Originally published by The Clifton Courier, April 14, 2019

No matter how accomplished or mature you are, you still revert to your old ways when you return to the family home.

There are certain things I’ll always do when I get back to the Maguire House. I’ll kick my thongs off at the front door and not put them on again until I leave. I’ll open the pantry, freezer and fridge to take stock of the good food in the house. I’ll tidy the clutter on the counter.

And when it comes to eat, I’ll revert back to the pretty, territorial teen who fiercely defended her seat at the Maguire Table.

Each mealtime, I’m seated at the shorter side of the long, rectangular table with my back to the fireplace.  Depending on your way of looking at the world, you could say I’m at the head of the table.

It’s a commanding position that means I’m sometimes backlit by flames, which paints quite a badarse picture, come to think of it. It makes me sound like some kind of matriarch on a quest for world domination, which I quite like.

Sitting opposite me, at the other end of the table, is my father.

Come winter, Dad moves my chair from the end of the table so he can gaze into the fireplace and, I don’t know, think about burning his enemies or something.

When the cold winds blow, he attempts to dethrone me and have me relinquish my position at the table for his own personal gain.

To which I say, bugger that. You chose to bring me into this world; you now must now live with the consequences of your decisions. And one of the consequences of that decision – along with a lifetime supply of happiness, sass and excessively cheesy risotto (the secret ingredient is about half a block of Bega!) – is seeing my freckly face at the end of the dinner table.

This stoush becomes a matter of pride, for my position will not be simply scrapped from the seating plan like a third cousin’s problematic boyfriend with bad sideburns on an already overcrowded wedding guest list.

It’s not just about a simple chair, but the acknowledgment of my belonging in the family.

And while I have been known to occasionally break ranks of a breakfast time to be closer to the butter and honey, that end seat is my dominion.

I’m not the only one who has such an emotional tie to a vinyl-covered chair.

Each of the Original Six (which is a super cool way to my immediate family, which makes us sound like a team of super heroes rather than a bunch of short-than-average, slightly-pink Caucasians who all apparently say “off” funny) has their positions, which have been voluntarily enforced for at least two decades.  I don’t know how we came to sit in these positions; I don’t believe we ever discussed who was supposed to sit where. We just did. Each and every mealtime.

I don’t want to say “we knew our place” because it has some very uncomfortable connotations of gender roles and power imbalances and what have you, but we did.

But it’s not just about my personal power struggle or my superiority complex.

It also just made things easier when it came to setting the table.

Because setting the table required intimate knowledge of each family member. The butter dish had to be kept away from my younger sister, who would pick at the butter with her tiny fingernail. My father had to be given the small but long-handled spoon for dessert, as it allows for a stylish wrist flick and forces him to take smaller bites, thus dragging out the eating experience. Another sister has a particular fondness for a certain butter knife. Mum likes to gnaw the bones of our “finished” chops, so the scrap plate is best placed by her.

Everything had its place, but for a reason.

And while the Original Six has a few new characters, they’re also adapting to the unofficial-but-strictly-enforced seating plan system. Thankfully, the table Dad scored from a relative whose workplace was getting rid of stuff is big enough to squeeze around more people between the six seats, so there’s no need for a separate table for the outsiders.

I’m not going to shy away from it – I like my power position at the end of the table. It’s a skerrick of superiority I will continue to cling to as my self-esteem withers with age and each realisation of my unfulfilled potential. I will be struck down with the blow of a sword before I renounce my title.

Unless of course a guest has popped over for a cuppa and a piece of fruitcake, in which case I’ll gladly abdicate to give the impression that I’m a reasonable person who has more important things to care about than where she sits at a table.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, April 17, 2019

Style is not about fashion.

A have a pair of tiny floral shorts that I like to wear on casual outings. They’re short, yes, but not short enough to be indecent. The print isn’t the most fashionable these days, but I wouldn’t say it’s outdated enough to be deemed ghastly. And they’re a little bit on the stained side thanks to my unfortunate pushing position when attempting to free a bogged ute from a muddy campground, but they’re respectable enough.

