Originally published in The Clifton Courier August 30, 2017

I think living away from the country is making me more country than living in the country ever could.

Confused? Yes, me too.

When I was in Armidale, I worked with a bunch of Sydney-siders whose first real taste of “country living” was in a town with a Kmart and a KFC. I mean, wear a puffy vest and your shiny RMs if you want, but if you’re living somewhere you can get drive-thru bacon and egg muffins for a hungover breakfast, you’re not exactly living in the sticks.

I found myself enjoying how stunned my co-workers were when I told them we didn’t have a McDonald’s in town. They just couldn’t get their heads around the fact that “going to Maccas for breakfast after a big night out” meant grabbing a plate and letting my Dad – who, like Cher or Madonna, is so iconic that he goes by one and one name only – load you up with bacon, eggs and that garlicy-oniony breakfast veggie slop he’s famous for after you woke up in a swag somewhere. Macca’s was definitely a thing, it just wasn’t drive-thru; you had to dine in and have a chat.

My co-workers thought of my Clifton life as a fantasy, like the town in Gilmore Girls mixed with McLeod’s Daughters and Crocodile Dundee. And I can’t say I didn’t play up to that.

I found myself morphing into this loud-mouthed, charmingly-bogan country mouse after spending considerable hours as a teen lamenting my rural roots.

I would talk about sleeping in a swag out in the open as they’d shriek about bugs. I’d talk about the bottle tree filled with the cement. I’d tell them the unnecessarily long story about how my belt with the pony buckle was made for me by the bloke who used to be my swimming coach and how I traded him and his wife – the woman who taught me how to type – a batch of gingerbread for the leather.

The small-town label had become a badge of honour, and now that I’m living in the biggest smoke in Australia, I like to keep that badge nice and shiny. I’ve fully embraced my point of difference from the Sydney masses, and flaunt it whenever possible. It’s like I needed to go full city to realise just how much of a country girl I actually am.

The other day I called my bank to ask them to redirect my replacement card to a Sydney branch. Because as much as I’d like to be able to pop into Clifton to pick up my card, it would be kind of tricky to explain my boss why I was away for six hours when I’d told him I was, “just ducking out to the bank quickly”.

I made it clear I was new to Sydney, I used the word “mate” and, when he put me on hold to call the Clifton branch, I told him to “say his to Jenny for me” just to really drive the message home that I was a fair dinkum, small town girl.

I don’t know why it is, but I find myself doing this all the time now. Whether it’s being an overly polite, talkative customer or scoffing at the audacity of the trendy market in my neighbourhood selling bunches of cotton to hipsters for $20 a piece, I get a kick out of playing the country mouse.

I’m not sure if I’m playing up to the country stereotype or just being my authentic self. And I don’t know if it’s because I’m homesick, or if I’m taking the p— out of myself and my town. Perhaps it’s a little bit of everything.

But it feels nice and it usually results in excellent customer service so I guess I’ll keep it up.

But if I start saying “g’day” too much, maybe tell me to pull my head in.

Also, in case old mate didn’t pass on my regards, can someone please tell Jenny I said hello?

* Apparently Jen got the message. A few times. 

Originally posted in The Clifton Courier, August 23, 2017

I’ve started calling my Grandma every week.

Every Monday at about 5.30pm I give old Audrey a call in a bid to feel like less of a terrible person, check how she’s doing and rip the Favourite Grandchild title from the hands of my younger cousin. She’s often wearing cute dance costumes, is very polite and loves to read, so it’s a tough fight to snatch that metaphorical prize from her little fingers. To help my cause, I try to make my conversations as animated as possible.

Grandma doesn’t have all that much going on these days. She has her puzzles. She has her books. She has her TV shows. She still lives in her own home and does whatever the heck she wants. And while living in a palace of solitude with a large supply of Tim Tams* sounds like heaven, it’s not overly exciting, day-to-day.

* A large supply of grandchildren calls for a large supple of chocolate bickies. One time grandma must have got a great deal on homebrand Tim Tams and they were terrible. My sister and I would gradually throw them out so her supply would run out. I like to think we did it for the family. 

