Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 10, 2019

I wrote this piece after being told the paper was a little fuller than usual and I had been allocated a little less room for my column. So I quickly whipped up something that had been simmering on the stovetop of my mind for decades. 

I could pad this one out today, given I have the limitless confines of the internet with which to broadcast my very important opinion, but I’m getting a cold so I don’t have a lot of energy and I want to have a cup of tea before I leave for work, which seems a rather pressing priority for me. 

This week the space I have less room than usual.

Because I may or may not have been a little late getting my rant in, the space filled up too darn quickly, and I’m left with a slot about half the size as I’m usually afforded.

I pondered what exactly to do with this space, given I would have less room to flesh out whatever point I was getting to in my lengthy, but always necessary, roundabout kind of way. I had the opportunity to make a short, punchy statement. I could use my brevity to be bold.

So I think now is the time to drop one of my trivial but extremely controversial opinions with no context.

And because I’ve already said what I have to say about hot cross buns being available all year long (#freethebun) I’m taking aim at something everyone seems to love: mint flavouring.

I’m sorry, but manufactured peppermint and spearmint or any other white gunk that dares to masquerade as mint is garbage.

I love fresh mint – just a sprig of the stuff can transform a $3 basic spirit served in a plastic cup into a refreshing cocktail – but fake mint is repulsive to me.

It’s the kind of smell that reeks of someone with something to hide. Did you just have a tactical vom? Mint mouthwash. Wanting to make people think you haven’t been chain-smoking all night? Pop in a breath mint. Are you a fourteen-year-old boy at a high school social wanting to appear fresh and alluring to the opposite sex but ate salami for lunch and, in general, have rather poor hygiene? Mint chewing gum is the answer!

Mint is basically the flavour of distraction and deceit.

I get that menthol is a reasonable flavour choice for toothpaste, but I think it’s grossly unfair that all decent toothpaste is mint flavoured. I endure it now, but as an unsupervised child, I loathed brushing my teeth. So, unbeknownst to my parents, I started omitting the toothpaste from my dental hygiene routine, substituting it with the ineffectual combination of water and optimism.

Of course this resulted in a lot of fillings and now every time I drop into the dentist, it’s like visiting a bunch of hygiene-obsessed relatives because I spent so much time with them in my formative years. Which is really quite nice. But, as much as I love a bit of dental chair banter and staring at the beautiful detail in the pressed metal ceiling at that quaint old building, I would have preferred less fillings. And I chose to blame mint flavouring.

Sorry mint, but you’re not my mate.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 20, 2019

Sometimes all you need to do to win is to participate.

My sister and I found ourselves back at the old Maguire Manor on Friday morning, after spending a wild Valentine’s Day night playing cards with Mum and Grandma while listening to Wings at a moderate volume.

I was doing my morning scroll through Facebook when I saw a post from the Clifton Show Society informing me (well, not just me specifically, but it did feel somewhat targeted at me in a cosmic kind of way) that pavilion entries closed at midday.

My work roster meant I wasn’t able to trot on down to the rec grounds for the big day on Saturday and a friend’s engagement party (well, more specifically, the pig on the spit being served at said engagement party) kept me from my favourite spot within the fenced off area outside the Wattles clubhouse* that night.

* For the uninitiated, this refers to the outdoor area where you’re legally allowed to smash tinnies. It’s the happiest place on earth. 

But I still wanted to feel involved, somehow.

And while I haven’t got the ability to grow a tomato, don’t have the technique required to craft a sufficiently scandalous example of adult needlework* and my hat looks far too pristine to compete in the Old Battered Hat section, I do know how to turn flour, eggs and butter into biscuits.

* By next year, I hope to have mastered the needle and thread so I will finally be able to fulfil my five-year-long dream of entering tastefully pornographic needlework in the show. 

I could enter the cookery section.

It was about 9am; that left me with a three-hour window to claim culinary victory. It cutting it close, but it was doable.

I made a comment to my sister that we still had time to enter and two minutes later, thought turned into scrambled, frantic action.

Perhaps it was the extra honey in our morning cups of tea or a hangover from our intergenerational card battle the night before, but we suddenly had a burning desire to compete – an urge that usually lies dormant within me.

We’ve never been particularly competitive girls.

I mean, we play special rules of Monopoly where you didn’t need to buy a whole street of properties before buying hotels and we let heavily indebted players take interest-free loans from the bank. We never, ever actually finished a game – we generally kept playing out our sisterly socialist alternative to the capitalist system until we got sick of sitting around and started packing up*. The first time I played the ruthless, by-the-book Monopoly, I was horrified.

* I mean, I’m not saying I should be in charge for the whole economy, but I would be interested to see how this played out in real life. 

And, hey, I’m not saying that winning isn’t great.

