Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 17, 2020

There’s so many things I’ve had to actively un-teach myself about life based on lessons I unconsciously soaked up from movies and television.  

And, look, I’m not just talking about the ridiculous personality distorting ones about women and their sexuality or women and their weight or women and… well, basically everything most movies imply about women. That’s a whole other column. Or two.

I’m talking about more trivial things I’ve picked up from movies that aren’t true to life. 

Like, I understand that movies can’t follow all the mundane goings on of the main characters’ lives. We’re not going to see their uneventful trips to the shops where they don’t run into their big love or the times they look out the window and there isn’t a heartthrob staring up at them with a boom box over their head. That would make for a boring movie. I get it. 

But movies often have people meeting who they want to meet at the exact moment they would like to. At the airport departure gate. At the school prom. In the hallway of a hospital as the woman is being rushed to the delivery room minutes before her unborn baby claws its way out of her. 

The timing of meeting these people of interest is always impeccable. And that’s totally unrealistic. 

After nearly three decades of living, I have learned you can’t expect the rules of the movies to apply to your own life. 

KNo one is going to meet you on the outskirts of town and tell you to “pick out a white dress”. You’re not going to get a message over the PA system of the airport. And the late-night text message you hope is from your sweetheart declaring their affections for you is most definitely going to be Optus, informing that you’ve gone over your data limit and you’re going to be charged an extra ten bucks for each gigabyte you use.

So when I was sitting at the pub the other day, wishing for a certain someone to step through the door, I knew it was in vain. 

I’d gone out to dinner over the weekend, deciding to shout my mother and sister to a cheeky pub feed with all the trimmings (which is to say, we got garlic bread to start off with). 

Throughout the meal, I’d remembered previous visits to that establishment, when I’d go out for a round of ribs and beers on a Friday after a long week of work. And it seemed that, whenever I was being shouted a meal, this one character happened to be close enough to the action to overhear that someone else was picking up the tab. 

They were never around when I was paying, though. They seemed to have some kind of cosmic timing to only ever be passing by when it was someone else’s shout. Eventually this became a bit of a running joke. They’d always make some remark about how I’d scabbed a beer or tricked someone into getting the garlic bread.

So, as I was mopping up my mashed potato the other night, I briefly entertained the idea of this person popping by just as I was going up to the counter. But only for a second, because I know this isn’t how the world works. Life is a random combination of inconsequential coincidences, not a series of events expertly timed to give a satisfying payoff. There’s no meet cutes. There’s no grand gestures. And you never get the closure you crave. 

So when I went up to pay, I’d resigned myself to the fact that this character would never be forced to eat their words. 

But then, footsteps. A greeting from the bar staff. A familiar voice. 

It was my tormentor (I mean, don’t get the wrong idea, it was good-natured torment). 

And while I rarely ask for a receipt for my meal purchases (I don’t need to be reminded of my frivolous spending by a judgmental piece of paper) I made an exception this time. 

I took my receipt and waved it right in the face of my pub persecutor.

And, look, maybe everyone gets one chance to run into the person they want to run into right at the exact moment they need to. And maybe I could have spent mine on a grand gesture at an airport or being stuck in a lift with some dreamboat, but instead I spent it on this petty exchange.

But, if that’s the case, I regret nothing. 

Read the receipt and weep, mate! 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 10

I know someone with very strong feelings about bananas. 

This opinion-haver says the fruit – which, after a quick Google, I’ve learned is botanically a berry – has no place being eaten after lunchtime. He says it’s a morning fruit and recoils at the idea of bananas in dessert form. 

Personally, I disagree. In fact, a cracking desert is a few slices of banana being fried in a bit of butter and then being slopped on a bit of Greek yoghurt with some shredded coconut. 

I thought it extremely close-minded of him to completely shut off a food just because of where the little hand happened to be pointing to on a clock, you know?

Like, I like to think of myself as a free spirit. A renegade. Someone who doesn’t confirm to the norms of society, mahn. I mean, I detest those meal delivery boxes that force you to cook according to their strict regulations and use only the meagre provisions they provided. I can’t follow those kinds of rules. As that unnamed spice company’s commercials say, “why cook when you can create?”

When I was a youngster, I was always rubbish at colouring in competitions because I never coloured between the lines.  And, yes, it may have been because I was messy and lacked the fine motor skills to stay within the lines, but I tell myself that it was because I couldn’t conform to the constraints of the lines before me.

So I thought I wasn’t someone who restricted themselves to these petty kitchen rules. 

But then, as I thought about it more, I began to realise that I actually held a lot of discriminatory views on foods.