So I like the idea of regaling her with thrilling tales of my life in the big city to spice things up… and to convince her that I’m not wasting my youth*.

* This is tricky, because I find it very difficult to lie. 

Unfortunately, I’m failing a little on both accounts.

I’ve found most of our conversations tend to wind up with me promising to “do something fun next weekend” to tell her about.

Each time I say it, I know it’s a hollow promise. But I had no idea how much of a lie it actually was.

Because sitting around on Sunday afternoon reflecting on how I spent my two days made me realise my weekend duller than an infomercial on cleaning products*. I’m really not sure how I’m going to spin the following into a juicy tale for the old bird:

* Actually, this depends on what cleaning product we’re talking about. Because while most infomercials are terrible, the CLR one still dazzles me. It mesmerised me a child and it still speaks to my soul. That ad is like a magic show. It had such a profound effect on my, as I can remember most of the scenarios to this day. Interestingly enough, I’ve never actually gone out and bought the stuff. Perhaps it’s my subconscious protecting me from the disappointment that would crush my spirit if it didn’t work like it did in the ads. I’m not sure how I could take a blow like that, come to think of it.

Friday night: I went to the supermarket immediately after finishing work so I wouldn’t have to leave the house and battle the wind again. I came home with a hot chook, vacuumed the flat, took out the garbage and put on a load of washing.

I’m not going to go into the finer, more mundane details of the rest of the evening, but I will tell you that I ended up taking 24 photos of the hot chook on my phone and tweeting my excitement over the fact that someone had finally bought a property they’d viewed on Escape to the Country.

Saturday morning: The first thing I did was I take three hours to eat breakfast. After that, I cursed the blind in my room for falling down, fixed my blind with a spare hair tie I kept around my wrist, felt like some kind of feminist MacGyver handyman. I then basked in my glory for at least half an hour.

Saturday afternoon: Went to the supermarket hungry, came back with $90 worth of groceries. Soaked in my filth/had a bath with eucalyptus oil to loosen the gunk on my chest. Finished Wuthering Heights. Muttered to myself about how much I disliked Wuthering Heights. Searched online for reviews from people who had the same opinions as me about Wuthering Heights. Stewed angrily.

Saturday night: Ate Brussels sprouts for dinner. Ate porridge for desert. Apparently felt the desire to punish myself. Looked at my HECs debt. Panicked. Wrote a to-do list of things I could do that might help my situation. Lied to myself that I would complete the to-do list in the future. Lulled myself into an uneasy slumber.

Sunday morning: Woke up. Debated about whether I wanted avo toast, eggs on toast or toast and Vegemite. Compromised by having all three. Instagrammed my decision.

Sunday afternoon: Put sheets in the wash. Got puffed. Napped. Ate a chicken sandwich. Realised I hadn’t written my column. Recounted my weekend. Realised my grandmother had a more exciting weekend than I did.

Sunday evening: Questioned who I had become.

** Just a heads up, I’m taking a little break this week and probs won’t be able to post my ramblings remotely for my usual Sunday sesh. I mean, if I were desperate I probably could post something. But one of the horoscopes I read today told me to take a breather, so I’m going to side with that one because it’s convenient to my needs right now.

I hope to return with a swag full of humiliating tales I can recount in an unnecessarily drawn-out way. 

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, August 2, 2017

I’m trying to be more financially responsible, and I can already tell it’s going to be confronting.

Now that it’s FY18, I’m going to be different. New financial year, new me. This is the year I start spending my money wisely, dammit.

My plan is to write down how much I spend each day in my diary. Once I get to the end of the week, I’ll tally up the total expenditure for that seven-day period and take a long, hard look at it. Presumably, I’ll do this while wearing one of those green visors the bean counters wear in movies and smoking a cigar (although I’d have to create a separate cigar fund for this, so maybe I could just pretend with a cheerio* instead).

