Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 5, 2020

I’m beginning to really understand my father’s love of mowing the lawn.

I have always appreciated a nice, neat patch of grass, but never quite understood the drive that would see my father drag a heavy piece of machinery across the entirety of our yard in the unforgiving summer sun. He would come into the house dripping with sweat, gulping down water like a first year uni student with a sack of goon. It always seemed like a bit much especially when the benefit was just shorter grass. I mean, it was just grass mate, take it easy.

But recently, I’ve started to see things differently.

For years I haven’t had to go anywhere near a mower. My time in Sydney was lawn-less because land was far too valuable to not be exploiting it for rent in some way. My first lease once I moved back to Queensland was in a house with more of an “outdoor area” than a yard. And while I’ve been in a house with a backyard for months now, the lack of rain meant there wasn’t really any lawn to mow.

But all that changed after a few decent rainfalls. Somehow, the grass that lay dormant and brown for so long had remembered how to be green again.

With a bit of spare time on my hands and a backyard event to tidy up for, I decided to fire up the mower.

The first time I brought it out I was fiddling with the catch trying to get it to fit to the mower. My neighbour, who I imagine I’d shamed into mowing his lawn by mucking around with our mower in plain view of his house, offered to help me fit the piece in, but also couldn’t get it to work. He got the mower going for me, but I would like to point out that I have since started the mower with just one casual rip of the pull start cord (which, make no mistake, I absolutely am bragging about – I loudly declared it work the next day and may put on my resume).

The fist few minutes of my first mow after so long out of the game felt a bit weird, but then a voice inside me whispered, “remember your training!” and I soon found my stride.

My training began more than a decade ago. It consisted of Dad yelling over the roar of motor to line the wheels up so that one side of the mower is just over the strip of freshly cut grass I’d just gone over. You don’t just go all over the place willy nilly, otherwise you miss spots. You just follow the tracks you’d already made. Without knowing it, Dad had also taught me how to shave my legs, as the same principles apply.

Despite my being more than competent at mowing as a youngster, Dad continued to be the prime mower of the household. I don’t suspect this had anything to do with complying with child labour laws, but more to do with the overwhelming sense of satisfaction that comes with cutting your own grass.

Despite the physical fitness elements and the pride that pulses through your veins when the motor ticks over after that first rip of the pull start cord, I think the best part of mowing the lawn is having something to show for you spent your time.

This isn’t something I often experience. And this is probably for the best, because I don’t really think I want a physical representation of the way I spend my time. I don’t have the data to back it up, but I reckon the biggest slices in the pie graph that would represent the way I spend my time would have to be labelled with “fruitlessly switching between smartphone apps as I stare into the social media void to lull my brain into a numb stupor” and “stressing about deciding what to do with my free time”.

Even when I am actually productive, it’s all on a computer and what I’ve achieved is discernable only to me.

But when you mow the lawn, your productivity is out there for all to see.  And boy is that sweet. When the job is done, you fix yourself a big glass of cold water, wipe your lips with the back of your sweaty hand and gaze out at your handiwork. Something inside you glows.

For the next few hours and, let’s be honest, the following day, you catch yourself standing around just looking – nay, marvelling – at your crisply mown dominion. And sweet baby cheeses, it feels pretty good.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 22, 2020

Every household should have a rain gauge.

Now, I know this sounds commanding and almost dictatorial of me, but I don’t intend to enforce my views beyond a bit casual rain gauge advocacy. I mean this in a suggestive, light-hearted way, in the same way you might say that everyone should watch Cougar Town or serve leftover lamb shank dregs on a bed of chicken nuggets (something I can highly recommend).

Growing up, our household always had a rain gauge. At the moment, it’s hooked up to a gum tree that was knocked around by storms so much that it’s been cut down to a gum stump.

We didn’t need a rain gauge. We were not economically invested in how much moisture was in the ground. We didn’t have to think about whether the contour banks (yep, I had to Google what they’re actually called, because “them long dirt mounds that run along paddocks that, like, stop the soil from running off when it rains” didn’t really flow with the paragraph) would hold after a heavy shower. And aside from that one time a pumpkin patch spontaneously popped up thanks to a fortuitous combination of house manure and uneaten kitchen scraps, the spare paddock that makes up most of the Maguire station hasn’t really been utilised for agricultural purposes.

But it’s still nice to have an idea about how much rain fell out our way.