Sure, there’s some elements to this that are purely chemical and biological. You’re probably not going to have an espresso right before you go to bed. And you’re probably not going to have mug of warm milk right before going for your morning jog.

But I hold some morning and evening food stipulations that, upon reflection, just don’t really make sense. It’s like these ideas about the appropriate time of day to consume a certain food are hardwired into my brain, but I never think about it. 

Here’s a few examples. 

I think you can only really have pancakes for breakfast, but I’m fine with pikelets for afternoon tea, even though pancakes and pikelets are pretty much the same thing. Like, I’d call a glob of batter cooked in butter in a frypan a pancake before 10am but anytime after that, I would classify it as a pikelet. 

A sausage could never be breakfast when presented only in a single piece of bread with onions and eaten with bare hands. That’s strictly a lunch, swimming club breakup dinner or hardware impulse buy kind of thing. I mean, it’s kind of the novelty of it. It’s an occasional thing -Like, you wouldn’t typically serve is a breakfast food but you could – and many do – eat on at breakfast time based on where they are (such as, for example, a particular brand of hardware store). It’s kind of like microwaving pizza from the night before for breakfast the next day. You wouldn’t usually go out of your way to prepare a pizza for breakfast, but you’ll eat it because it’s there and the idea of eating something at a time when you don’t usually eat it fills you with a thrill you don’t want to unpack too much because then you might realise that this microwaved pizza is the only thing you’ve been excited about in four months. But as soon as you start eating a sausage with a knife and fork, it becomes a conceivable breakfast food.

Corn is something you eat at a barbecue. Or in a cobb loaf. You pop it, smother it in butter and jam it into your mouth like you haven’t eaten in 14 days while you watch a movie at night. Corn is only an afternoon or evening food. But then you stir some kernels into a batter and turn it into fritters, maybe chuck a poached egg and some avocado onto the plate and by gumbo it’s a bloody breakfast thing. 

Eggs are absolutely a breakfast food. Poached, scrambled, fried, boiled. They’re all good. But while I love an egg and lettuce sandwich, I would never eat one for breakfast. Ever. The very idea of it makes me queasy. Because an egg and lettuce sandwich is very much a lunchtime food. Maybe it could be a morning tea food if it’s cut into tiny portions and served alongside assorted slices. Whatever if is, it’s certainly not a breakfast food.

And what about bacon? By itself, bacon is a classic breakfast food, but I’d never cook up a bunch of bacon for lunch or dinner. It has to be in something and it’s never in one full rasher that you eat with a knife and fork like you do at breakfast, it’s always chopped up – like when it’s in a risotto or sprinkled over baked potatoes.

It seems I’m not as free-spirited in the kitchen as I thought.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 3, 2021

It’s funny how one person’s set of rules is different to another’s.

I know someone who washes his pants after every wash. And I’m not talking about the British interpretation of pants – which is what they say when they really mean “knickers” – but the long “leg prisons” that society demands people wear in public. You know, trousers.

Now, I’m in no way attempting to berate him or rubbish his clearly incorrect position on pant washing but, to me, that seems excessive and equates to an unnecessary use of resources. 

This person works in an office environment most of the time. He doesn’t come home with the mystery liquids splattered on his clothing that, say, a nurse or a plumber would. He doesn’t sit on the ground. As far as I know, he doesn’t use his butt to touch high-traffic surfaces like elevator buttons and door handles. 

When I brought this up, his reasoning was this: he believes that pants are in greater need of being washed every day based on pure anatomical geography. The pants cover the parts from which things excrete – be they solid, liquid or gas excretions. As such, there are particles that are embedded in the fibres that make said pants dirty. 

And, look, it’s sound logic. 

My view, however, is a little bit different. 

I don’t wash my pants after each use. If there’s no visible dirt, grime or gravy stains, I pop them back in the wardrobe to see another day. This not only saves me from overloading the washing machine – and cuts back on water and detergent usage – but also means less time drying in the sun, which equates to less fading, thus increasing the lifespan of said pants.

But I will, more often than not, wash my shirts after each wear. It’s just something I’ve always done without really overthinking it too much. But when I drill down to why the tops are washed more often than the bottom, I think it comes down to the armpit.

Shirts have un-buffered proximity to the armpit, which gently emits a stench as the day goes on. With nothing between this source of stench and the skin, the smell is transferred directly into the fabric, infusing with each individual thread. As such, it must be washed after use. 

I explained this to my daily-pant-washing acquaintance who retorted “what is between your legs but one big armpit?!”

I mean, once you get past the obscene imagery that statement evokes, you do have to admit that he has a point.