* And just in case I magically managed to muster up readers who don’t have strong ties to the Darling Downs region in Queensland, a cheerio is a mini hotdog sausage. You probably were given one by the friendly butcher when you were a child. Our butcher’s name was Barry. So was the man we bought our hot chooks from. He was a different Barry, though…. cool story, hey? I’ve often said I’m terrible at telling coherent stories, which is problematic considering that’s my profession. 

Once I have that alarming seven-day figure, I’ll go through each item of expenditure and try to justify it to myself.

This, so the theory goes, will make me more conscious of the money I’m spending and force me to reconsider frivolous purchases.

It seemed like the perfect plan. It appealed to my diary-keeping mentality, promised to boost my bank balance and meant I could eat a few little red sausages* each month. All positive things.

* I won’t just you for giggling at that one. It would be hypocritical considering only this afternoon I found myself sniggering when Adrian Richardson used the phrase “penetrate the meat”. 

As always, this experiment was taken up with initial gusto only to die in the arse shortly after. I started this ambitious plan on Sunday and am writing this column on a Wednesday because I can’t see myself sticking to it to make it a rounded seven-day experiment.*

* Yeah, I stopped immediately after writing this column. 

So here’s how I went:

Sunday: I spent $15 on baby’s breath flowers to freshen up my room and make me forget that I live in a cesspit of filth. I also shelled out $7 on groceries, which included salad leaf mix, strawberries and sweet potato. There was plenty of fibre in that mix, which is what I’m all about. Care for your colons, people!

I also spent $8 on antibiotics, which was a pretty justifiable purchase, considering you can’t put a price on health (even thought I just did).

Verdict: I spent roughly the same amount of money on flowers as I did for my groceries and medication combined. What does that say about me? It says that I love myself.

Monday: This was a zero dollar day. I’d packed my lunch and preloaded my public transport card so I didn’t have to drop a dime.

Verdict: Yay me.

Tuesday: I spent $4.70 on a specially-brewed chai latte at the café on the way to the train station. I’m new to this whole “buying coffee” thing, so I don’t know if this was a reasonable price or not.

Thankfully, my mid-morning splurge was offset slightly by the fact that I spilled a whole cup of tea on the carpet of my lounge room.

This sounds like a disaster, and it was. I’m not going to pretend that a teary call to Mum didn’t follow. It was a full mug, for heaven’s sake. Such a loss.

I thought I was placing it on the coffee table, but I missed the surface completely. I can’t blame the coffee table here, but I will say that its clear allegiance to coffee – the sworn enemy of tea – makes me suspicious. You have to wonder if this would have happened if it was called a “tea table” instead.

Anyway, there was nothing to be done. The tea was gone. But when I moved the couch to mop up the mess, I found a 10c coin. And shortly after, a $1 coin appeared.

Long story short, I lost my tea but I gained $1.10.

I counted this as income and this happy accident took my tally from -$4.70 to a much more respectable -$3.60 for the whole day.

Verdict: This experiment turned a potential mental breakdown trigger into a silver lining. Am I turning a corner or am I simply putting financial gain above my own happiness?

Wednesday: I bought a luxe takeaway lunch with extra guacamole, an impulse buy choccie and a truly terrible card that says “dance like no one’s watching” to send to my sister. All up I spent about $30.

Verdict: It turns out I am not putting financial gain above my own happiness. I’m also mildly concerned a crappy card contributed to my happiness.

Overall verdict: Further study is needed, but unlikely.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, July 36, 2017

Karma is coming for me.

Earlier today* I want to a garage sale. But it wasn’t just any old garage sale – it was Sydney Theatre Company’s garage sale. So there were more gems up for grabs than your average finds such as Bring It On sequels or novelty ice buckets. There were old set pieces and costumes and fur (unsure of the faux status) jackets and at least five Technicolour Dream Coats. So there was a lot of interest in the sale.

* Obviously not today. Today I went to work. I also had an egg and lettuce sandwich was with a pretty big deal for me. I’ve been quote before as saying “egg and lettuce sandwiches are better than sex” so it was a very, very good lunch break for me. I feel a little like a cosmopolitan Sex and City kinda gal. 