Because there are few things that will break an uncomfortable silence and bring two people together better than the question “so how much did you get out your way?”. It’s one of those questions you can ask anyone, but you’re actually interested in the answer. Like, you may ask “how ya goin’?” to be polite and might not give two hoots about the answer, but you’ll always pay attention to how many mils were in their gauge.

Weather, of course, is the great unifier in that we’re all affected by it. But the amount of rain people received out their way is somehow more potent than general weather chat. It’s non-divisive and inquisitive but is very hard to steer into inappropriate, uncomfortable territory. It taps into the sticky beak inside of all us and creates pleasant, good-natured conversation. It leads to discussions about how patchy rain can be, how different the rainfall was from last year and whether you think there’s more on the way. From here, the conversation can go just about anywhere.

I mean, I’m no dating expert but I reckon breaking out a “so how much rain did you get out your way?” might just be the perfect way to strike up a conversation with a potential love interest.

The only problem is that people in The Big Smoke don’t tend to have rain gauges. Of course, I’m generalising here, but I don’t know many people in the city with gauges. I understand not everyone has a backyard in which to stick a rain gauge and they might not be able to fix one to their apartment walls, so you can’t really blame them. But the lack of a water measuring devices in this part of the world is profound. It’s something me and a few of my Clifton-raised, Brisbane-dwelling counterparts lamented the other day, after we got 12mm out our way.

I know this because we have a rain gauge on our back fence.

I’m currently living with two friends from my uni days, one is from Out Near Pittsworth and the other, her fiancé, is from Up North Somewhere. He asked her parents for a rain gauge for Christmas and it truly has been a gift that keeps on giving. He has a group chat with my friend’s father and her younger sister’s partner, with the conversation thread being a chain of rain-related banter. As such, our household is well-informed on the rainfall Out Near Pittsworth, adding a deeper richness to the rain-related conversations we’re part of.

It’s these conversations the gauge-less city slickers are missing out on, which is quite sad. Because, without a gauge, they’re effectively shut out of quality chats. They won’t have the information to be able to hit back with something along the lines of “yeah, it made a bit of noise but didn’t do much for us” to return the serve of a rain gauge pickup line at the bar.

But while the fact that not many city dwellers have rain gauges might appear to be a flaw in my pickup line theory, it’s important to point out that this strategy is not just a conversation starter, but also a screening method to make sure you don’t end up with a dud. Because, let’s be honest, do you really want to be with someone who doesn’t care about how much rain you got out your way?

Originally published by the Clifton Courier, January 8, 2020

I went to the movies the other day as a bit of a treat.

It was a stinkin’ hot Brisbane day so I decided to take advantage of someone else’s air conditioning and, at the same time, get a bit of culture up me. I mean, most of the movie references I make these days are from the likes of Titanic and Dude… Where’s my Car? so I really need to work on my pop culture knowledge. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those cinematic masterpieces, but they’re a little old. When someone asked me for my TV show recommendations the other day, my suggestions of Cougar Town and Midsomer Murders were met with judgemental guffaws. I’ve suspected for a while now, after years of re-watching the same episodes of Gilmore Girls, Grand Designs and Girls of the Playboy Mansion, my pop culture knowledge is somewhat… niche.

I want to stay with it, remain relevant and, most importantly, get the references in jokes people make on Twitter.

Going to the movies is a good place to start, I figure, and it’s much nicer to go out the picture theatres instead of lying in a sweat patch on the couch for six hours straight until the Netflix message that pops up asking if you’re still watching suggests you’ve lost control of your life.

I decided to go to one of the old-timey cinemas, one that’s genuinely called a picture theatre (and, I like to imagine, has staff that pronounce “film” with two syllables, like “fill-um”).

It was a good choice.

The place had an old Hollywood vibe that was charming, not tacky. They let you drink pints at midday. The seats were more like armchairs, but the kind of armchair you’d never buy for yourself because you know you’d never leave the house if you had one at home.

The popcorn was like no popcorn I’d ever experienced before. I don’t know how they did it, but those popped kernels were twice the size of piddly puffs in the packing material you get at other theatres. I mean, I love the stuff they serve at other movie theatres – that fake butter powder they coat it in is fantastic, like a kind of salty fairy dust. But this old timey popcorn was the way popcorn was supposed to be. I’m not saying I’d pick it for my last meal – at this stage, a hot chippie sandwich still has that honour – but it was easily the best thing I’ve eaten* all year.