I mean, I had a prize-winning scratchie that I cashed in to cover our entry costs. I won a whole $2 and joyfully accepted each of the four 50 cent pieces the honourable newsagent ceremoniously counted into my hand. Without those winnings, we would have had to raid Mum’s spare coin collection.

Yes, winning is fun and there are practical advantages to it.

But, I will say this; the thrill of entering a plate of baked goods in the Show far exceeded my elation over my scratchie winnings.

The vibe in the kitchen was electric. We are always excited about food, but that morning we kicked it up a notch.

I took pride each individual ball of gingerbread I carefully placed on the baking tray. My sister, in a moment of inspiration, added a “secret ingredient” to half her scone dough. Flour was actually sifted. Standard measures were mostly respected. The timer was methodically set. We even went up to the op shop to source fancy plates to give our baked offerings a competitive edge (of course, we now know that the stewards level the playing field by putting all entries on generic paper plates).

Rolling into the pavilion, we were practically buzzing. Sure, a certificate with our names on it would have been fantastic. Being able to call my ginger bickies “blue ribbon gingerbread” would have been a thrill. And the prize money would have been a welcome addition to our wallets.

But we were all ready winners. We had ourselves an incredibly wholesome natural high and we rode it out for the rest of the day.

I didn’t care about the result; I’d got what I wanted. A sense of satisfaction and belonging. Kitchen banter. Spare gingerbread bickies to eat as breakfast dessert. What else could you want?

As long as you have a go, you don’t need a prize, because you’ve already won. Winning doesn’t matter in the end, as long as you had fun participating. Accolades and certificates be damned, I say.

(You might think that I’m only saying this because my sister won a prize and I did not, but you’d be way out of line…)

Originally published by The Clifton Courier February 13, 2019

How do you know if the universe is sending you a message or if you’re just overthinking?

We’ve all heard the saying “everything happens for a reason”. It’s advice most often dealt out in the fallout of the heavy, but not devastating, blows that come with life. Breakups. Failed job hunts. An adorable illegitimate child turning up on your doorstep unexpectedly.

Of course, I’m speaking through the prism of movies and television. Because in the world of film, literally everything happens for a reason. Besides the occasional extra accidentally breaking continuity with a changing pony tail or dangling boom mic, pretty much everything is meticulously planned. The emotionally-charged misplaced letter doesn’t fall out of a forgotten book until the right moment. A bus that speeds by at the exact moment someone steps on to a road without looking. A certain song that comes on the radio during a cab ride to the airport.

Everything happens for a reason.

Whether it’s a signal something dark is coming or an opportunity for an emotionally-stunted hero to grow as a person, neither the occurrences of events and the symbolism surrounding them are accidental.

And when you nourish yourself on a diet of Hollywood sap like me, it’s easy to believe the same laws apply to life. You begin to a see a pattern in the universe*.

* And you see mundane, innocuous events as signs that you should do something. It can be as big as leaving your old life behind and taking on a new career, or something equally as big as deciding what kind of takeaway will best satisfy your incredibly complex needs.

Which is why, when my teacup devastatingly cracked all the way through the other day, I was extremely concerned.

Not just because this meant the soup-bowl-sized mug I’d loved was now useless, but because such a dramatic event clearly meant something more.

I mean, the cup didn’t just crack, it split. The once-full mug was empty in two seconds, with tea spilling everywhere. And the noise was more than the fracturing of mass-produced ceramics; it was the unmistakable splintering of earthbound objects touched by mysterious forces transcending the realms*.

* For whatever reason, these mysterious forces don’t seem to have voices. And that’s great, because a creepy voice telling my not to drink a cup of tea would leave my on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Nope, it’s better that they deal out vague signs instead. Although, you could argue that these mysterious forces might actually have a way to clearly communicate exactly the message they’re trying to get through, but like to mess with us. I mean, it would keep things interesting. I don’t know if mysterious forces have Netflix subscriptions, so they have to do something for entertainment. 

Of course, my mind went straight to an interventionist cosmic power or a spirit who might be trying to tell me something by splitting that cup.

I considered whether it was a sign from the universe that I should not drink that cup of tea and instead drink water. Or perhaps it meant that I wasn’t supposed to drink anything at all because I could get stuck in a lift for an hour and really, really need to wee. Like, the universe could have been acting on my behalf, telling me not to fill my bladder so that I don’t have to substitute a water bottle for a toilet or emerge from a high-profile rescue situation dripping with my own urine.

Or it could have been warning me to take caution that day. Perhaps it was an omen telling me that bigger, more disturbing cracks were in my future.

I couldn’t tell.*

* I mean, you can never tell exactly what these special cosmic messages mean. It’s always open to interpretation. It’s never a direct “oi, you’re going to spill spaghetti on yourself today, take preventative measures”. It’s more cryptic.  Like, instead of coming out and warning you, it might force a fleck of toothpaste to fall on your pyjama shirt as a minty omen of things to come. 