So much interest, in fact, that there was a line to get in.

I arrived at the sale after my friends, who were quite close to the front of the queue when I rocked up. At first I went to the back of the line, but after two minutes of stagnant waiting, I went on ahead and met my friends at their primo line spot.

Yep, I cut the line.

I was very conflicted about it. And rightly so.

Cutting a line is perhaps one of the worse things a human can do without relying on the insanity defence. It’s an unofficial cardinal sin.  Especially when the queue is for something as superficial as a sale. It’s not like it was for emergency treatment or anything. The only motivation for cutting in line is a complete disregard for all others and desperation for ripper bargains. It was pure selfishness, and I know that.

I went against everything I stood for when I pushed in that line. I may as well have just dumped several plastic bags straight into the ocean or turned the tap on full bull and left it running while I bushed my teeth.*

* It’s very hard for me to watch bathroom scenes in American movies for this reason. I honestly can’t set there for more than three seconds without going full Aussie Dad and yelling for somebody to turn that bloody tap off. A green drought is still a drought, ya water wasting fuckheads. 

But I made the decision to push in and now I have to live with it.

And I know that karma will punish me. It is only fair, really.

The problem is that I don’t know when I will be slapped by the swift hand of justice.

Especially because there were so many other great things that happened this morning.

Maybe the karmic response would have been for me to find nothing worth buying at the garage sale. But I walked away with a loud, gold-buttoned cardigan, an orange 90s power skirt, a vase with gumnut detailing and two shirts – all this gold for just $12. One of the shirts still had the price tag on it, for heaven’s sake. They paid $139 for it, and I paid just $2. TWO DOLLARY DOOS.

And breakfast afterwards was fantastic. I hate food buyer’s remorse more than most things, so I figured ordering a breakfast that turned out to be underwhelming would have been a suitable way for the universe to punish me for my selfishness. But, alas, my breakfast was delightful. I mean, I could have done with another piece of toast with my eggs, but that’s not really much of a punishment.

And a button came off my shirt as I changed into my pyjamas when I arrived home, which sounds bad but that’s actually a blessing. Because now I have a tiny, easy to achieve goal to put on my weekend to-do list and actually cross off. That’s no punishment, that’s a gift.

Nope, karma is still plotting its revenge.

I’m not sure what equals cutting in line in terms of cosmic penalties, however. I don’t know what to expect. It could be burning my tongue on hot tea or something as poetic as having someone cut in front of me while I waited to get into a movie only for the cutter to take the last seats. It could even be as severe as losing a hand. I really don’t know how the universe decides these things.

But now I think I’m going to be making my punishment even worse, because I’ve got a whole column out of this issue. It’s like I’m profiting off criminal activity, which is an offence under Australian Commonwealth law. Surely karma will take that into account when determining my sentence.

Or maybe this not knowing what the punishment is or when it will be dealt out is the actual punishment. Because stressing and constantly looking over my shoulder is no way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Well played, karma.

UPDATE: I’m still alive. I still have both hands. And my tongue hasn’t been burned in weeks. All I have to say is that I’m VERY nervous about my trip to the airport on Friday morning. 

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, July 19, 2017

It’s tax time and I have no idea what I’m doing.

This year I’m lodging my tax return as someone who gained income from employment, but also as a small business owner. Yep. Me. I have an ABN. I send invoices. I’ve even started going to coffee places (granted, I buy chai tea lattes because I like sugar and real coffee makes me too jittery to function).

I am a businesswoman, technically speaking.

But it doesn’t really feel like it. And it’s not just because I don’t own a blazer.

It’s because this right here is my business. Me, jabbering on about my weekend, my warped views and, more that should be legally allowed, my vomit. I remember registering for my ABN struggling to define my “business”. But I stumbled through it and haven’t been arrested by the ATO yet so I’m feeling OK.

However, it’s now tax time and I’m mighty confused.

You see, I’m of a general understanding that I can claim expenses relating my business.