* I’d originally said “put in my mouth” instead of “eaten” but changed it because I didn’t want to be unnecessarily filthy

I was really into the movie when I got to my last piece of popcorn, somehow losing it on the journey from the tub to my mouth.

Not taking my eyes off the screen, I felt around the side of my cushy armchair for the divine kernel which had renewed my faith in corn-based snack foods. I began to fear I’d lost it to the floor when my fingers close around a familiar shape.

Eyes still on the screen, I raised it to my mouth and chewed.

Its texture was like popcorn, but also reminded my of the carpet underlay I see people ripping up to reveal hardwood floors on home reno shows.

It tasted like someone used an old newspaper to wipe down a window after a dust storm… and that newspaper had somehow contracted a nasty strain of the flu.

I don’t think I have synaesthesia (which is, as I learned after a quick Google, the name for the neurological condition where sensory experiences are attached to other senses), but I described it to people as tasting like a colour. Visualise a very pale, dusty green with flecks of a bluey black. That’s how it tasted.

Someone else had sat in that seat weeks (or so it tasted) before me and, clearly, they were not as enraptured with the popcorn as I was. Rather than ferreting around for their dropped piece, they left it in the crease of the cushion to fester until it was more mothball than popcorn.

I scraped the cursed kernel off my tongue, slopped it into the popcorn tub and washed the taste out with the remaining glug of cider I’d thankfully saved for myself.

When the movie ended, I left before the lights came on so I couldn’t see what was globbed in salvia in the bottom of that popcorn tub.

Part of me was curious to see if what I tasted was the colour I saw in my mind’s eye, but I decided I didn’t need to see what had been in my mouth.

Some things are best left unknown.

Originally published by the Clifton Courier January 8, 2020

I’ve become a recreational coffee drinker.

I’m pretty concerned, because this isn’t who I am at all.

A staunch tea drinker, I would often opt for a brewed chai or a pot of English breakfast if I went out for brunch. The bean juice just wasn’t something I would go for.

But I just* came back from a spontaneous breakfast at the cafe that recently opened around the corner from my house and I ordered a latte.

* This “just” implies this was a recent breakfast outing, but it actually occurred some time last year. 

I’m now officially a latte-sipping, city-dwelling (well, I’m living 10 kilometres from the city centre) leftie (I’m left-handed).

How did it come to this?

I used to only drink coffee when I was driving home late at night during my uni years, when I’d to and fro between Brisbane and Clifton at ungodly hours. I didn’t want to become a regular coffee drinker in case I dulled myself to its effects, so I decided to only drink it when necessary. This was no real sacrifice, because I didn’t really enjoy the taste all that much.

I mean, I love a good espresso martini, but the price of cocktails these days means it’s a rare treat. And I also enjoy a cheeky tiramisu every now and then, but there aren’t many times when that particular dessert crops up.

I loved how my coffee policy meant I never regretted how much money I spent on takeaway caffeinated beverages and I didn’t have to have a reusable coffee cup on the go.

Unlike all the other adult drones I know, coffee didn’t have a hold on me. And I was extremely smug about that.

I felt in control. I felt free.

So how did I get here?

Well, it started a few weeks back, when I was driving home from a weekend away and found myself feeling extremely weary at the wheel.

I didn’t want to stop for a sleep. It was midday, so I’d definitely be sleeping in a hot box if I pulled over for a kip in the car. Plus, it was only an hour’s drive; so stopping for a nap was probably a bit much. So I pulled into a servo and got myself a coffee to perk me up enough to make it home.

A weekend not long after that I found myself yawning on the drive home the day after a Mount Tyson Tupperware party that went long past the mini caramel tarts. Again, I opted for a coffee over a nap.

Then the last time I drove back down the range after a Darling Downs visit, I had a coffee in the cup holder before I even began my descent.

Fast forward to today, when my housemates invited me along to a casual breakfast at the café around the corner.

I had enjoyed a surprisingly restful sleep the night before. My journey home was a two-minute walk. I had no plans to go anywhere else.

And I ordered a latte.

Even more worrying was that I drank it slowly, enjoying each sip. Of the three of us, I was the last one to finish.

Now I’m worried.

I don’t know if that’s because I have a tendency to overthink things or if it’s because of the caffeine.

I’m typing extremely rapidly and feel like my heart is the sub-woofer speaker in the back of a hotted-up Commodore going for laps down town on a Thursday night in 2009.