Of course, another thought crossed my mind. It was the thought echoing an old, wry woman who always has a martini in her hand and rattles off the cutting insults you need to hear (she’s wearing a Channel suit, because if I’m going to have an imaginary sassy grandma, she’s going to be well dressed and look like Jane Fonda).

That thought: are you really that special?

And Grandma Jane has a point: the idea that the universe is taking a vested interest in me, just me, when there’s millions of other people on the planet is a little egocentric. And the whole notion that whatever all-knowing force responsible for everything around us would have time in its busy schedule of keeping the planet spinning and coaxing seedlings out of the dirt and sprinkling enough drama into the lives of the women of the Real Housewives – you know, keeping the world in order for the greater good – to meddle with my meaningless existence is, admittedly, mildly deluded. The existence of a helpful spirit who cares enough to leave guiding hints to keep me on the path of comfortable middle-classness is probably wishful thinking.

* And hey, you cold say that all this thinking that bad things happen purely to direct you to the right path takes away a lot of responsibility of life. Like, you can’t go blaming your burnt toast or totally-preventable infection on the universe, when it was your actions that lead to these things happening. I can’t imagine abandoning your own personal responsibility and letting the universe take the wheel is a good way to live life. It can’t end well. 

So I simply tossed the mug, whipped out another and poured myself a new cup of tea.

The only real effect of the cosmic crack was a distinctive mug-shaped hole in the kitchen cabinet.

But here’s the kicker: last weekend I was given a novelty teacup for FebMas, which would not have fit in the cupboard if the other mug were still there. Read into that what you will.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 7, 2019

If you were to venture into my parents’ house at the moment, you’d be forgiven for thinking they were a little bit slack.

Now, well and truly into February, the Christmas decorations are still up. All of them. The tinsel is still wrapped around the exercise bike that never gets used. The paper Nativity scene my oldest sister made more than 20 years ago sits on the fireplace. The overzealously bejewelled rocking horse ornament an extremely extra preschool-aged Dannielle still demands your attention from a prominent branch of our fake plastic tree.

It’s all still there.

My parents used to leave the decorations up until after my birthday in January, but this year they’ve been left up for an even bigger event (well, depends on who you’re asking, some would argue the anniversary of my birth is a pretty big deal).

They’ve been left up for our family Christmas, which is being held this weekend… just a smidgeon later than the actual Christmas.

We have many different names for it. FebMas. PretendMas. FakeMas. Basically just any word before the festive suffix “mas” that isn’t “Christ”*.

* I mean, not like “SatanMas” or anything like that. We’re slack, not devil worshippers. 

Because, in a time when you can celebrate the New Year with a hot cross bun (honestly, if a heavily-marketed bun being available for longer than a limited time of the year is the only thing that gets you fired up about the state of the consumerist-driven nation we live in, perhaps it’s time to re-examine a few things) and you can get Valentine’s Day cards for dogs*, why the heck can’t you have a second Christmas?

* I mean, I don’t know if these exist in the commercial world yet, but if they don’t, that’s a business idea you’re more than welcome to run with so long as you send me a scented candle every financial new year for gifting you with this gimmicky scheme. 

What’s stopping you from glazing a ham, baking some gingerbread and forcing the people you love to spend more than 24 hours under one roof? Does it really matter that date is on the calendar when the vibe – eating too much food, wearing stupid hats, regressing back to your younger self – is the same?

It’s not that we’re replacing Christmas; we’re just going in for a second round. I mean, we did do Christmas at the time in our own separate ways. I may have spent the day at work, but I was still wearing a T-Shirt with a Home Alone quote on it. One sister’s Christmas Dinner may have been a Thai curry, but she kept the Yuletide tradition of eating an unnecessarily large lunch alive. And Dad still had to pretend he knew what was inside the package marked “from Mum and Dad”, he just did so at a different time than he usually would.

We’re all getting older and our lives are pulling us in different directions. This means that, sometimes, we’re going to be in different places at times we wish we weren’t. We’re not always going to be able to wake each other up at 5am for “breakfast chockies”.

We have to face it; we’re not always going to be around. Things are going to change, and they already have. Significantly.

But that doesn’t mean we can’t keep a bit of the magic alive.

And if that means gathering under the same mutually accepted delusion, than that’s just the way it’s going to have to be.

So we’re going to give that Shrek The Halls CD another couple of spins. We’re going to wear festive pyjamas at the wrong time of year. And we’re going to treat gingerbread as a breakfast food* when it is completely devoid of the nutrients and fibre punch you need to kick your gut into gear.

* Well, actually, we ended up have hot cross buns instead. I added bacon to mine!

Because it’s more than eating prawns or trying to save wrapping paper so it can be used next year (although, if you can do that, you’re winning at life). It’s about time, not a date. In fact, the true meaning of Christmas might not even be about Christmas at all.

