocre, pre-prepared idea. I propose to keep this idea of challenging myself to come up with a list of three things, any three things, and justify why they should be grouped together. Of course, it is possible that I never need to rely on such a lame back up again. However, given my recent track record, I’m going to go ahead and assume Part Two will be delivered next weekend. 

Yeah, that’s right.

This is a recipe for strawberries on toast. It was inspired by me, scrolling through my own Instagram photos like the narcissist that I am, revelling in my own social media genius the way a Marvel villain would look back at the path of destruction they created (except, instead of being decked out in a fabulous, form-fitting costume, I was wearing a pair of stale pyjamas).

I posted a photo of my brilliant dessert idea, being strawberries on toast, during a time when people were posting a whole bunch of strawberry-related foods on social media in the wake of the needle scandal. People on social media love to support the farmers, and because my whole persona is built up on the fact that I grew up in the country (I mean, I was technically a townie, but my Condamine-stained Akubra suggests otherwise), backing the berry farmers was in line with my brand.

So on the bandwagon I hopped. I nobly took up arms and joined the ranks of kitchen crusaders across the country. I too wanted to use my super influential, totally commodifyable social media presence to make a difference. People were posting strawberry shortcakes and berry tarts. I have one extremely impressive friend who, immediately after preventing an unjust deportation, rushed home to make a vat of jam, pour it into quaint-as-fuck little jars and sell them to her workmates so she could donate the sales to a drought relief farmer appeal.

Meanwhile, I put strawberries on a piece of toast and posted a photo of it on Instagram.

I’d written “recipe to come” in the caption as a bit of a laugh, because obviously you don’t need a recipe for something so straightforward.

But, here we are.

I’m staring down the barrel of a long weekend and want to smash something out quickly so I can enjoy my spring freedom, but the gears in the old think box aren’t exactly ticking along at the same pace as usual. I’m coming off the back of a nasty, clingy cold that has rendered my brain to mush. If you scroll down to Wednesday’s post, you’ll see I didn’t give the bastard a title. I didn’t even realise. And now I’m keeping it like that, obviously, because it now is part of a joke and adds weight to my illness claims.

And with that, I’m going to launch into my recipe.

This is the kind of dish that perfectly emulates all the good things about an ordinary pancake with minimal labour. Of course, it’s no substitute for a banana porridge pancake or a carrot cake pancake but, in a pinch, it does stand in for a run-of-the-mill standard batter sufficiently enough. Because, when you’re tucking into one of these plain pancs, you’re really only ever in it for the toppings, right? I mean, the pancake just acts as a fluffy excuse for eating syrup and ice cream before 11am, much like the juice in a mimosa makes champagne a socially acceptable breakfast beverage.

I started making this when I had a hankering for the pancake experience, but the distinct lack of effort to mix up a batter and chuck it in a frypan. So I decided that toast was a reasonable, low-effort stand-in as a platform from which to eat my favourite pancake toppings: melted butter and strawberries.

This is a dish you can serve at any time of the day, because if you’re reading this, chances are you live in a country with uncensored Internet and therefore are a free citizen. Being free means you can express your political opinions without fear or observe whatever religion you chose. It also means you can serve a slapdash dish without having to conform to the oppressive culinary norms that dictate the time of day during which a particular food should be eaten. I mean, fuck’s sake, eat an egg for dinner if you like. No one is going to drag you off to prison. The Anzacs fought for our freedom, you may as well enjoy it.

That being said, I do tend to enjoy it as a dessert, with the sweet, buttery treat perfectly filling the emptiness in your life between dinner and the sweet release from reality that comes with sleep. It’s so easy, you can make this without really thinking about it, making it perfect for times when you’re spiralling into a pit of despair and don’t want to disrupt your dark, irrational thoughts by focusing on weighing flour or tempering chocolate. You’re free to carry on with you existential crisis.

Step 1: Proudly grab a punnet of strawberries, demonstrating your defiance against health and safety warnings with strong, bold movements. Dramatically remove the punnet from the fridge, brazenly bringing it down on the counter with conviction. You are the master of your destiny. You laugh in the face for fear.

Step 2: Slice and dice the strawbs, because, actually, you really don’t want to put up with a pierced oesophagus.