My brain is whirring.

What if I’m now addicted to coffee? Am I going to fritter away my money on takeaway coffees every day? Will my teeth go yellow? Am I drinking coffee that was grown using slave labour? Am I going to become a caffeinated zombie who can only function after a cup of Joe? Does this make me a full-on grown up now? Am I going to going to become a dull, adult bore? Am I just going to be living from coffee to coffee until death comes for me?

As you can see, coffee and my brain might not be the best combination.

I’m going to go put the kettle on – I think I should stick to tea.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, November 27, 2019

I’m staring down the barrel of my 10-year high school reunion.

Reunions, as I’ve learned from a lifetime of watching Romy and Michelle’s high School Reunion, offer the chance for redemption, bragging and showing off your interpretive dance moves.

They also make you reflect on what you’ve become, whether you’re happy with who you are and how you’ve spent the past decade of your life.

And while I’m thrilled I’ve finally learned that side fringes and greasy foreheads don’t make for a smart mix, I was keen to assess what else I have achieved since leaving school.

There are, of course, many measures of success, but not many of them are very good.

The most obvious one is about finance and career. Having a business card and using phrases like “investment portfolio” does sound pretty cool. But one person’s measure of career success are starkly different to the next person’s. To some people, my career might seem pretty alright, while others might think it’s not all that crash hot.

Then there’s relationships. I mean, sure, some people might thing that I’m not married with children is a little sad, but others might view me as a free spirit with a heart like a wild brumby that cannot be tamed.

And I don’t want to judge myself based on possessions. This isn’t because I’m a non-materialistic person. I am a material girl. I love stuff and I’m very sentimental about objects, to the point that my sister is a little concerned. It’s because, again, people’s measures of impressiveness vary. I know a few people who think my collection of novelty swan figurines is cool, while others find it unspeakably dumb.

Not to sound preachy, but if you try to grade yourself on other people’s measures of success, you’re always going to miss the mark somewhere along the line. So you’re better off figuring out your own criteria and judging yourself against that.

At this point in time, my metric of success is having interesting stories to tell, stories that would make me sound like a wild bit of gear when I tell them to my grandchildren (should I ever produce fertile offspring, that is). I mean, you could argue that this is fuelled by my desire to appear cool, and you would not be wrong there.

So I’ve collated a list of the coolest things I did each year since I graduated, which took a bit of digging through old photos to jog my memory. Social media had just became a thing as I was making my way into adulthood, so I didn’t have to rummage through shoe boxes of photos – this saved me a bit of time, but I feel this would have been more dramatic than scrolling through images with my laptop sitting on my stomach.

2010: Made a paper mache Golden Snitch helmet and paired it with a yellow tracksuit to wear to a Harry Potter movie premier.

2011: Was the first girl to do a keg stand a party where girls were only invited to look pretty (I was my friend Megan’s plus one, in case you were wondering how I got in there).

2012: Was one of two people who started the first ever d-floor at a UQ Wine and Cheese Club event. I’d arrived a little late and, just as I entered the room, the delightful Michael Bublé song Everything started, which was mine a friend’s favourite song at the time. She was on the other side of the room and just happened to have locked eyes with me as the Bubes started singing. We danced towards each other into the centre of the room and our graceful moves prompted others to join in. She was later told that this was the first time in recent memory that a dance floor erupted at an official club function, so we essentially made history.

2013: Was chucked on the shoulders of some enthusiastic guy during Dammit at the Blink 182 concert I went to with all three of my sisters.

2014: According to my Instagram account, cooked hot cross scones.

2015: I was dubbed, and I quote, Queen of the Dino Snacks by Steggles’ social media team for arranging dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets into an edible diorama with broccoli trees and a sweet potato volcano spewing out gravy lava. I was never officially coronated or given a crown, but I did receive 18 kilos of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.

2016: Made the guy who sings Eagle Rock sign my shoe and drink some of my rosé.

2017: I vomited nine metres underwater. Twice. And didn’t die.

2018: Swam in the Irish ocean in April. That was cool, but mostly in the temperature sense.

2019: That remains to be seen.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, November 20

I had a Friday night off. I had the house to myself. So you bet I was going to do some baking.

I’d promised Grandma I’d attempt making her a pavlova having just recently seen Nigella Lawson cooking one on her show and decided that Friday night was the night. I was going to do to it.