Merry FebMas, everyone.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 30, 2019

There’s a certain sting to sunburn that cannot be salved with aloe vera.

No matter what you slather on your neon-pink skin – cold tomato slices, refrigerated tea bags, the tears of your nemesis dispensed from a vial of polished amber – nothing takes away the pain of knowing you’re the only one to blame.

You begin cursing yourself in an internal Shakespearean monologue, condemning your own foolishness. I, a woman who has inhabited this earth for nearly three decades clothed in pale Irish skin, allowed myself to be cooked like a steakette on Dad’s barbecue. I know the power of the sun. I know the vulnerability of humanity. I am the slatherer of sunscreen and I am the wearer of long-sleeved, collared shirts.

And yet, here I sit of a Monday night, glowing with red like I was born with the same skin condition that afflicted Rudolf. Strap me to the front of a sleigh and I’d be able to guide it through the thickest of polar fogs.

My shoulders are erratically pulsating warmth like a cheap, dodgy heater you wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving on while you left the room to make a cup of tea. My arms feel as if they are dotted with permanent goose bumps. And my upper thigh skin is so angry it looks like I’ve been stung by multiple bees.  It makes the prospect of wearing pants impossible and even the passive act of sitting feel like an act of self-flagellation.

I’m currently in bed, curled up with a mug of chicken chippies*, reflecting on how the heck I let myself get like this.

* More specifically, a mug the shape of a Persian cat’s face. It was my second cup of chicken chippie tea that day, if that gives you any indication as to where I was at that point of my life.

I heartily recommend consuming chicken chippies out of mugs. First off, the long, cylindrical nature of the mug keeps the chicken chippies warmer for longer than they’d be if they were unceremoniously dumped on a plate where the cool, cruel air can get to them. It makes it easier to curl up with a mug bed this way. Secondly, there’s the handle aspect. You can be a gal on the go, nugg mug in one hand, smartphone in the other ready to share your ideas with the world through the democratising, disruptive power of social media. Of course, your smartphone hand will be Instagramming your nugg mug, so the world will know how adorably irreverent you are. Fuck conventional plates, you’re not going to conform to the norms laid out in front of you. You’re a disruptor. You’re authentic. You’re just a girl who loves chicken nuggets trying to fill a whistling void in your soul with validation on social media for being an empowered mess of a human being. 

It was a combination of things, really.

It was me forgetting to bring shorts on an overnight trip, opting to get about pantless. It was me running late, deciding to put on sunscreen when I was already at the beach instead of doing so beforehand. And I suspect it had a little something to do with my decision* to fall asleep** in the sun at about 2pm.

* It wasn’t an active decision

** Pass out

I could blame the person who brought the five-layer Mexican dip for distracting me with food when I should have been reapplying sunscreen. I could blame my long-sleeved shirt for lying in a crumpled heap on the sand instead of shielding me from the sun. I could blame my friends, for failing to properly supervise a 27-year-old spontaneous outdoor napper.

But I only have myself to blame. The fault lies with me.

And I know that I should be doing things to at least attempt to make amends with my singed self.

I’m acting as if doing nothing will undo all the damage, but I know I should have spent the day marinating myself in aloe vera instead of laying in my bed watching Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin live out the retirement of my dreams on Netflix (well, actually, my retirement plan is for me and my best friend to wait until our husbands die – of totally unsuspicious, natural causes, of course – before taking ownership the olive grove house, where we live out our days drinking margaritas, blasting Fleetwood Mac and hosting bonfire parties, however, I’d happily settle for the Grace and Frankie scenario).

And, hey, the passive treatment has already worked for me in some way – I got burnt on Sunday afternoon and much of the redness had dulled by Monday morning. So I am hoping that another good night’s sleep will be enough to combat the power of the Sun and completely liberate me from its wrath. I mean, sure, it’s the burning orb of energy around which our planetary system revolves, but you should never underestimate the power of a decent rest.

But by doing nothing, I’m hoping that I’m taking serious preventative action. I’m hoping this discomfort lingers in my mind, so next time I go out in the sun, I’m reminded to wear a hat. I hope I recall how difficult it currently is to wear undies when I next toy with the idea of going to the beach without a sun shirt.  And I hope the flecks of dead skin that will inevitably flake off in my sheets and stick to office furniture will traumatise me* into coating my body in sunscreen.

* It’s working. Yesterday I took off a dark green, long-sleeved dress after work, turning it inside out. I saw all these flecks of skin peel stuck to the inside, leaving the surface looking like a dark green lammington (my skin being the desiccated coconut in this simile).

I sincerely hope it works. Because if I want to outlive my husband and go on to have at least 10 good margarita-drinking years in the olive grove, I’m going to avoid skin cancer as much as possible.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 23, 2019

I’ve been challenged to write about sandwiches.