I like them. They go great with sloppy Joes and they’re unrestrictive in the crotch. They’re everything a look for in a pair of shorts.

And yet, every time I slip them on, I hear my friend’s voice*, telling me that I should not be wearing them out in public.

* I should probably point out that, normally, this particular friend’s advice is extremely sound. In fact, I’d trust her to be my power of attorney. If this friend had the authority to make my decisions on my behalf, I’m convinced I would be in a much better place. It’s probably something I should be seriously investigating. However, if she were to be given the power to manage my affairs, the contract would have to make an explicit stipulation about this particular issue.

Why?

Because they’re pyjama shorts, she tells me.

It’s as though the fact that I purchased them from a shop that sells pyjamas restricts them to household wear only, maybe as far as the backyard boundary if I’m among people within my inner sanctum.

But I reject this claim.

Firstly, on the grounds of the definition of pyjamas.

A quick Google search defines pyjamas as “any clothing suitable for wearing in bed”.

I actually don’t sleep in these shorts. In fact, I rarely sleep in in any of the cutesy little pyjama shorts I own. I actually sleep in the free t-shirt they gave me for finishing uni. It’s not really a t-shirt on me with my comically short torso, it’s more of a shapeless dress, which makes it the perfect size for optimum sleep comfort. It’s mildly-stained and the cheap fabric is impregnated with my personal musk due to overuse, but I feel like the fact that it confirms I somehow obtained a tertiary education balances all that out.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t actually wear these pants while I’m sleeping, with the exception of spontaneous daytime naps.

So, technically, said shorts are not pyjama shorts.

Secondly, who cares if they are, in fact, clothing designed to be slept in?

As my father says, “it doesn’t matter if you’re dressed like a bag of… [organic, all-natural fertiliser], someone will still take your money”. This isn’t a jab at his dress sense – if you’re not wearing dust covers on your boots, you’re probably underdressed – but is meant to that illustrate your worth is more than what you wear.

Not that I’m saying there’s anything wrong with looking swish in a banging outfit. I’m not suggesting that caring about what you look like is shallow. In fact, I’m saying the opposite.

When you wear something, you should go ahead and own it, regardless of what other people might think. Unless you’ve been asked to adhere to a specific dress code*, you follow your own damn code.

* When a dress code says “don’t we jeans because we’re not animals”, do not wear jeans. I bloody mean it. 

The saying goes that the most important thing you can wear is a smile (but, if you want to avoid indecent exposure charges, I recommend also at least wearing a smock* that covers the important bits). Any combination of clothing can be a killer outfit if you team it with confidence.

* Or perhaps some strategically-placed leaves. 

My filthy sister, who everyone thinks is some shiny glamourzon because she has blonde hair and is skinny, used to rock up to school with unbrushed hair nearly every day towards the pointy end of her schooling career. We had to get up fairly early to catch the bus and I suppose she just didn’t feel like dealing with the trauma of bushing knotty hair before the sun was officially up. Instead, she would tie up her hair and add a Barbie hairclip to the nest, which she said gave the appearance that her hairdo was messy on purpose. And then off she’d go to school in her little white Kia, blasting Britney Spears and leaving a trail of sass behind her as she went.

And that’s something I think we should all aim for. Forget about the haters and craft your own sense of style, be that ironically pink hairclips or practical lawn-mowing kit. Wear what makes you feel good – while keeping within the restraints of the law, of course – and own it.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, April 10, 2019 

I can be a little bit extra.

For people who don’t spend at least 59 per cent of their time on the Internet, “extra” is a term bestowed on people who are flamboyant, indulgent and, well, perhaps a little bit much.

It’s about the only word the young folk use that I fully comprehend, perhaps because it applies to me to on a fundamental level.

Extra is being someone who believes “corporate sequins” is an office-appropriate look. Extra is imagining yourself immortalised as a Barbie doll. Extra is writing about how extra you are and what you eat for breakfast in a column dedicated entirely to you and assuming people want to read it*.