The bottom region is where the majority of concentrated bodily odours are born. And, unlike the gradual release of pong you see in the armpit, the nether regions tend to be more… explosive.

But the pants have a layer of protection between the orifices from which stink is expelled and themselves – that’s where the knickers come in. They act as a buffer, heroically sacrificing themselves to shield the pants from the stink. It’s all quite heroic, really.

And, look, if you’re using your toilet paper correctly, no solid or liquid sources of said smells should be able to come into contact with the knickers, let alone the pants over the top. 

My daily-pant-washing comrade also says that you shouldn’t have different rules for laundry and perhaps that’s where we differ the most.

Because we’re not just talking about the washing here, not anymore. 

I happen to think that, rather than applying a blanket ruling to everything – laundry-related and otherwise – one must consider the nuances that apply to each individual situation. Because not every situation is the same, each situation should be taken on a case-by-case basis. And, yes, you can have a generalised rule that you use as a guideline, but you can and should veer from that if the situation calls for it. And when you do this, you end up making better decisions for each individual situation. 

Although, it must be said, you do end up spending a lot of your brain capacity deciding whether or not to chuck a pair of pants into the washing machine. You could argue that this is too much thinking to dedicate to a simple load of washing. And, look, that’s a fair point.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 27, 2021

Hot cross buns are back on the shelves. 

There’s no point fighting it, those spiced buns aren’t going away until any time soon. Trying to stop their pre-Lent emergence in supermarkets is like trying to stop waves from crashing on the sand. Resistance is futile. 

As a hot cross bun lover, I’m all for the over-commercialisation of this religious baked item. Capitalism has its flaws and there’s varying schools of thoughts on the benefits of the economic and political ideology, but I think we can all agree one of its major perks is the increased availability of spiced buns.   

And, just as there are robust debates about the merits of capitalism, so too are there debates about the best way to heat and eat a hot cross bun. 

I mean, there’s no law against just eating it unadorned and uncut at room temperature, but that seems like a wasted opportunity. And I think we’re all on the same page there. Think about it, have you ever seen someone just biting straight into a hot cross bun like they would an apple?

It would not be an unpleasant experience, but that’s just the base level – you can take a hot cross bun so much higher. The magic of a bun is in the temperature and the addition of butter.

This is where people vary. 

You’ve got the microwavers. You’ve got the grillers. You’ve got the oven bakers. And you’ve got the sandwich pressers. 

I must say that I dabble in all four options, depending on my mood. But when I’m warming a bun in the office, I go for the double-pronged approach: warming the halved bun first in the microwave and then giving it a lovely crust by putting it face down on the open sandwich press. 

I have seen people squishing buns by clamping the heavy sandwich press lid down and while I try not to judge anyone, seeing someone desecrate a bun in this way really tests my resolve.

But over the weekend I learned of a revolutionary new way of heating a bun to perfection. It came to me via a friend via her family friend via Facebook. It involves a toaster. 

Now, we all know that a halved bun is far too wide for a standard toaster slot. Jamming one in there not only smooshes the bun, but leaves you open to extreme charring – and while charring is great for the flesh of a cow, it’s not so delicious when applied to the flesh of a bun. 

But this friend of a friend suggested slicing the bun into thirds horizontally, thus creating slices narrow enough to fit in the toaster slot. It’s a revolutionary thought. 

So I gave it a crack and, as you can imagine, I had some thoughts. 

First, if you’re going to attempt something like this, you have to employ more knife skills than your standard bun halving. I sometimes forgo a knife and just rip my bun in two – it gives more surface area for crisping up, making it a good option if you’re going to whack it under the grill. Plus, there’s something nice about tearing at it with your own two hands; it’s violent but wholesome. 

But you can’t employ such methods here. You need to be precise. I would recommend keeping the bun in the fridge to firm up the bun flesh to make it easier to slice with a serrated knife. 

Also, you need to really watch your timing on the toaster, the bun is awful close to the heating elements. I recommend keeping it on the lowest setting unless you want to eat charcoal*.

* I mean you COULD just scrape the charcoal off with a knife, but once something is burned, there’s no unburning it. The flavour of ill-judged timing and kitchen negligence can never be scraped away. You’re then faced with two choices: throwing it away and living with the shame of wasting something so precious; or eat it anyway, knowing those extra calories you’re jamming into your post-Christmas body are not worth it. Save yourself the grief – watch the fucking toaster.

And, look, each slice of hot cross bun was crunchy and warm. It was an efficient way of heating. 

But felt the essence of the bun had gone. The slices were thin enough to be bread. What I had on my plate was no longer bun, it was It raisin toast. 