Of course, when I say challenged, I mean the subject matter was lightly suggested to me after I found myself without a column topic and begged the girls in my group chat for guidance.

At first I was sceptical of the topic, but the conversation in my Snapchat coven quickly lit up, ranging from revelations about the preferred butter ratio (one woman, whose identity has been supressed for ethical reasons, reckons sangas don’t need butter) to suggestions for new sandwiches to try (I’ve added Vegemite and Doritos to my to-do list). But the most intriguing line of conversation was the discussion about sandwiches of our pasts.

We all used to eat things we might not necessarily put between two slices of bread now, which is an extremely interesting thought when you’re desperately scraping the barrel to fill a newspaper column.

Driven by a desire to make something from nothing, I continued to unpack that thought. If I looked back at my sandwich history, what would I learn about myself?

So I began to list all the sandwiches I’d ever loved before and things got a little weird*:

* It’s at this point that I’d like to point out that I began writing this at about 1.20am, when I had literally no other ideas. I tried nutting out a few others – some were about my chequered dental past, others were about heaven knows what. I couldn’t settle on an idea and my tired, panicky brain flitted all over the place like a scared little mouse. I don’t recall what time I finally decided that misleadingly metaphoric sandwiches was the direction I was taking my column this week, but I didn’t go to bed until just before 4am. So, please, bear that in mind before you read on. 

Roast lamb, potato and gravy: I have referenced potato/hot chippie sandwiches far too often. So I’ll refrain from singing their praises to avoid sounding as if I’m starting a potato-based cult, adding a little lamb to mix things up. I recently made a batch of these for a shared Christmas lunch, using red wine from my glass for the gravy like a grown up and mini dinner rolls instead of everyday bread to make things extra festive – nothing’s more festive than a dinner roll. And, look, I don’t want to big note myself, but they were super popular (I had four).

Pizza shapes and strawberry jam: My childhood best friend and I were a quirky pair. We were wild and whacky and our sandwich choices reflected that. I didn’t mind if people thought we were different, in fact, enjoyed it. So when people recoiled at my lunch, I loved it.

Only, I can’t help but think my desire to seem zany outweighed my enjoyment of this combination. I convinced myself I liked it, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t for me.*

* If you’re reading between the lines here, you’ll assume that these bready insights into my past could be euphemisms for a long trail of lovers. And, heck, that’s fair to assume. But I have a rule about writing about my gentlemen callers. Not that I judge other writers for doing so, but I have never felt a need to write about them nor would I feel comfortable doing so. Perhaps one day my opinion on the matter will change, but I think writing about them would be quite unfair. Plus, it’s the only thing keeping me from typifying the tragic Carrie Bradshaw copycat stereotype.

Two Minute chicken noodles on white bread with a slathering of butter: Whenever I publicly admit to eating this, people react as if I’d used a slice of Wonder White to mop up the sides of a sullage pit. And I can understand that. The addition of bread to a highly-processed noodles seems extremely unnecessary. The whole things sounds like a soggy, claggy mess. And it was. But seven-year-old Dannielle, who had a zest for life, carbs and no nutritional understanding whatsoever, loved them.

I know I should be repulsed by the idea of this sandwich, but I just can’t be. Sure, it wasn’t great for me, but at the time it was everything I wanted.*

* Yep, maybe you also have a Maggi two-minute Chicken Noodle man in your past. I don’t. But can I just say, with no expertise or authority whatsoever, if you happen to run into this fellow while going “back home” for the weekend, don’t drunkenly hook up with him. If you run into him, suggest a nice, sober cup of something generic and warm, allowing you to calmly reassess whether he really was the one who got away or if you’ve suddenly become aware that you’re facing five weddings without a plus one.

Ice cream sandwiches: These were not dollops of gourmet ice cream wedged between soft biscuits. No, this was a scoop from a family-sized bucket of vanilla smeared on just-cooked toast. It was a favourite at my friend’s house. Her and her sister would bang on about it like it was the coolest thing since crimped hair.

And I went along with it for a while, but I eventually realised that this wasn’t some whizbang dessert revolution, it was just runny ice cream on soggy toast. And I was better that.*

* So are you, girl. Be better than milky toast. Accept better than milky toast. You’re at least worth a Maxibon, so don’t settle for sog.   

Egg and lettuce: I once absentmindedly declared that egg and lettuce sandwiches were better than… something that’s supposed to be the best thing ever*. Obviously, this led to an onslaught of justly deserved jokes from those within earshot. And while I may not stand by my exact wording, I do stand by the sentiment. Eggy letty sangs are great. But if you want to make them greater, I’d recommend adding a layer of crushed salt and vinegar chips for a bit of extra crunch**.