But remembering that my “business” is me complaining in about 600 words (let’s face, it’s always a little more because who wants a short, succinct story when a long rambling one will also eventually get to the same point and include more confusing tangents?) this becomes problematic. Because there are a lot of expenses that could vaguely fit into this category which I would love to claim as deductions but would also feel anxious about because I don’t like the idea of going to jail for tax fraud (although it could potentially make for a few great chapters of my currently boring memoir).

Here is a list of just a few things that in my head, fall into this “business expenses” category:

At least one flight from Toowoomba to Sydney: I once wrote a column while in the air, albeit via text messages to myself. And the column was about me texting myself on a flight. So technically, the cost of the ticket to be on a flight that was both the subject of and the place in which I wrote my column should be deductable, right? I mean, as great as it is to be able to go from sitting in my sister’s lounge room eating Super Rooster to sitting on a flight bound for Sydney in the space of about 20 minutes, that convenience costs money. Money I could be spending on chicken burgers.

Hair ties: Because with hair as long as mine, you can’t just let it hang out. It gets distracting. Even if it is in a ponytail, I find myself twirling my hair instead of typing. So it needs to be pulled back into a bun so I forget I have hair and move on with my life.

Several baked goods bought on impulse: These are strictly business because I use them as motivation to actually get my writing done instead of watching another episode of Pretty Little Liars. Knowing I have an almond meal doughnut at the finish line is sometimes the only thing that gets me there. So yes, I would argue that doughnuts are a necessity to my business.

The cost of the hot chips I sucked all the salt off then put back in the container after vomiting on my steering wheel while driving last year: Because without that life-giving sodium I would still be laying in a park in Brisbane, my dress soaked through with watery stomach bile. And I couldn’t contribute to my business in a crusty dress with no wifi connection.

One bottle of black nail polish: I’m convinced it boosts my productivity because I like the look of black nails on a keyboard so I make a habit of typing as much as possible when I can be arsed to paint my nails black.

Hmmm. It seems a little out of my depth. I think I need to consult an accountant. Or maybe buy a blazer?

Originally published in The Clifton Courier June 29, 2017

I tried to map my future the other night and I’m still a little lost.

As always, I’m doing a little soul searching.

That’s what I do. I drink tea. I sniff newspapers. And I question who the heck I think I bloody am.

It’s a constant state of self-reflection. The question “what am I doing with my damn life?” crops up all too often. When I’m sitting on the train. When I’m grocery shopping. When I’m in the bathroom scrolling through Paris Hilton’s selfies on Instagram.

Obviously that question is wildly appropriate in that last scenario. If you’re spending extra time in the bathroom to look at photos a former reality television star has taken of herself and you DON’T wind up questioning who you are as a person, then you might be beyond help.

So I started by writing down my values.

This, according to the free advice I skim from professionals off the internet, is something that gets your head in the right space.

It makes you consider what you care about.

And I’m not talking about people. Obviously I value my family and friend. The Top Eight era of Myspace is behind us.

Nope, when I’m talking values, I’m going to need to be more specific.*

* But not too specific. Like, I value garlic-topped hummus and chai tea lattes, but I feel like including them on this list may be going a bit far. Maybe I’ll make a list of my secondary values for this purpose – listing all the foods I hold great esteem for. I could even make it hierarchical if I was having a really loose weekend. That actually might be helpful to have on-hand when deciding what I want to eat for dinner. 

One thing I put on this list was decent sleep. This is contradictory considering I’m up at 10pm watching Pretty Woman when I have to be up at 5.30am.

This fact is also in contradiction to a few other values, such as intellectual stimulation and trying new things. Because I’ve seen this movie many times. I would even use the world “countless” in place of a finite digit. One weekend I watched it three times.

So re-watching it isn’t exactly powering up the old noggin’. I mean, I could intellectually stimulate myself by unpacking the discourses of class and gender or analyse the film through a feminist lens. But, I don’t want to tear apart a movie I love so much.

Apparently we find ourselves the most unhappy when we aren’t living in accordance with our values. But I’m feeling pretty happy right now. But that’s probably because as I write this I’m in my Aristocats pyjamas, slippers and lazing in the lounge with the heater on. I don’t need to be productive or presentable right now.