The magic was gone. 

And while I don’t want besmirch raisin toast, it just wasn’t as a special as a hot cross bun should be. I mean, I think the real joy of the bun is in the fluffy flesh inside. It’s decadent. It’s not something you have every day. It’s special. 

But this felt wrong. 

What this left me in a philosophical dilemma. Is a hot cross bun still a hot cross bun if it’s sliced differently? What’s the point of eating a hot cross bun if you’re going to warp it into something that tastes like common raisin toast? What’s the point of anything?

So, I would only recommend this hot cross bun heating method if you find yourself without access to a microwave, grill, oven or sandwich press and you have enough time for a spiral about the meaning of hot cross buns and, indeed, life.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 20, 2020

The other day I went grocery shopping and it occurred to me that someone might judge me based on what I had in my trolley. 

To be clear, when I say “the other day” I mean “about an hour after the Premier announced a three-day lockdown for Greater Brisbane”. 

I had the day off and, because one of the four reasons for leaving the house didn’t include going out for a few cheeky beers for my birthday, I decided I may as well duck down to the shops for some essential supplies.

Of course, everyone else had the same idea. 

By the time I got to the supermarket, a long line had formed at the checkouts, snaking its way along the inside of the store. But it was a surprisingly nice time.  Shoppers were making lots of jokes while they waited in line and people seemed to be going out of their way to be polite. It seems we were all working towards the same collective goal – avoiding supermarket brawls over toilet paper. 

And that’s a good thing too, because some fellow with a bulky camera had ventured into the store talking photos for The Media. 

It made me consider what kind of impression someone might get of me if they saw my picture. 

Luckily, I had chosen to wear the coolest shirt I own – a sloppy, long-sleeve shirt with featuring a scene from that episode of The Simpsons where Bart gets a fake driver’s licence and drives to Knoxville. 

I was wearing a facemask, which not only made me compliant with health advice, but it covered any possible flecks of food stuck in my teeth. 

That would suggest I am fashionable, conscious of my impact on the community and that my teeth were clean. 

But what about the contents of my trolley? 

I know someone who once saw a bloke at the checkout with a few boxes each of gravy powder and KY jelly in his basket. Nothing else. It’s a combination that would raise eyebrows at any time. And you can make certain assumptions based on those two consumer choices. But as this sighting was on Valentine’s Day, that escalates things.

In a similar sense, given the situation that was unfolding, the choices I made were more significant and, therefore, more telling than a casual shop.

I took a snap of what I had loaded into the cart for reference and now I can go back to analyse said contents. Some of my purchases – like the wanky flour and an emergency roll of choc-backed Digestives – were buried in the middle and were secret. Only the items on the outside of the grocery mound were visible and thus open to judgement. Here’s my explanation for my choices:

Two bags of spinach: I have spinach for breakfast most mornings and that stuff wilts down to practically nothing. So while two bags might appear excessive, it was very much in line with my needs. 

A box of “proper strong” teabags: Look, I did already have half a box of teabags, but given I was going to be spending a full day at home, it was possible I may exhaust my supplies. And, look, it was a grey and drizzly day – reinforcements were necessary.   

Two bunches of flowers: It was my birthday and, at that point, the climax of Birthday Week. Flowers were a necessity. (I’ve since made the executive decision to extend Birthday Week to Birthday Fortnight).

Chicken goujons: These are essentially chicken nuggets, but goujon,  with its French origins, sounds fancier. I don’t think I need to explain the presence of this in my trolley. 

Potatoes: Because I don’t want to be longer than 40 minutes away from the perfect roasted potato.

Two types of butter: Even for me this seems a bit much. But one was for baking with. The other was for smearing on this rich, rummy fruitcake a real sweetheart of a friend gifted me. 

Two cake tins: I decided I was going to spend the day making an extremely extra cake, the recipe of which called for two cake tins. I’d just moved and didn’t have any baking tins to my name. 

Easter eggs: Because I’m not waiting for the onset of Lent to start consuming oval-shaped confectionary. I’m an anarchist like that.

A jar of goats cheese: It’s just good stuff. It’s not an unhealthy compulsion or anything. I could stop eating it if I wanted to, but I jut don’t want to. OK?!

Greek yoghurt: It’s just so versatile and feels healthier to binge on than ice cream.

Thickened cream: Because maybe it’s time to have another crack at making my own butter… 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, December 2, 2020

We’re well and truly into barbecue season. 