* I thought I was very clear that I’d said “egg and lettuce sandwiches are better than sex”, but a few friends told me they thought the something that’s supposed to be the best thing ever was sliced bread. And that’s good, because hopefully the rest of Clifton will also interpret it that way and not equate my sex life to a sandwich you can get at a servo. 

** When you see it through the “better than sex” interpretation, this sounds like I’m advocating for getting kinky with a sensible, egg and lettuce sandwich of a lover. And that’s probably very good advice. But I’m not telling you to go out and buy a gimp mask; I’m honestly imploring you to try putting salt and vinnie chippies on your sanga. 

Bega cheese and strawberry jam: I credit this sanga for preparing my for my gourmet days of smearing goats’ cheese on crusty baguettes with a bit of a quince paste. I recommend all parents start feeding these sandwiches to their kids if they want them to grow up to be the kind of adults who eat cheese platters as a weeknight dinner. Go ahead, make the world a better place!

*** Another thing to come out of my writing this column was the rediscovery of this song, after I suggested to my Snapchat coven that we could have a sandwich dinner party where everyone brings their fave sanga. It not only was hilariously relevant, but it took us back to a time when we watched movies taped from the TV on the VCR. It was at the end of an Austin Powers movie, recorded by the oldest sister in the group, who was way, way cooler than us. 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 16, 2019

Sometimes your “good enough” turns out better than your best.

It’s rare, but it happens.

I recently hosted a picnic, making a flippant remark about putting on a few trays of slice when I proposed the event. In my mind, I’d whip up tray after tray of impressive food in slice form while maintaining an aura of calm, like a competent mother in a baking paper commercial.

But, as a normal person would expect from making 10 trays of slice, it didn’t pan out that way. I was up late. I got distracted and whoooooy boy did I get sweaty. The output was very different to how I’d envisaged it, but no recipe was as different as my attempt at lemon slice.

Instead of a fudgy, zingy icing-topped treat, I ended up with a large golden brown crisp. But, amazingly, it was the most popular “slice” of the day. I don’t know if this was because it was actually super tasty or because it happened to be located closest to the hungriest picnickers who didn’t feel like extending their reach to fill their gastric voids, but it quickly disappeared.

And, because I’ve learned nothing else over the holiday period, I’m choosing to pass on my wisdom to you, should you ever desire presenting your guests with a impractically-large biscuit.

Step 1: Select a packet of bickies that are somewhat sugary, but so plain you would always pick them last if they were in an assorted packet. If these mild biscuits took a human form, they’d be that person who always turns up at barbecues on time and is polite enough, but who never really has that much to add to the conversation. Have this person in mind when you’re perusing the biscuit aisle. One of my guests was allergic to nuts, so I paid special attention to the list of ingredients when selecting my packet of underwhelming biscuits to insure she wouldn’t go into anaphylactic shock, thus stealing all the attention away from me.

Blitz up your inoffensive bickies in a food processor and tip into a mixing bowl.

Step 2: Note the recipe pitifully suggesting 100 grams of butter and scoff, knowing you’re not going to all the effort of using kitchen scales* or settle for such a small amount of butter. Plonk seven decent tablespoons of butter into small saucepan, then tip in half a can of sweetened condensed milk.

* Getting out and putting away the kitchen scales is one of those things that really irks me. I don’t understand why it is, but I find it infuriating. Perhaps there’s some undressed trauma there I need to explore.

Step 3: Become infuriated the recipe doesn’t call for a whole can, because you’re not going to be able to resist the temptation of an open tin of sweetened condensed milk in the fridge. You just know you’re only going be rid of it once you inevitably cut your hand on the rim of the tin while dipping in a finger, bleeding into the enticing milky elixir. Then you’ll have to explain to people how you injured your hand. “Ah, yes, well you see this half-empty can of sweet, sticky milk called to me from inside the fridge, bewitching mind, body and soul – turns out I couldn’t resist the power of an inanimate can.” It’s the deepest form of shame.  Resolve to use the remaining milk in another type of slice within the next hour to maintain your dignity.

Step 4: Slowly heat the saucepan until the butter has melted, stirring to blend the two sinful substances as one.*

* Feel free to cackle here, if you like. I don’t think there’s enough opportunities for witch-like cackling and stirring, so do take up the chance to do so wherever you can.

Step 5: Attempt to zest a lemon, despite not owning a lemon zester. Try all sides of the cheese grater until you find a side that doesn’t also zest your skin. Add zest to the mixing bowl. Decide to use the word “zest” as often as possible.

Step 5: Add about half a cup of shaved coconut to the zesty crumb mix, feeling defiant by not levelling out the cup measurement, thus adding an incorrect amount to the mix. You don’t live life by the rulebook and this rebellious spirit is reflected in your slice.*

* You could reasonable cackle here too, you free, untameable spirit. 

Step 7: Pour the buttery mixture into the bickie crumbs, mixing until you have a grainy gunge.