Step 3: Keep going until you’ve got a good fist-sized pile of safely-prepared fruit.

Step 4: Fetch yourself a piece of bread, the style of which depends on your mood. I tend to go with a nice light rye because it has the texture of a white bread while still having the air of a loaf made from an intimidating flour that makes it feel as though it’s judging you, even though you know perfectly well that ground grains don’t posses the cognitive awareness required to form an opinion about your choice of carbohydrates.

Step 5 :Bung that bread in the toaster, gurlfrand! But make sure you check your setting. The whole idea about this is that the bread becomes warm enough to melt the butter, but not so cooked that it becomes darker than a fake tan at a Year 10 formal. I mean, you want it to be cooked enough to transition from warmed bread to toast, but only just. Like, the adolescence of toast, if you will.

Step 6: Prepare yourself for the second the toaster pops. You have no time to lose once that toast comes out – you must get the butter on there before the bread cools down. Get you butter knife ready. Remove the lid from the butter dish. Find your focus.

Step 7: Butter that toast with the speed of the gods.

Step 8: Once you think you have a reasonable amount of butter, coat that butter in another layer of butter, until yellow puddles form on the bread.

Step 9: Dump the chopped strawberries on the toast, tumbling the fruit in a rustic, artisanal way.

Step 10: Eat your pancake replacement on your own, luxing it up with a plate, knife and fork and a scented candle on the dining table, Norah Jones playing on your phone. Be sure to post your treat on social meda. Or, you could be true to the slapdashery of this dish by shovelling it into your mouth over the kitchen sink before cocooning yourself in a doona and blacking out the world. Up to you.

I’m aware that What-Did-You-Eat Wednesday is not really a thing, but things don’t become things until people try to make them things – you know?

Anyway, in lieu of the column that was printed in The Clifton Courier last week, I’ve decided to instead give you a detail illustrative documentation of what I ingested today.

Why? I felt like drawing, but mostly because I anticipate that I’ll be in no state to write an anything coherent whatsoever on Sunday, as I’ve signed up to a fun run tat morning. The real kicker is that I also decided to go to a ball on Saturday night; a decision made with the kind of deluded self-confidence that comes with a few after-work drinks on a Friday night. And so, I’ve decided to give you a dose of my printed column on Sunday – a pledge that is of course reliant on my being able to muster the strength to copy and paste some text into WordPress on Sunday.

Stay tuned.

Until then, please enjoy this gastric recount of my day.

Breakfast

I know I have written about my boiled egg breakfast before, but I’ve had to give that up. My housemate’s room is right by the kitchen and I feel this breakfast would be far too loud at 5.43am.

So I’ve made the switch to one of my favourite foods: bran.

I get a handful of All Bran and chuck it into a bowl. I usually go for one of the two red bowls in the collection is mismatched bowls in the cabinet, as it makes me feel like I’m one of those fancy weight-conscious career women in a Special K ad.

Then I grab some walnuts and crush them into said glamour bowl, crushing them into smaller pieces with my bare hands. I like to think of this nut crushing as a metaphor for my status as a ball-busting career woman. I use full fat milk after making the switch from low-fat when I realised that low-fat milk did actually just taste like white, milk-flavoured water – like if there was such thing as a milk cordial and it had been watered-down, that’s what low-fat milk tastes like. Then I chuck in some strawberries and a big old dollop of Greek yogurt and enjoy five minutes of fibre in the dark silence of an apartment before the sun is fully up.

Lunch

This was something I’d whipped up the night before. It sounds quite healthy when you list the ingredients: eggplant, kale, brown rice, skinless chicken breast, artichoke and beetroot hummus. But when you consider that everything has been cooked in about a litre of oil, the clean eating tag starts to disappear, like a serviette going translucent when  used to wipe grease off my face.

Afternoon tea

Because of said ball on Saturday night, I have been trying to keep a relatively healthy eating schedule in the hope I’ll lose a few cheeky kilos in 3.5 days. But this cake was a lemon meringue cake. I find it hard to justify saying no to a lemon meringue cake, but I wanted to have abs you could grate cheese on for Saturday.

So I compromised: I scraped the lemony goo and meringue off the cake and left the carbs layer of cake untouched.

Essentially, I just had fruit and egg whites for a snack.