* I had many more examples of my behaviour that qualified as a “extra”, which I didn’t have room to include. But because I have the luxury of eternal space on The Internet, I’m going to list those now: 

Extra is repeating Natasha Bedingfield’s made-famous-by-reality-TV-trash-The-Hills Unwritten the entire way home so you can nail the chorus.

Extra is demanding strong-looking strangers lift you Dirty Dancingstyle when Darryl Braithwaite’s The Horses plays on the dance floor.

Extra is having two going away parties, one goodbye breakfast and a farewell bottomless brunch when you move cities.

At least, that’s my understanding of what “extra” is.

Being extra can be exhausting – particularly for those who have to endure your presence – but it has its uses, too.

This particular combination of intolerable personality traits means you eat quite well. You’re not content with just eating a stale, store-bought jam roll. You’re either going to opt for a insufferably wanky clean treat made with spelt and cashew butter, or you’re going to get a pastry so elaborate, it looks like something from Versailles.

When I’m faced with an office breakfast, I don’t settle for sad microwavable porridge packets or milky poppers promising a fibre hit. No, I go with something that looks like a full on café brunch. And all it takes is a wee bit of preparation the evening before.

If you want to be like me (may heaven help you) and eat like a non-gender-specific monarch, just follow these easy steps:

Step 1: Make yourself a cup of tea, because everyone deserves a decent cuppa at the end of a day.

Step 2: Boil two eggs. I’m currently dealing with an induction cooktop and have no idea what that means, so I just boil them until the kale’s done and my tea’s gone.

Step 3: Warm up a frypan over a medium heat, glugging in a good tablespoon of olive oil.

Step 4: Grab a few stalks of kale, give them a rinse and pat them dry. I know, kale is associated with a lot of douchbaggery, but rise above that. It’s a good, leafy bugger that’s excellent for your rig and can actually taste great.

Step 5: Rip the leaves off the stem and all its branch-like offshoots. Chuck the leafy bits in the now-warmed oil.

Step 6: Sip your tea.

Step 7: Fill the sink with about an inch of hot water and detergent.

Step 8: Once the kale has a bit of crispness to it and is coated in oil, tip it into a microwavable container, seasoning it with salt and pepper to make the kale taste less like kale and more like salty oiled dreamflakes. Place the frypan in the sink.

Step 9: Remove the eggs from the saucepan, whack them in the container and tip the boiling water into the sink. Place the saucepan in the dish rack to dry – as far as I’m concerned, that fella is clean.

Step 10: Group kale container with a piece of bread and an avocado in the fridge, ready for the morning.

Step 11: Pull the soaking frypan from the dishwater, give it a quick, effortless wipe clean and let it dry.

Step 12: Seize the night, whichever way you deem appropriate – I recommend staying up too late trying to decide on something to watch, falling asleep the couch, then struggling to empty your mind after relocating to bed.

Step 13: You’ve managed to wake up, dress yourself and, hopefully, arrived at work on time. You’ve succeeded in not being frogmarched out of the office in disgrace, so celebrate with breakfast. Walk to the kitchenette with a spring in your step.

Step 14: Put pre-packed bread in the toaster making sure to readjust the setting in case some heathen switched the dial to “burn-the-arse-out-it”. Remove the eggs from the kale kontainer and microwave dem leavez for one minte. Boil the kettle.

Step 15: Peel the eggs.

Step 16: Spoon half the avocado on the toast, using a fork to mush it up.

Step 17: Pour hot water over the teabag of your choice into the sassiest office mug in the shared cabinet.

Step 18: Slice eggs and arrange artfully atop the avo. You could microwave them, but I’ve learnt that may be too precarious a pursuit for a communal microwave.

Step 19: Upturn the kale on top of the toast so you have a mound of smugness – seasoned appropriately with salt and pepper.

Step 20: Finish making your well-steeped tea.

Step 21: Walk triumphantly back to your desk, batting off compliments about your healthy, café-worthy breakfast as you strut.