Step 8: Press into a shallow slice tin, place in the fridge to set and pledge to ice it later.

Step 9: Realise the summer heat will melt the slice, which is so weak-willed it cannot maintain its own structure.

Step 10: Angrily slam it into a moderate oven for about 20 minutes so it will firm up and get some backbone.

Step 11: Place it on the bench to cool overnight, pledging to make an icing for it in the morning.

Step 12: Sleep soundly, waking up later than you originally planned the following morning.

Step 13: Decide you cannot be bothered with icing and that it’s good enough as it is.

Step 14: Chuck oversized biscuit on the picnic rug, declaring to your guests that it’s a non-sliced slice designed to be picked at, like it’s some kind of baked revolution.

Step 15: Revel in its popularity. The taste of success is lemony. Savour its zest.*

* Yet another chance to cackle; your plan worked!   

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, December 21, 2018

I thought I’d take the opportunity to post this before I head to work while I wait for my kale to cook. I’m currently in an empty house, sipping a cup of tea from the cat-face-shaped mug I gifted myself  for Christmas. I thought I may as well use the morning to be productive rather than watching Christmas breakfast television, so I’m gifting you, dear readers, with a bonus Christmas column still warm from the oven, smelling of gingerbread and quiet desperation. Not only does mean this Christmas content is hyper relevant, it also means I can write something in my new diary that I’ve been holding off writing in until Christmas for a little treat. 

I realise this all sounds a little sad but don’t worry, I’m about to have a mango. 

Merry Christmas ya filthy animals. 

People often ask you what you want around this time of the year.

It’s not an aggressive “whatta YOU want!?”  or a probing “what do you really want?”, but a perfunctory request for gift ideas as the social norms for this time of year commands an exchanging of tangible tokens of affection with one’s inner circle.

We make suggestions that we know the well-intentioned gift-giver can afford, choosing items that aren’t too difficult to acquire.

If you were to say what you really, really wanted, you’d be burdening your loved ones with a list of unrealistic demands. It would make you look like a diva, while revealing the deepest, most pitiful parts of your soul. It would a combo of “a mint-condition Barbie Fold’n’Fun House” and “someone to be around to have a cup of tea with me when I feel lonely”.

However, we don’t say that. Usually the answer is a polite “I don’t need anything” or “a few more pairs of socks wouldn’t go astray”.

But if you were able to ask for anything for Christmas, with no price limits or requirements for the gifts to be something one can actually give, what would be on your list?

It’s an interesting question to ask yourself, and makes for a lively discussion around a dinner/dessert/chips-and-dip table.

Here’s my list of things I actually want for Christmas:

World peace: As this is a magic list of things I can wish into existence, I feel I should be somewhat benevolent. People would be pretty cranky with me if I wasted my mystical powers on myself. So I figure I may as well through the world a bone with a blanket wish that generally solves all the big problems while making me look good.

A few days of good, soaking rain: Again, this is partly due to my desire to appear as a selfless person who derives her joy from the happiness of others. But this is a self-serving wish.

I would love a few days of the sound of rain hitting a tin roof. It’s such a marvellous sound. It drowns out my inner monologue and creates a feeling of cosiness that a noisemaker app could never achieve.

And a few days of rain would put a slight chill in the air, which would allow me to wear an oversized sloppy Joe while lounging around the house. I think relaxing is best done in an aged jumper, as is having an emotional breakthrough after a period of quiet self-reflection brought on by some mild emotional trauma.

A few days off to enjoy the few days of good, soaking rain: I love the rain but I don’t really love having to be a productive human being in it. It just makes things a trickier – you have to drive slower, your thongs flick puddle water up the back of your thighs and you get foggy glasses.

I hate having to work while there’s fantastically depressing weather happening outside. That kind of weather must be savoured, like the last Tim Tam in the packet. You don’t want to be thinking about emails or accounts while there’s fog rolling in and rain lashing the windowpanes. You want to be rehashing the events of the past until you come to some kind of enlightening conclusion.

Some mild emotional trauma: Because you need something to mull over during a period of quiet self-reflection in order to achieve your emotional breakthrough.

Some mulled wine: Because, after you’ve done all that mental mulling, the best way to celebrate your emotional breakthrough is by redirecting your mulling energy towards cinnamon-y alcohol.

A cast iron skillet and casserole dish from this really, really fancy cookware brand: I’ve entered a period of my life where cookware is a status symbol. I mean, I would love to be able to sear a perfect steak before finishing it off in the oven or bake bread in a tasteful pot, but I would also love for people to note that I can afford pricey cookware and make the assumption that I have my life in order. I wouldn’t tell them the fancy, fancy frypan appeared in my kitchen as the result of some undeserved magical intervention rather than being purchased by me, a successful adult who makes financially-sound decisions. They don’t need to know that.