But I guess Future Dannielle won’t be happy tomorrow, when she is in a professional setting wearing shoes and being held responsible for her actions. Especially when she’s tired from a big Thursday night with Julia Roberts and Richard Gere.

So I guess not living in accordance with your values doesn’t just apply to the moment. It extends beyond that.

This is going to be something I live up to continuously.  And it occurs to me that I should amend my ways immediately.

But I think it helps to have these things written down. It lays out bare what you care about and whether you’re living a life aligning with said values. In black and white, it’s clear where you’re going wrong.

So what are my other values? There were a few, but two stood out for me.

I wrote down cleanliness, which is confusing considering how many wears my sports bra gets before it goes in the washing machine.

But I can’t amend this, as another value I have is being environmentally responsible, which means not using the washing machine too much. And I also value financial stability, and sports bras are too bloody expensive* to buy one for every day of the week. I can, however reduce the impacts of this by living up to another value – that of personal space. Which is more of a public service than anything else.

* Yeah, I’d like to loiter on that point for a moment. Those babies are at least fifty buck a pop. It’s such horse shit that sports bras are so exxy. There are very few women who can exercise without one, and we all need to exercise to be healthy so what the shit are we supposed to do?! I’m getting tired of “burn the patriarchy” being the answer to all my questions. 

Another value I listed was privacy, which is confusing as I have a twice-weekly public spill sesh when I detail things like my toilet-based social media viewing habits and the frequency of which I wash my intimates.

But I can’t change this because over-sharing is how I connect with my friends and family.

And with you. Sorry.

Published in The Clifton Courier, April 19, 2017

I just landed* back in in Sydney after a week in Queensland and goodness gracious I am glum.

* Obviously I didn’t just land in Sydney. That was just over a week ago, but I’m not going to change the tense of the piece because it would change the whole tone and I’m pretty darn tired this evening and apparently swapping a few “is”es for a few “was”es is just too much work for me.

I shouldn’t be. I ate three different types of cake today and am the proud owner of a tote bag from Cobb and Co Museum that has “totes” written on it. I should be the happiest girl in the world.

But I’d be lying if I said returning to Sydney didn’t leave me crippled with homesickness like one of those wimpy kids who used to cry for their mothers on school camp.*

* I bloody hated those kids. I never understood why they’d want to go back home to their boring families when they could be catching an offing City Cat with their class AT NIGHT TIME. Yes, our school camp was to Brisbane one year. We stayed in the mouldy boarders’ rooms at Nudgee College and had to tour the Port of Brisbane. For some reason, this was a more appropriate trip than going to Canberra to see how democracy works. The City Cat was the absolute highlight of the trip and I say that without sass or sarcasm. 

That, combined with the fact I’m coming down after a serious Easter-induced chocolate high, makes it quite hard to compose a humorous column for you folk.*

* “You folk” at the people of Clifton. I don’t change my tone too much for my hometown, but I definitely scale back the anatomical references for The Courier. 

However, after a few trips home, I have realised this Sunday evening slump is a routine of mine and have prepared for it. And while I didn’t go as far as to write a column ahead of time like I should have done, I did the next best thing: texted myself titbits of a column while on the plane.

I text myself often – it’s a good way of reminding yourself of things when you aren’t carrying a pen and makes you look like you have someone to communicate with when you’re really a friendless loser.

So after waving to Mum, Dad and one of those sisters of mine until they were out of sight, I figured the best way to get through the next hour-and-a-bit strapped to a plane was to record my thoughts via text message and send them to myself in the vain hope that they could be strung together for a column.

It probably looked like I was revealing all my deep feelings to a long lost love, but all I was really doing was documenting my burning desire to snag the carrots of old mate sitting beside me.

So here are some of the things that went through my head while 25,000 feet in the air:

* When is it appropriate to ask, “are you going to eat those pre-packaged carrots and delightfully tangy sweet potato dip, mate”?

* Is it considered theft to eat another person’s in-flight snack? Could it result in jail time?