Originally published by Clifton Courier, April 3, 2019

Sometimes, you need to ask yourself the big questions.

And that big question is always a derivative of “Why?”.

Way back in the day when I was a goon-soaked journalism student, we were taught the basic building blocks of a story. We were given the five Ws (and the one H) to answer to keep our stories from being nonsensical dribble. You had the “Who?” your “What?” the “When?” and “Where?” and, most importantly, there was the “Why?” You also had to squeeze a cheeky “How?” in there too, but “how” doesn’t conform to the handy alliteration that we journos love so much, so it’s not given the same reverence. Despite my insistence on regularly destroying my brain cells, I eventually learned that the Why? was always the meatiest question. And, more often than not, it’s the juiciest part of entire story.

If you keep asking “Why?” like an annoying seven-year-old, you eventually boil away the bullhonkey and get to the real spice of what’s happening.

“Why?” is a powerful question.

I recently read about a great goal-setting strategy where you ask yourself five “Why?”s to suss out what’s really driving your desire to achieve whatever task you’re wanting to accomplish.

And I think this badgering method should be applied not just to council meeting reports or evaluating of your ambition create a cloak made entirely out of human hair (although, there’d be a few other questions you’d want to ask yourself if you had that goal on your vision board).

Being an introspective/extremely self-absorbed kinda gal, I decided to turn this method into a way to analyse my behaviour so I learn more about the type of person I am. Because learning more about myself is what I like to do for fun. I guess it’s a hobby. Some people climb mountains, others teach themselves to play the guitar; I sit in silence and think about myself.

But my personal “Why?” question usually comes in the form of “Why am I like this?”

It’s a question I would ask myself on average 2.7 times per day. And it’s usually more of a rhetorical thing.

But actually answering yourself can be enlightening.

For example, asking myself why I was feeling a little bit dusty the other morning led to a few revelations. This splintered off into two lines of enquiry, one related to the consumption of wine the night before. I had three to four glasses at the most, but was feeling rubbish the next day. Why? Because my body can’t bounce back from abuse the way it used to. Why? Because I’m getting older. Why? Because time marches on with a callous continuity and it stops for no one.

Cool, right?

The other line of thinking was related to my poor sleep. Why did I sleep so poorly? Because I was having nightmares about having too many leftovers and I kept getting so stressed in my sleep, I kept having to wake myself up to calm myself down. Why? Well I obviously have some problems with stress that I need to address before my frettings manifest as blood clots.

See? It’s a fun game!

It can help you rationalise behaviour that, to an outsider, probably doesn’t make much sense.

For example, if an outsider saw someone standing in the kitchen wearing an old t-shirt and no pants while eating cold stuffing out of the arse end of a chook, they might see a broken, irrational person. But by asking yourself “Why am I doing this?” you’ll know your behaviour makes total sense. Why are you eating just the stuffing? Because your body needed fuel after a long day and the brown rice and nut combo of the homemade stuffing was a nutritious choice. Why aren’t you wearing pants? Because you wanted to keep your work clothes stain-free and the oversized shirt was the fastest outfit change option available. Why are you spooning the stuffing straight out of the carcass, treating a hollow, dead chicken like an ice cream tub? Because you didn’t want to cause more washing up by using a plate.

I mean, this is all strictly hypothetical, of course, but it helps you to find logic in your behaviour.

So next time you find yourself asking “why am I like this?”, maybe try to answer yourself. Even if it’s not your idea of fun, at least it’ll be interesting.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 27, 2019

I’m someone who feels the need to achieve things everyday.

This makes me sound like some kind of young, enthusiastic entrepreneur with a bright future of property investments, bold blazer choices and eclectic collection of celebrity ex-boyfriends. It sounds as if I seize the day.

However, as my psychologist and I have worked out, I’m not overly ambitious. I’m not out there demanding my app/product/unnecessary social movement get more and more successful. I don’t really have any goals, at least not the big, life-changing ones. Nope, I think smaller. I just need to feel as if I’ve done something productive with the 24 hours I’ve been allotted to quiet the bees buzzing around frantically in the glass jar that is my brain.