Dinner

Not only am I trying to be healthy, but I’ve got about two days left until pay day so I’m super stingy on the dollar front too. This means I’m in use-everything-in-the-fridge mode.

As such, tonight’s dinner was the dregs of my artichoke, the leftover chicken, a bit of eggplant and two tiny carrots, eaten to make myself feel like I’ve eaten a salad.

And this approach wasn’t too bad, it was a fast, reasonably tasty dinner and I was surprised by an extra cube of feta that was in the dregs of my artichoke oil – which was comprised of the artichoke juices and the leftover oil from some Danish feta I bought a while ago.

Dessert

I didn’t need to have a piece of avocado toast, but I impulse-bought an avo the other day and the bastard was ready to roll. I had to capitalise on its primo green flesh while I had the chance.

Life hack: If you buy two pizzas, the people who work at the pizza place won’t know that you’re going to eat a whole pizza to yourself alone while watching three hours of a show featuring Nicole Richie.

Life hack: Watch three hours of Great News(featuring Nicole Ritchie) instead of doing anything productive because you’re too hungover to move and really, really can’t be alone with your own thoughts. The show has enough colours and zingers to fill the void where your heart should be.

Life hack: Go grocery shopping after you go to the gym, as you’re less likely to buy junkfood because you’ve just experience how fucking hard it is to work of the equivalent to a single Tim Tam and you don’t want that to be for nothing… also because you don’t have a car and the gym is in the same building as the grocery store, which means you don’t have to make two trips.

Life hack: Have a father who personifies the regional Queensland bloke stereotype but with enough heart and personality quirks to be the likeable kind (because we all know at least one Unlikeable Stereotypical Queensland Bloke and they ain’t great). Be sure to post pictures of him on Instagram with wordy captions for a cheeky dopamine boost before bed.

Life hack: Always keep butter in the house. This is probably more of a life commandment than a life hack, but I think it’s important. If you have butter, you always at least have a delicious, buttery piece of toast to turn to. And, if you keep a decent stock of the dairy delight, you are always eight minutes away from having a whole batch of raw pie crust dough you can eat straight from the bowl with a spoon.

Life hack: Brush out the knots and hair clumped together with dried beer out of your mane before you shampoo and condition, so it’s easier to brush your hair after your shower, so you can emerge from the bathroom as if you’ve rinsed off all your problems.

Life hack: Write down appointments and activities in your diary, colour-coding them into: work, bills, health/exercise and fun/social activities.  Even write down the phone conversations you had that lasted longer than five minutes, highlighting them in the “fun” colour. That way, your weekly call with your grandmother can be classed as a “fun/social” event and makes you look like you’re a woman in demand.

Life hack: Put your face over a freshly-boiled kettle while your tea steeps. I know I’ve covered this before, but it’s a really, really good one. I mean, not only does taking the time of steam your face mean your tea will steep for longer, resulting in a stronger, more satisfying brew, but it keeps your skin form being as terrible as it could be. I mean, I actually have reasonably manageable skin but, when you become a wine-drinking adult, you need to take special care of your body’s natural Glad Wrap. And, because I drink a fair bit of tea, it means my skin’s gettin’ a good steamin’ a couple times a day.

Life hack:Always have the film clip of Beyoncé’s Formation open on a tab on your phone’s internet browser, so you can be reminded that you’re a strong, fierce woman at any given time.

What everyone says about social media acting like a drug with all its dopamine highs is true.

I’ve just come back from a weekend at home, returning to stinky old Sydney town hungover, riddled with guilt over the amount of cake I consumed and freezing cold. Heck, it was drizzling when I walked up the footpath to my door after getting off a bus, a train and a plane just to get “home”.

I should be staring blankly at the ceiling right now, praying for sleep to come for me and put an end to my melancholy.

But instead, I am buzzed.

Because, you see, I just posted a whole bunch of stuff on social media.

Usually I only post the odd photo of an eggplant in my pocket or some snarky comment about Sydney. They’re always the kind of posts you need to take time to read and they often have a depressing air about them. And I rarely use Facebook for anything other than sending birthday greetings to distant acquaintances. As such, there’s never that much action on my social medias.

But my sister had a birthday party over the weekend and, because I revert back to my newspaper days of “taking pics for socials” after a beer or two, I took a metric fucktonne of happy snaps.