* If this fellow beside me hasn’t eaten those carrots in another 10 minutes, I’m going in.

* Why do flight attendants still use feet and instead of metres when making announcements?

* Wouldn’t it be fun if each trip the flight crew used a different novelty unit of measurement? Like, “we are currently 947,600 XL sized belts in the air” or ,”we’re cruising at a height of 674,880 Wayne Bennetts stacked one on top of the other”.

* I can’t believe they just gave me another beer. My column could become more interesting.

* Let’s be honest, the reality is that my column will probably only become even more disjointed than usual.

* I wish I could crush a can with my head. According an Olsen Twins movie filmed in Australia, true Aussies can do this. And I like to think of myself as a true Aussie – I have an Akubra and a bit of a thong tan.

* Suppressing beer burps is tricky. Usually when I’m on the XXXX I am at the footy or a pub where thongs are part of the standard dress code, so I can get away with letting out a cheeky belch. But expelling gas of any kind feels like an act of war in a confined space at several hundred thousand Wayne Bennetts up in the air.

* I didn’t get to catch a footy game while I was home.

* I’m very lucky to have the kind of family who would happily stand out in the cool breeze waving like a bunch of lunatics for a good 10 minutes just on the off chance that I might see them from the plane.

* If I cover the side of my face with my hair, no one will see my leaking eyes.

* Is anyone looking at me?

* Damn. That jerk beside me ate all his carrots.

Published in The Clifton Courier March 29, 2017

Recently I made sweet potato brownies, and I want to share my journey with you.

And this time I do mean “journey” in the way musical talent shows use it: not as a way to describe a distance, but an emotional transformation.

I found the recipe on Facebook, no doubt as a result of following someone fit enough to shame me into not eating a family-sized pie. When I lived alone in the cold, cold isolation of Armidale I found myself doing this often. I stopped when I realised I was skipping the cooking part and just gorging on raw pastry, as if in an attempt to fill the black hole that was my soul with butter.

Anyway, the recipe didn’t seem laden with ridiculously expensive ingredients, so I gave it a crack.

The recipe called for one cup of mashed sweet potato, so I cut the mouldy/questionably damp parts off the spud in my fridge. It was about the size of a slightly-malnourished guinea pig (which needs to a standard unit of measurement, if you ask me). I peeled, sliced and diced, then boiled it in a saucepan.

To test if they were ready for mashing, I plunged my knife into the cubes like I would the necks of my enemies. When the blade easily pierced their imaginary jugulars, I removed them from the heat and drained them. I then threw them into a food processor, because I apparently am not content with simply slaying my enemies, I must also pulverise them.

In a saucepan, I then added half a cup of the nut butter of my choice (I went with peanut) to two tablespoons of maple syrup.

Now, maple syrup is the saviour of sugar-haters as it as sweet as the taste of victory without added white stuff. But you have to get the actual sap and not just the maple-flavoured syrup – otherwise you’re just a pleb choking your veins with the sugary nectar of Satan. I bought the all-natural maple although I’m sure the sugary sin juice would work just fine.

I melted these two together in the saucepan, but I reckon I could have done it with a mug and a microwave with less fuss.

I then added this pretentious paste to the pureed potato.

The recipe also calls for a quarter cup of cocoa powder, but I had this amazing Christmassy chocolate ginger powder sitting in a jar so I used that. It came from a shop that made me feel like a fancy soccer mum with a beautiful kitchen who knows things about food, which made me forget that I was spending money I should have been putting towards replacing my saggy, holey undies. Needless to say, just having that jar on my counter boosts my self-esteem phenomenally.

Anyway, you’re supposed to then blend all this gunk up together until you have a cohesive gunk.

The recipe calls for a handful of cacao nibs to be folded in at this point. Cacao is brown stuff healthy people pretend tastes like chocolate, but I would describe the flavour as “dirt plus sadness”. As such, I roughly chopped two rows of Dairy Milk. I also added a gorilla-sized handful of chopped walnuts.