Sundays previously spent curled up on the couch in front of yet another screening of Cougar Town are now spent basking in the sunshine in parks and backyards. And I’ve reached an age where attendees are required to bring something more than a single packet of two-for-price-of-one chippies (keeping the second bag at home for later, obviously). We’ve grown. We’ve matured. We’ve gone past the age where our scummy habits can no longer be written off as youthful cluelessness and will be seen as serious character flaws.

You don’t want to be the friend who offers to bring the plates to the barbecue and turn up with a packet of flimsy paper disappointment discs when someone brought 10 steaks and someone else brought enough sparkling wine for all.

We’re better than that now. 

I mean, I’m not saying that it’s a competition, however, it’s a non-competition you don’t want to lose. It’s no longer enough just to bring something (yes, even when you’re told not to bring anything). You have to contribute.  

But I will say this, trying too hard to win this competitive non-competition can also feel like a stinging loss. 

I remember one time I put on a picnic and offered to make an array of slices, thinking it would be a casual afternoon in the kitchen the day before. But it was not. There were three different slices with three different processes and the oven was on well into the night. And it was January. So it made for a sweaty, stressy time. 

Never again.  

And, yes, most of the time you can’t go wrong with a cob loaf. But even with my cheeky stovetop shortcut, it still requires a bit of oven time. And, let’s be frank, if you plonk one of those babies down next to the Bega slices and Jatz, it’s going to be very, very clear that you’re being competitive in this non-competition. A cob loaf is a show-stopping power move and it’s less-than subtle.

So, when I’m confronted with a group chat full of offers to bring drinks and desserts, I gently assert myself with guacamole. 

Now, it’s just a dip, but if you do it right, you come off as a fancy and thoughtful but still rather laid back friend. And, again, I’m not saying that friendly barbecues are competitions, but you do come out as a winner if you can hit that trifecta. 

I’m very well aware guacamole is essentially mushed avocado and a recipe for it could be three-words long: “mush the avocado” but I’ve never been one to cut a long story short. And, to quote the scripture of Australian cinema, “it’s what you do with it”.

The first thing you want to do is get yourself a novelty serving dish. You want it to stand out from all the other offerings on the table. I recommend the most garish receptacle you can find at a second hand shop. I have this dish that’s shaped like a large avocado. The base and the lid are bumpy and dark green and it comes with a smooth, brown spoon that looks like the seed. It’s fabulous and Nigella Lawson has one just like it (something I never fail to mention each time I use it). It’s undoubtedly my best op-shop buy. 

Then you grab two ripe avocados. You can check for softness without destroying the avos for other customers by lightly pinching near the stem instead of squeezing/bruising the whole thing.. 

Mash up your avos in the skin by slicing them in half and scraping at the flesh with a fork. 

Scoop the gunge out of the shell and into your novelty holder. Some people say to use lemon to keep the avo from browning, but then everything tastes like lemon and, to paraphrase a young Hugh Grant, if you wanted lemon you’d just buy lemon. No, squeeze in the juice of a half a lime for zest, aesthetic and to feel like you’re doing something more than just mushing avocado. 

Then sprinkle in a pinch of salt, about the same amount of pepper and as much chilli flakes as you deem appropriate. I reckon maybe a teaspoon is enough, but I don’t really measure the amount; I just shake the jar until I’m mildly concerned about the heat. 

Then snip in one to two finely-chopped stalks of shallots/spring onions/scallions, depending on how comfortable you are with the barbecue guests to have onion breath around them. 

Mix until all the flecks are evenly distributed and, if you really want to impress, serve with fancy corn chips – the thick tortilla kind. 

Place on the table with a flourish to distract everyone as you snag yourself your fifth Tim Tam of the night.  

Originally published by the Clifton Courier, November 25, 2020

Yeah look, it’s been a while. I meant to only take a break for Christmas after posting this video:

..but I never got around to posting the video. Turns out I was super busy, but I can’t say exactly what I was busy doing. I will let you assume that’s because that’s because my activities are classified secrets, rather than because I simply lost control of my life for a while there. Anyway, all you need to know is that I’m back now.

I forgot to put the bins out last night. 

My housemates are away, meaning I’m the Woman of the House (which, I suppose, means I’m able to answer my phone with “lady of the house speaking” so that’s something I should embrace with gusto).

I’m responsible for closing the windows when it starts to rain. I’m responsible for fetching the mail. I’m responsible for cooking up elaborate schemes to protect my house from bungling robbers.

I’m also responsible for ensuring the household waste is collected. 

The kitchen tidy was full last night and I had made a mental note to take the rubbish down to the bin. 