And that equates to a whole bunch of people tagging themselves in photos, commenting on photos and making said photographic masterpieces their display pictures.

Not only that, I posted photos of my parents embodying the regional Queensland stereotype and generally being adorable, which always attracts attention.

I mean, I posted a photo of the video cassette of the Slim Dusty movie, for shit’s sake.

You better believe I’m doing numbers.

I opened Facebook before and had 44 notifications. Forty-four.

I mean, that might not sound like much, but last weekend the most exciting thing to happen to me was realising the pillow case I’d been missing for weeks was actually inside the other pillow case, still on the pillow. Yep, the pinnacle of my weekend was discovering I’d double-pillow-cased a pillow.

So getting a few red boxes on that Facebook globe in the top right corner is like fireworks to me.

And holy crap am I feeling good.

I just keep checking my phone, feeling the rush of validation with each new notification. All I did was upload a few photos, but I feel like I’ve achieved something truly spectacular.

And it was so easy.

My sister had the party. I took photos. I posted them. I’m reaping the benefits.

Look, I know the likes will slow down, the buzz will wear off and I’ll crash into a crushing comedown where my only notifications after invites from people I barely know asking me to like their new jewellery business’ Facebook page, but I don’t care.

Right now I am flying and I intend to ride this high for as long as my droopy, sleepy eyes will allow.

It’s a very special day today.

No, it’s not just the day I changed my sheets after an ungodly amount of time, it’s National Potato Day.

I was informed of the occasion by an email from a food delivery service encouraging me to order all kinds of potato-based treats: chippies, wedges and waffle fries. I must say, it was an alluring email. I adore potato in all its forms. And I love having food arrive at my door.

This email was a slam-dunk from the marketing team.

However, I’m also living in Sydney and direct most of what I don’t spend on rent towards domestic flights so I can return to Queensland to restock enough love to get me through the long, NSW months. To cut a sad story short: I’m strapped for cash. And the biggest drain is ordering food to come to your house.

I mean, I love eating food and the convenience of having it come to your building and cry out for you to come down like the dreamboat you used to dream would call for you in the pouring rain when you were a teenager/young adult/in bed the other night.

But good golly is it expensive. And, I don’t want to diminish anyone in the hospitality industry, but it’s a terrible investment. I mean, tonight’s order of chippies is going to be tomorrow’s poo (depending on how effective your digestive system is).

So I decided to pick up some supplies on my way home today: two potatoes and a loaf of bread.

I will say that I rarely keep potatoes in the house. They’re like family-sized blocks of chocolate or $6 bottles of wine; they only get consumed. But today was a special occasion. I couldn’t just let this one slip by.

Potatoes just mean too much for me. I had to honour the day.

I decided the only way to celebrate such a sacred holiday would be to have a potato sandwich.

And, in the spirit of National Potato Day, I’ve decided to share my recipe for one of the best sandwiches humanity has ever known.

Step 1: Select a potato at the supermarket, opting for something about the size of your heart for poetic reasons.

Now, folklore suggests that one’s heart is the size of one’s fist, so perhaps that a good yardstick for the selection process. Alternatively, you could also go through a rigorous set of medical tests to determine the exact weight and proportions of your ticker. Up to you.

Step 2: Upon returning home, place said potato on the counter and take a moment to appreciate  what a gift this starchy vegetable is.

Step 3: Peel and wash your starchy idol, trying not to think of what it would feel like to have your skin flayed with a veggie peeler.

Step 4: Slice into large, irregularly-shaped chunks, using diagonal motions with your knife.

Step 5: Line a baking tray with aluminium foil and drizzle with olive oil. Yes, this might seem like a controversial move, particularly if you were raised in a strict Glad Bake household like I was. Foil was only for lining the griller try or, very occasionally, wrapping baked fish. Everything else was baking paper.

And maybe it’s just me rebelling from my strict upbringing, but I truly believe that foil makes the potato crispier and crunchier on the outside.

Maybe one day I will come crawling back to baking paper, but for now, I’m walking on the wild side and you can’t tell me what do anymore.

Step 6: Drizzle more olive oil over the potato, tossing gently and lovingly, with an expression on your face that is usually reserved for new, clean mothers bathing their newborns.