I stupidly used my food processor instead of folding them in, so my walnuts weren’t chunky. Don’t do what I did. You want the chunks. Chunks are what make life good.

After adding more chopped nuts, I poured it into a baking dish and then placed it into a 180 degree oven for about 20 minutes. You’re supposed to let it cook all the way through, but I like brownies to be cooked to the point where they’re just crusty enough on the outside to not be considered raw mixture. I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, but I will tell you that you’re living life wrong if you thoroughly cook a brownie.

After this was sufficiently cooled, I cut myself a piece and told myself I was eating vegetables.

I urge you to do the same.

Published in The Clifton Courier March 22, 2017

Sometimes people beaut brainwaves that have the potential to change the world.

Alexander Bell’s big idea gave us the telephone, which revolutionised the way humans communicated. Alexander Fleming’s revelation about penicillin’s healing powers saved countless human lives. Elizabeth Magie’s lightbulb moment gave us Monopoly and proved just how fickle family bonds are.

Once these ideas came to fruition, their impact changed the course of history.

And I, like so many great minds before me, have an idea that will change everything.

So here’s by my idea: bars need to have toasters.

I know what you’re thinking – alcohol and small electrical appliances don’t mix. Before you write me off as a fool, hear me out.

I was out for St Patty’s day the other night and I was edging towards the level of “hydrated” I can get where I find myself taking a quick public power nap. And for some reason, people tend to look down upon this. Security guards especially.*

* Seriously, you have ONE little breather on the grass outside a club and they hold it against you for the rest of the night. This is why Toowoomba’s uni club no longer operates.  

So, not wanting to stop the flow of ale tipping down my throat, I did what I had to do: gorge on food.

But the only edible items behind the bar were chips. And I’d given up potatoes for Lent.

Before I go any further, I will address the whole Lent thing. I realise it may make me appear to be a religious fanatic, particularly on the obnoxiously agonistic streets of Sydney, but I honestly think it’s a fun tradition. And I’ve been getting a little tuckshopy around the arms lately so I’m not above using religion as a means of achieving a bangin’ bod. Potatoes aren’t a massive part of my diet, but the goal was to cut chippies out of my life so I became small enough for to meet the bodily specifications required to gain society’s approval.*

* I say this like I am being defiant against “the media’s” unrealistic perceptions of beauty and all for people being themselves, but in all honesty I would very much enjoy conforming to those unattainable expectations if I could. Unfortunately I have a body type that makes me look like I have swallowed a platter, while also managing to have the flattest arse in the southern hemisphere. It’s the worst of both worlds going on down there.

And, annoyingly, this religious diet trick died in the arse because I went ahead and bought the chips anyway. Knowing full well that the starchy delights were baked over the fires of hell and seasoned with eternal damnation, I shovelled the chips into my mouth.

But what I really needed was something more substantial. Something with more fibre. Something that fed my soul as well as the alcohol sack that was my stomach.

And it got me thinking about what I would have chosen to eat had I have been at home. The answer was simple: bread. Because bread is the solution to all life’s problems. It nourishes, and it brings comfort. Sometimes when I’m really sad, only tiger toast will feel the dark void in my soul.

Then it came to me: bars need to have toast stations.

Now that I think about it, it would be an excellent money-spinner. All you need is a toaster, a few loaves of bread and a small assortment of spreads. Maybe the trendier bars could have avocados on hand to appease the hipsters and tempt young people into spending their house deposits on midnight smashed avo toast. The outlay would tiny, but the return would be exponential. They could charge two bucks a pop and send their children to college on the profits.

I would absolutely take advantage of that service. And I know that many others would as well.

Because sometimes all you need is a little bit of toast to keep you going. A crunchy slice of buttered bread can stop you from tumbling from charmingly tipsy to sleeping on a grassy hill kind of drunk.

I would even hazard as guess that it would be beneficial in preventing people from reaching the level of glassing-that-bastard-because-I-have-deep-seeded-insecurities-that-I-need-to-take-out-on-innocent-people level of drunk. A simple slice of toast could save lives.

Let’s make it happen, people.