So when I have a day of doing very little, I find myself feeling quite wretched and wasteful. I feel as if I cheated myself.

To avoid this, I write out cheeky to-do lists to keep myself on track so at the end of the day, my self-loathing is diminished ever so slightly because I’ve managed to organise my lunch for the following day or something.

But last week I was sick. And I actually called in sick rather than sniffing my way through a workday, spraying germs on my colleagues. This meant I had a whole 24 hours to fill, something that was not lost on me despite my losing my sense of taste and extreme tissue dependence. I was pretty much useless.

But at the end of the day when I assessed my productivity I was unable to accept that, by doing nothing, I was recovering, which would eventually mean my returning to full productivity sooner than if I’d tried to do something. No, that would be too logical.

So in the absence of a ticked off to-do list, I wrote myself a… did list; documenting everything I did that day. And look, it did help. Because I was able to go through that list and see that I did manage to achieve some things, however inconsequential they may be in the long run.

Watched a lot of TV: Specifically, one episode of Nigella Express, one episode of Grand Designs, half an hour of Morgan Freeman trying to answer questions about God, ten minutes of doco about Scottish witch hunts (I turned it off when a torture scene got a little bit too much), A Secret Garden, an hour of Anthony Bourdain hanging out in Budapest (which made me want to eat dense, meaty stews), three episodes of Ricky Gervais’ show After Life, four episodes of Daniel Radcliffe and Steve Buscemi’s show Miracle Workers and the first feature length film documenting the inspiring story of Paddington Bear. I mean, the sheer length of that list is impressive in itself. But I’m going to attempt to extract some meaning from it. Watching two newly released shows have boosted my pop culture knowledge, something I desperately need to top up after years of watching nothing but Cougar Town and Gilmore Girls reruns. Anthony Bourdain informed my dinner choice, Paddington lightened my soul and I got to revel in Collin’s “I’m not sour” face in The Secret Garden. It was extremely beneficial.

Showered: Considering I never left the house, you could argue that showering wasn’t entirely necessary but that’s why it was such a big victory. Showering when you’re covered in mud is something you do without requiring much motivation, because you can see the immediate benefits. But showering when you’re super comfy, have no energy and have a nose too blocked to be aware of your salty musk requires a lot of will power.

Followed Big Bird on Twitter: There’s a lot of snarky drams on Twitter, so I prefer to pad out my feed with as many wholesome contributors as possible. I also follow Paddington Bear. And look, I’m well aware that it’s a PR exercise and the accounts are written by social media managers posing as these fictional delights, but I don’t care.

Encouraged friends in my group chat to follow Big Bird on Twitter: I think it was the “thank u, nest” tweet of his that really did it for them.

Wrote a to do list for the following day: I had the next day off and I’d be damned if I was going to waste it. However, I did put really achievable goals on that list, such as lighting a scented candle and checking to make sure I paid a bill I know I already paid.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 20, 2019

I made up this recipe the other weekend, when I felt like eating something delicious but wanted to lie to myself that I was being healthy.

My answer was to celebrate the coming of autumn with pumpkin scones, challenging myself to use oats instead of regular flour (if that’s not the whitest, most basic middle class sentence I’ve ever written, I’ll burn my tasteful linen dresses).

I actually began writing this recipe down half way through, so I could recreate whatever I’d done in the event of it not being too terrible. Then I made it again, following the recipe. I think I’m a legitimate recipe writer now, so I’m just waiting for the Le Creuset pots to come rolling in. Any day now.

Important note: I love raw mixture and have no fear whatsoever of catching salmonella from eating raw eggs – in fact, I didn’t event know that was a reason people didn’t eat raw dough until I was a grown woman and I turned out fine*! So I made my recipe a little doughy, but please feel free to cook for longer if you like your baked goods as dry as your soul.