For microwaves to have silent switches: We have sent man to the moon. We have cloned sheep. We have created machines that allow us print in three-dimensions. And yet, we still don’t have microwaves that don’t beep obnoxiously at us when our noodles have cooked.

For zoodles to actually have the taste and texture of pasta: I am a fan of using zucchini in the place of pasta, don’t get me wrong. It tastes fine. But you are lying to yourself if you believe zucchini ribbons are able to replicate the delights of those carb-dense strips of starchy heaven.

A few more pairs of socks: Because they never do go astray.

Originally published by the Clifton Courier, December 12, 2018

Earlier this week I cleaned out my handbag.

I cleared out the half-used tissues, wrappers and receipts expecting my load to be considerably lightened. But, despite clearing quite a bit of rubbish out of there, it seems I was still luging around quite a bit of baggage*.

* And before you ask, only some of it was emotional. 

I had been a reformed handbag user not a year before, restricting myself to a large clutch which could be casually slung over my shoulder as I flounced out into the world handsfree and carefree. I had room only for my phone, wallet and keys. I had taught myself to travel light, with no handbag weighing me down.

But after getting fed up about carrying a separate bag every time I wanted to bring lunch to work, I upgraded to something with a bit more room.

And even though I technically should have stuck with the same wallet, keys, phone philosophy, I found my principles weakening. Because with more space apparently begets more shit.

I told myself I’d stick to the essentials, but it seems my list of bare necessities is a little longer than it used to be. I’m still uncertain about what is superfluous and what is a fundamental need, so I invite you to examine the inventory of my handbag and make your own judgement:

A blank notebook: I generally feel uncomfortable without a few blank sheets of paper handy, which makes me feel like a free-spirited Jack Dawson (without the smoking habit and, hopefully, the unfortunate fate of going to all that trouble to survive the Titanic’s sinking only to freeze to death hanging on to a door). Should inspiration ever strike me, I’ll be able to scribble down my brilliant thoughts before they dissipate into the fog of inconsequential thoughts misting up my brain. I don’t want to be hit with the sudden urge to write the great Australian novel (or at least the equivalent of The Very Hungry Caterpillar) while sitting on a train or waiting for the loo without the means of jotting it down. So I keep a notebook in my handbag, poised for poignancy. However, I’ve been carrying around that notebook for months and it’s still empty.

Pens: The pen is mightier than the sword, and I’m always packin’. Partly because I need an implement with which to write the aforementioned literary classic, but mostly so I can write notes on my hand to “buy milk and strawbs” so my mushy Weet-Bix glob of a brain remembers to go to the shops.

A stubby holder: I hate hot beers and love novelty slogans on synthetic rubber cylinders, so these things are pretty much an essential. I now make sure I’m carrying at all times, in case of an emergency.

Blank calling cards: I bought these ages ago thinking they would be a classy way to let someone know I rocked up at their joint and missed them. I envisaged a Holly Golightly-esque version of myself using an old-style calligraphy pen to write notes for my friends. A woman of style and substance I’d be, wearing a well-tailored outfit. Instead, they’ve remained in the box, jammed in an overstuffed pocket of my bag. I haven’t even used them to make with bogus business cards, such as “Dannielle Maguire: Human Stain and Living Reminder That You’re Not Doing So Bad” or “D-Magz: Professional Mad Dawg”. I’m disappointed in myself.*

* Between writing this and republishing it online, I did use one of the cards. I let the friend I was staying with know I was ducking out but would return within the hour. My language was sloppy, My handwriting was clumsy. And I was wearing a baggy oversized gym t-shirt so I didn’t even have that going for me. I must work on this – my handwriting, my vocab and my general attire. Perhaps my New Year’s resolution will be to change myself completely. 

Hand cream: Because my delicate lady hands need attention.

Eczema cream: Because my delicate lady hands sometimes get inflamed and scaly and I scratch them in my sleep and sometimes a gross liquid oozes out and lint gets stuck to my weeping pores.

A mini-torch: In case of a blackout/spooky story circle that requires me to shine a light up my face for dramatic effect. Admittedly, I don’t have any spooky stories and really, really don’t want to hear any.

A deck of Greek Ancient Lovers playing cards: I figure it’s probably better to have nudie playing cards than no playing cards at all. I mean, what if I get stuck in a lift with a few people and need we something to pass the time while we wait to be rescued? I doubt my fellow trapped humans will care about the obscene imagery when we’ve run out of things to spy in I Spy.

A plastic bag: It’s in a similar vein to the whole being-trapped-in-an-elevator thing, but this item is for containment rather than entertainment. I also think it’s handy to have plastic to act as a rain guard for a smart phone or, in extreme cases, to gather water like the kid from Life of Pi. You really just never know.

Deodorant: In case I’m stuck in a lift for days without access to a shower.

Moroccan oil: In case I’m stuck in a lift for days without access to leave-in conditioner.