Luckily, I have Nigella’s How To Eat, which has a nice, basic pav recipe that I learnt was adapted from Stephanie Alexander. It was our own Australian kitchen queen who came up with the best pav tip I’ve ever heard – turning it upside down to pile the cream on the soft, goey underbottom and leave the crust which formed on top to contain the creamy slop. My words, of course, not hers.

Here’s how I spent my evening, should you chose to replicate it:

Step One: Put on some Nora Jones. You’re a mature woman now, the kind who bakes thoughtful desserts and attends Tupperware parties and buys high thread count sheets (when they are heavily, heavily discounted, but still, you care about yourself). You deserve some Nora.

Step Two: Consider lighting a scented candle but light a citronella coil instead because the mozzies have infiltrated the house because beautiful old Queenslander houses apparently don’t have flyscreens to keep them out. I’m sorry, but how superior can this home design be if it doesn’t keep the mozzies out?! You shouldn’t need to light citronella coils inside your home. I personally quite like the smell citronella gives off, but that’s not the point.

Step Three: Pour yourself a glass of red, because it is Friday night after all and you’re a classy woman, remember?

Step Four: Question if the wine you’re drinking is bad, considering you opened it more than a month ago and there’s winey residue stuck to the inside of the bottle.

Step Five: Drink regardless. You don’t know what good wine tastes like anyway.

Step Six: Preheat the oven to 180 degrees.

Step Seven: Break four egg whites into a bowl, using your hands as the separator so you can enjoy the feeling of goo in your hands. Delight in how soothingly gross this process is. Collect the yolks in a container and refrigerate – you’ll deal with them later.

Step Eight: Look for salt to sprinkle in and realise your household is too extra for normal table salt. Decide that the crumbly French stuff might be better than the pink Himalayan rock salt and the peri peri salt. Hope for the best.

Step Nine: Realise you don’t have a stand mixer and the food processor probs won’t be the best thing to beat air into your whites, so arm yourself with a whisk, take a deep breath and beat. Note that Nigella wants you to keep going until you get “satiny peaks”.

Step 10: After four minutes and 11 seconds of beating, swearing and rest breaks*, decide the mixture is satiny and peaky enough and move on to the next step.

* I wouldn’t say that I’m the strongest or fittest woman in the world, but I go to Body Pump enough to delude myself into thinking that my biceps have a bit of go about them. And, sure, I’m a long way off having Michelle Obama’s arms, but I thought it was alright. Whisking these eggs made me realise I have got a long, long way to go. The experience was truly humbling and completely exhausting. 

Step 11: Nigella wanted 250 grams of caster sugar to go in next but you don’t have kitchen scales. Google the conversation and learn one cup of caster sugar is about 225 grams. Measure out a cup and a bit of caster sugar, assuming you’ll be right.

Step 12: Add this in a third at a time, beating those dam eggs again.

Step 13: Nigella says to beat the mixture until it goes stiff and shiny. Decide it looks shiny and is becoming tricky to beat with your very, very tired arm, and assume that’s stiff enough. Never mind that it’s still pretty runny.

Step 14: Sprinkle in two teaspoons of cornflour. The recipe called for a teaspoon of white wine vintager, but there’s only apple cider vinegar in your house, so tip that in and use extra drops of vanilla essence, hoping it covers the taste.

Step 15: Be thankful this just needs to be gently folded in.

Step 16: Note Nigella’s advice to heap this mixture into a circle, attempting to do the same. Also note that your mixture is a bit too runny to heap… it’s more of an ooze.

Step 17: Place in the oven and IMMEDIATELY (Nigella used all caps so I will too) turn it down to 150 degrees. Set your timer for one hour and 15 minutes. Decide you should use this time wisely.

Step 18: Use your time freewheeling a bickie recipe with those old yolks, thinking you’ll really impress the girls at the Tupperware bridal kitchen tea you’re going to tomorrow.

Step 19: Pull it out of the oven even though Nigella says to let it cool completely in the switched off oven. But those bickies need their time in the oven too, so you have to make a sacrifice. Hope the pav won’t take it personally.

Step 20: Realise the pav did take it personally, because it’s more of a flat, crumbly disc than a heaped marshmallowy dream.

Step 21: Decide you’re done for the night, reconcile to cover your disgrace in cream, which you hope will be enough to stop people noticing they’re eating sugary Styrofoam when they tuck in.