* LOL I’m absolutely riddled with defects. These fault can be traced back to a lot of things, but I’m pretty sure the consumption of raw eggs is not listed in the DSM as a determining factor for any of them. 

As such, please store these in the fridge*, because they go bad quickly if left out in the mould breeding ground of a sealed plastic container in a humid climate. The smell of rotting pumpkin is not nice.

* They keep for a good week if stashed in an airtight container in the fridge. They keep even longer if you make them look like sloppy lumps of dried vomit, thus limiting their appeal and warding off any rouge tasters. 

Step 1: Peel and chop about a sixth of a small pumpkin into tiny cubes – they don’t have to be exact cubes, they can be rectangular prisms if you’re feeling sloppy.

Step 2: Chuck these pump chunks into a saucepan, trying to mimic the kind of flair you would see on a cooking show. Perhaps pretending you have long fingernails will help.

Step 3: Boil the arse out of those chunks until you can jab a fork though them with such ease that you no longer get any catharsis from stabbing an inanimate object. Set aside to cool.

Step 4: Blitz three cups of rolled oats in a food processor until they have the consistency of sand. This is going to be your flour and forms the majority of the wankery in this recipe. Tip this powder into a large – preferably fancy – mixing bowl.

Step 5: This is one of my recipes, so you’re going to need to break out the ground ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and, my gourmet fave, the allspice. Go with two teaspoons of ginge, one-and-a-half of all spice, and about half each of the nutmeg and cinnamon. Go for a good pinch of salt too, while you’re at it. Tip all this added pizzaz into the mixing bowl, with as much flair as you can muster.

Step 6: This is one dense, grainy mix. If you don’t want to be eating rocks, add three teaspoons of baking soda. Yep, three teaspoons. Don’t be fucking shy.

Step 7: Fork this dry mixture together, in a vain attempt to lighten up the oaten gravel.

Step 8: Blend the pumpkin in the food processor until it has the consistency of Clag Glue. It should be clumpy but not lumpy, if that makes sense. In case this doesn’t make sense, just aim for a thick puree. Scoop about one-and-a-half cups of this gunk into the dry mixture.

Step 9: Mix, realising you’re probably going to add more liquidy goop to the mixture to avoid eating something with the mouthfeel of a dried cowpat.

Of course, butter is the answer to this question. Butter, is always the answer.

Step 10: In the already hot and dirty saucepan, add about 50 grams of butter, which works out to be two large/normal tablespoons. Then add two tablespoons of brown sugar before melting over a low heat.

Step 11: Beat an egg and consider adding milk, given it’s a key ingredient in the classic recipe.

Step 12: Remember that you forgot to buy milk earlier that day and decide against adding whatever dairy juice you have, because otherwise you won’t have enough for a cup of tea tomorrow.

Step 13: Stir in the sugary butter mix and the egg.

Step 14: Decide to add in a cup of normal rolled oats, because you really want to drive home the point that these guys are rich in wholesome oatiness.

Step 15: Slop on to an oven tray in golf ball sized clumps, spacing out if you can. Remember, clumsiness in presentation in the kitchen is merely homeyness, which is rustic charm. And rustic charm is pretty fucking trendy right now. So if your balls look like splats, don’t fret, pet.

Step 16: Chuck into a fan-forced oven set to 210 degrees, setting the timer for seven minutes so you can make a “seven minutes in heaven” joke… to yourself, because there’s no one around to hear it.

Step 17: Take out one clump to try as a tester, smearing in butter. Decide that, even though you love raw mixture, it could probably do with a bit more time in the oven.

Step 18: Rotate the trays, chuck them back in the oven and set the timer for seven minutes again. Again, realise that you’re all alone and there’s no one around to grimace at your “more like seven minutes in hell, because it’s so hot, ammiright?” remark.

Step 19: Take out of the oven, allowing the steam to disappear before you take a picture of your oaten treats to post on social media.

Step 20: Begin badgering your mates with texts that read: “I just invented a new wanky kind of oats. Come over!”.

Step 21: Sit in silence for hours before deciding it’s probably time to go to bed.