* I was going to do something with a wheelie bin, but they are either very hard to draw or my brain is broken. So I drew a person with a bag of rubbish for a head instead. The t-shirt slogan is a reference to the Weasley twins shouting “that’s rubbish” in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, when they were barred from entering the TriWizard Tournament because they were underage. I just love that this was the response that seemed fitting of two rowdy 16-year-old boys who were expressing their deep displeasure at something.

But there’s more to putting the rubbish bag into the wheelie bin than just depositing a rubbish bag into a bin. 

The wheelie bin is kept underneath the house and under the house is unsealed. And most of the time that’s perfectly fine. We don’t hang out under there. We don’t hold dinner parties or do yoga under there or anything. We don’t need a fancy concrete slab. 

However, when you’ve already had your shower for the night and the only shoes you have by the door are thongs, you do find yourself longing for a slab of concrete. 

Because even though I’ve spent a great deal of my life in thongs, I haven’t yet masted the ability to not flick ground filth up at me while wearing them. Perhaps it’s something in my gait – I do have a distinct rhythm when it comes to thong wearing, with my signature combination of flicks and slaps being so individual my sister can recognise it across a crowded hardware store – or maybe I’m just wearing the wrong size thongs. 

But, whatever the reason, I find that I feel I need to wash my feet when I come in after taking out the rubbish. It’s very biblical of me. 

Plus, now that it’s getting warmer, there’s the very real threat of encountering cane toads after dark. 

I mean, I don’t care how wussy and squeamish it makes me sound, I don’t think anyone would want to risk potential exposure to a cane toad if they can help it.  There’s a lot many of us would disagree on but I think I can speak for all of humanity when I say: “cane toads are yucky”. They are universally unpleasant.

And when you’re wearing thongs, the risk of touching one with an unsuspecting foot is very high. 

So I went to bed, pledging that I would deal with the rubbish situation at first light. I even set my alarm nice and early on my day off.

But my alarm was not early enough. 

This morning my slumber was rudely disturbed by the screechy brakes, bin-grabbing hydraulics and tumbling of household refuse in the metal belly of the truck. I bolted out of bed, grabbed the rubbish bag and raced out the front in my bedclothes*. I wouldn’t say I was scantily clad, but I certainly wouldn’t wear that…outfit to work.

* I can’t remember what my bedclothes consisted of at the time, however, I think it’s safe to assume that I wasn’t wearing pants. Like, I get away with some pretty casual outfits at work, but even I have my standards. One has to draw the line somewhere, and I draw the line at the criminal definition of public indecency.

The garbage truck was on the other side of the road when I triumphantly landed the bin on the curb. I reasoned that, given the garbage truck woke me from across the road far up the street, you’d think I’d have woken if the truck had been getting to work right outside my window. Surely, it must not have been through on my side of the street. There might still be time. 

But then I felt the weight of the red-lidded bin my more punctual neighbours had placed out on the curb. It was unsettlingly light. It could have been empty. 

However, I held out hope. 

I made myself a cup of tea, put on some long pyjama pants and have been sitting out on the front veranda ever since, waiting for the garbage truck like a child waits for Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve.

But it’s been more than an hour now and there’s been no truck, only commuters walking past the house on their way to the train station.

So I think I’ll wait an hour or two before bringing the bin in. Not so much because I’m hopeful for redemption, but so there’s no one around to witness my walk of shame – wheeling a full garbage bin back into the yard.

The ultimate suburban humiliation. 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, November 11, 2020

So remember a while back when I challenged my sister to write my column for me?

Well, the overachieving little snot actually took me up on it. 

She was over at my place the other day and mentioned that she was keen to do it, but said she’d have to wait until after the uni semester was done. So I pulled out my diary to look at the dates. 

And with that we slipped into Playing Office mode. 

We’re not an overly theatrical family (which, I’m pointing out right now, is very different to being a dramatic family – “theatrical” implies some kind of organised stage show with musical talent and rational story arcs, and anyone who has every heard any of the Maguire girls tell a story will know, our story arcs are a little more… abstract than that of your average three act play) but we do slip into something I’d describe as a cross between improvisation and delusion quite easily. And my sister and I have a long history of Playing Office.

It was one of my favourite games as a child. 

We’d set up a desk, break out Mum’s typewriter and invent high-stress corporate situations. Reports due by 5pm. Faxes that must be sent. Manila folders to be dramatically slammed on desks. You know, office stuff.

While most other kids were out riding bikes or swinging on monkey bars, I sitting inside was shouting into a toy phone about some very important reports I had yet to receive. 

I didn’t have an imaginary friend growing up; I had an imaginary assistant. Her name was Channel and you could only reach her by mobile phone.  