Step 7: Place in a moderate oven, about 200 degrees.

Step 8: Turn after about 15 minutes, depending on how big your chunks are.

Step 9: In about 10 minutes, the potatoes should be golden brown all over and look like chunks of heaven.

Step 10: Grab two slices of fresh bread and lavish with butter according to your tastes. If your tastes include using so much butter it looks like slices of Kraft cheese singles rather than a spread, so be it. This is a special occasion.

Step 11: Load up one slice of bread with the steaming potatoes, sprinkling with a pinch of salt.

Step 12:Take one last, loving look at the potatas before gently blanketing with the second layer of bread and butter.

Step 13: Take a bite and let your veins clog with the warming feeling of cholesterol and love.

Step 14: Glow, from the inside out.

Happy Potato Day, everyone!

Ok, so I’ve just spent two hours having breakfast, feeling a little unsettled and unproductive, wary of the long to-do list I wrote out for myself to achieve this weekend.

I’ve just returned to my bed, laptop balancing on my crossed legs.

And, because I’m someone who actually talks to themselves more than they realise, I uttered what I was thinking out loud. However even I, someone who wears lion claw slippers around the office and is extremely vocal about their distain for Daylight Savings Time in NSW, has enough self-awareness to know that, when talking to yourself, it’s best not to so loudly. No, despite unconsciously vocalising my thoughts aloud, I apparently still have the subconscious restraint to at least keep this to a low volume.

Anyway, I whispered “what am I going to do?” to myself, then tried to Google JB HiFi to look at DVDs to send a soul sister a cheeky gifto (it’s on my to-do list, you see, and it the item that requires the least amount of effort).

But I’d like to point out that my typing is extremely lazy these days because I know that spellcheck and predictive text will pick up the slack for me, so I don’t even really bother with getting all the characters in, much less in the correct order.

The first time I typed my query into Google, I accidentally wrote “jibhi”, which is, by the looks of the image, a really lush foresty place in India that was referred to as an “unexplored jewel in the Himalayas”.

The second time I tried, I just typed “jbi”, which brought up a bunch of ads for psychotherapy, counselling and wellness courses.

So, I suppose you could argue that the Internet was telling me to climb a mountain, return to nature and become a life coach.

I decided to try again, just for shits and gigs. Again, I aimed to type “JB HiFi” but let my lazy fingers do the walking. This time I came out with “bjfi”, which brought up a youth empowerment program in India.

I know, right?

And, I shit you not, I did this search at exactly 11.11am. Now, if you follow Paris Hilton across multiple social media platforms like I do, you’ll know from her Twitter posts that 11:11 is a time when you should make a wish.

If I were someone who was perhaps a little less cynical and a little more in touch with my spiritual side, I would absolutely view this kind of shit as fate – or at least a message from the Internet gods. I mean, this would be a flashing neon sign from the universe screaming at me to find myself and then help others on their own journeys.

But I’m not quite at the Eat, Pray, Love stage of my life just yet; I’m just someone who wanted to buy a moderately-priced movie over the internet without having to change out of my pony pyjama pants or put on shoes.

Look, the first suggestion was bang-on – I’d bloody love to go climbing Indian mountains and be outdoors in a place where there’s no construction noise or 17,000 people in navy blue puffer vests talking about Sydney house prices. But I’ve currently got minus zero dollars in m bank account and nothing of value to pawn for money that doesn’t require surgical removal, so that’s out.

Furthermore, I’m really not the kind of person who should be in a position to coach people about how to succeed life and boost their wellness – I mean, my overwhelming sense of meaningless, lack of business cards and that half-wheel of blue cheese that I ate for dinner last night demonstrates this pretty clearly.

As such, I’m especially ill-equipped and far too pessimistic to be guiding ambitious young people to their bright futures.

And, let’s face it, if I were turning to a search engine for answers about how to transform my burning compost head of a life, I’d hope for more of a quick-fix answer to flash back at me. Like maybe something along the lines of “wanted: sugar baby who has to in no way interact with their mysterious sponsor besides sending the occasional postcard from the exotic locations they travel to on the rich moron’s dollar” or “click here for obligation-free gelato samples, sent directly to your door – and not just the door of your apartment complex because the courier can’t work out the buzzer system, but your actual front door”.

Sorry universe, try harder.