Anyway, while we may have since grown up and encountered actual office life (which, much to my great disappointment, is devoid of manila folders and fax machines thanks to the digital revolution) we still will occasionally slip back into Playing Office.

And we did that the other day. 

We decided that if she was going to actually write a column, she’d have to pitch it to me, A Very Professional and Totally Important Person. She’d need to have a presentation ready and I would have to give her feedback on it. 

So we set up meeting: a breakfast meeting on a weekday, obviously. 

On the day of the breakfast meeting, I set my alarm early and, rather than wear a t-shirt with characters from The Simpsons on it with a retina-burningly bright coloured skirt (AKA what I actually wear to work) I put on a white collared button up shirt and a pencil skirt (which, admittedly, was still retina-burningly bright coloured, but I reasoned that I was playing the part of a bold business woman who wasn’t afraid of a little colour).

Then we got to a café, pulled out our notebooks and started discussing ideas in our Professional Voices. 

I don’t know about you, but I generally don’t come off as the most professional in my day-to-day life. I’m nasally. I say “like” and “geez” a lot. I’ll sprinkle in a couple of swears and swear-substitutes like “dingbat” and “far out brussel sprout” for colour. My Professional Voice is deeper, less pitchy and sees me say things like “such as” and “regards”. It’s like I become a whole other person. So when I put on my Professional Voice, it’s very, very obvious. And not just to people who know me, but anyone around me.

And that became obvious when a bunch of cyclists rocked up and took up the table beside us. I could see in their eyes that they saw what was unfolding at the table next to them for what it was – a fake business meeting between two giggly adult sisters. And they thought it was weird. 

But, look, that didn’t throw us off our game (in the figurative and literal sense). 

We forged on with the meeting and came up with a plan. 

So, I suppose this is really just a long-winded way of me saying that, next week, there’s still going to be a Just a Thought column, but said thoughts will be coming from the head of someone else. 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, October 4, 2020

There’s lots of little things that irritate us.

I am a full time resident of the Internet, a place where people debate politics, reconnect with long lost friends and learn about the world around them without having to actually go anywhere. It’s also a place where people complain. A lot. 

And one thing I see people complaining about quite a bit is the sound of other people eating. There are many, many memes dedicated to this gripe.

And, look, fair enough.

There is a condition where people experience negative emotional reactions to specific sounds. It’s called Misophonia and it doesn’t sound like much fun at all. While the negative emotion triggered by a specific sound can be anger – something that’s very much reflected in the memes I’ve seen – research suggests stress, anxiety and the feeling of being trapped can also be triggered by sounds in people with the condition. So, yeah, not a lot of fun. 

But I gotta tell ya, I really don’t mind the sound of chewing all that much. I mean, I don’t want to see someone slurping up hot yoghurt or anything, but chewing sounds don’t seem to bother me. In fact, the sound of someone else crunching on something can be quite pleasant. Soya crisps – those things that look like musk sticks except biscuity – produce the most satisfying sound.

But there are a bunch of other sounds that do really, really irk me. I realise that listing them here is pretty much giving someone a set of instructions on how to rub me up the wrong way, so I may live to regret this:

Something being dragged across carpet: Just thinking about it makes me skin crawl. You know how when you think about paper cuts and it just makes you wince? That’s what carpet dragging does to me. I rationalise that it’s probably because I’d have some pretty intense carpet burn before and the sound reminds me of the unpleasant heat and confusing pain of it, but it feels like there’s something deep within my soul that morally objects to the sound. Like, I have nothing against carpet as a floor covering. It’s soft to the foot and helps to silence unnecessary sounds. But the fibre-y grind of something dragging across it is just downright profanity. What makes this worse is that one of my sisters loves rubbing her feet across carpet. I can’t say if this is in response to my extreme dislike of the sound but I will say that she does mostly keep it to a minimum when I’m around.

Dentist drills: I don’t think I need to explain this. Dentists are great. And I know there’s a purpose for drilling. But no amount of reassurance is going to make this sound any less distressing. 

People mispronouncing Allora: I don’t come across it al that much, but occasionally you’ll hear a news reporter or a friend unfamiliar with the area pronounce it as A-law-rah. And, look, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Allora is the Shelbyville to Clifton’s Springfield (depending on where you’re from, you may swap around the names) in that it’s our rival town. But it’s a friendly rivalry. Kind of like it’s our sibling – we do share a footy team, after all. And just like your own siblings, you can hang s— on each other until the proverbial cows come home, but as soon as someone else picks on them, there’s hell to pay. So when I hear someone disrespecting the town that doesn’t even have it’s own footy clubhouse (cop that!) I feel compelled to step in.

Running water just going down the sink: I know that water needs to be used. I get it. But I just can’t handle the sound of water just going down the drain for no real purpose. This ranges from a drip to a full on jet of water. I know someone who likes to keep the water running when they brush their teeth because the running water means the spittle they cough up is flushed down the drain faster and it’s infuriating. It takes every gram of self control I posses not to storm in and turn off the tap. But I do continue to remind them about that time not that long ago when we used to have to take four-minute showers.

Someone saying “oh yeah, we’ve run out of milk”: It’s not so bad getting a text message to that effect while you’re in the shops, but hearing it when you’ve just got home and you’re fangin’ for a cup of tea after a long day is nothing short of soul crushing.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, October 28, 2020

Ok, so it’s been while since I’ve done a recipe and in recent weeks I haven’t done anything exciting enough to get a column out of it, so I’m going to tell you about making macaroons.

* Yeah sooo I know someone pretty fantastic who says “it’s not shit” instead of “it’s not bad” when trying to describe something that’s actually pretty damn good. The slang has rubbed off on my, and now it’s part of my vernacular. I say it so much, my housemate even said it the other day.

Now, don’t go thinking these are those fancy French biscuits that used to be all the rage when Masterchef first started. I don’t have the skill or patience to pull them off. And, look, I’m not saying I hate them, but they’re not my favourite things. Like, I’ll eat them if they’re around, but I’d probs opt for a croissant or a vanilla slice (although I think the French would have a fancier name for it) if confronted with them as choices at a little patisserie. Perhaps it’s because I think they think they’re better than me. And, look, they definitely are, but I just don’t think they deserved all the hype.

Anyway, macaroons are the macron’s more laid back Italian cousin. 

I got right into them recently after watching my spiritual guide Nigella Lawson cook them on one of her shows.

The recipe was in her first book How To Eat, which is some 500 pages and has no pictures – as a comparison, I’d say it was as thick as Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Anyway, in the book she talks about ways to use up egg whites if you’re cooking something that only demands the yolks. She’s not one to waste anything, and she inspires her readers/followers/disciples not to either.

Anyway I’ve tweaked her recipe to make it my own, which is to say that I added a few extra ingredients without changing the process in any way, shape or form. 

So, you need 150 grams of ground almonds which, I admit, isn’t what most of us would class as a pantry staple. The stuff can be pretty exxy, especially because it’s billed as a flour alternative. In fact, I also use shelled pistachio nuts in this recipe, which I acknowledge is also among the fancier nuts. So, if you’ve ever had a sneaking suspicion I’m a bit of a wanker, perhaps you have reason to. 

Anyway, before you do anything, preheat your oven to 160 degrees. This recipe doesn’t take long to chuck together, so you might want to do it a little bit ahead of time. You need 150 grams of ground almond and, while Nigella calls for 200 grams I reckon 150 grams of caster sugar is probably quite enough (insert joke about being sweet enough here). Chuck this in a bowl with two egg whites and mix. 

I’d use a mixing machine of some kind because I’m lazy, but I can’t see why you’d need machinery to do the work for you for any other reason. It doesn’t really need to be whipped all that much. 

Then she calls for a teaspoon of almond extract, but I don’t have that in my pantry and I find that sometimes almond flavouring tastes kind of medicine-y. So I go with one teaspoon of coconut essence.

When I actually went back and looked at the book, I noticed she also says to chuck in a tablespoon of flour, but after making a few batches, this addition is news to me so I’m going to just ignore that. 

Instead, I’m going to tell you to added two tablespoons of shredded or desiccated coconut – I don’t think it matters either way, so long as you’re not scooping out the flesh of the coconut, but maybe that wouldn’t be so bad?

Anyway, mix all this up and then once you have a gluey-coloured kind of paste, wet your hands with water, pinch out about a tablespoon of the stuff at a time, roll them into little balls and place on a lined backing tray. I mean, you could use flour to stop the mixture from sticking to your hands, but I always find that a little wet spritzing is less messy. 

Then once you’ve rolled them all out, press a few pistachios on top. I like to do a little flower-like arrangement, but you do what feels best to you. you don’t even have to add them if you don’t want to. I’ve got no qualifications to be telling you how to live your life. 

Then chuck them in the oven for about 20 minutes. Leave them on the baking tray to cool for a bit before puling them off, otherwise they’ll stick to the paper. 

Serve these to your friends and family after telling them that, yes, they’re supposed to be a little chewy and if they can’t handle that, then they should take a long, hard look at themselves in the mirror.