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Sprouting wisdom

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I’ve finally seen the truth about Brussels sprouts.

And that truth is that I’ve been cooking sprouts wrong my entire life.

Now, it would probably be more accurate to say that I’ve been cooking sprouts wrong for the past five years, because I came quite late to the sprout game. To my knowledge, I was never fed sprouts as a child. My only awareness of the mini-cabbages was through American movies, in which kids bloody hated the things. Every depiction of them was negative, if not traumatic. There were never neutral positions on sprouts. They were the common enemy of children around the world. I learned to hate them before I’d even seen one on my plate, let alone put one in my mouth.

And I didn’t set out to get all preachy about anything other than vegetables here, but probably a lesson in this: sprouts got a terrible wrap in the media I consumed, which directly influenced my opinion on them.

It wasn’t until Mum started making baconny cabbage that things changed. I’d been wary of cabbage for a long time too, but the addition of bacon took away all my misgivings. It was a fried, bacon-flavoured slop that opened up my world.  Cabbage was my gateway vegetable to sprouts because I reasoned that, if I liked cabbage, I’d like it in miniature form.

And I did.

I started wilting sprouts with butter and oil and bacon, and I really, really enjoyed it. I would chuck the four ingredients in a small egg-boiling-sized saucepan and simmer down until they went slightly mushy. Sure, it took its time. And yes, it was tricky trying to balance cooking the sprouts all the way through with not wanting to burn the outers. And sometimes I didn’t get that balance right.

But I was hooked.

I lamented about how long I spent avoiding these cute little cabbages; all that time I’d wasted. But I made up for it. It was a regular feature on my dinner table/the couch cushion I rested on my lap so I could eat while watching TV.

I was smug. I’d seen the light. I’d realised the errors of my past and had overcome them.

But then I saw this new way of cooking them and it changed everything.

I came across it in a free Coles magazine, which always fills me with delight and lofty culinary aspirations. I picture the Mediterranean feasts I could make or the themed dinner parties I could host. I get wild ideas about rhubarb. I look at pears differently. And sometimes I do legitimately believe I’m going to cook a Coles-inspired banquet for my charming and sophisticated adult friends who wear tasteful jumpers.

I mean, that’s yet to happen, but it’s fun pretending.

Because reading the magazines isn’t so much about the recipes, but the enjoyment of perfectly-plated food. I spread reading them out for weeks as I pore over the artful way the made-with-Coles-ingredients dishes are laid out on the crockery my inner-housewife wets her metaphorical pants over. It’s almost pornographic for me. I mean, it combines two of my greatest loves – food and magazines that tell me how to live my life.

And, as someone who had very limited layout restrictions to stick to back in her newspaper days, I must say that I do get a little kick out of the composition of the pages. Sometimes I joke about being a terrible journo – my spelling is appalling, I hate bothering people and I tend to tell long-winded, had-to-follow and anti-climatic stories in conversations – but I do love me a good page layout. And I find the smell of newsprint extremely alluring. I would absolutely buy a newsprint-scented candle.

But anyway, I digress.

I came across the sprouts method and it legitimately changed my life, which is what I told – at unnecessary length – the poor person who sits at the desk beside me at work the next day. I also told my sisters. And my inner sanctum of fierce female friends (calling your group “fierce female friends” makes you all sound like highly-successful but incredible likeable trailblazers – like the cast of Big Little Lies or Oceans Eight). I told everyone about it.

It was a religious experience and I was compelled to spread the word. I wanted people to see the light. I wanted them to open their hearts and let this miracle into their lives.

So here it is, the celestial wisdom of sprouts: a combination of water and butter.

I know, but bear with me.

First, halve your sprouts and whack them into a lidded frypan flat-faced down. Completely cover the bottom of the frypan, because you’re going to want as many of these babies as possible. Then you add like a third of a cup of water, maybe a touch more if you’re dealing with some thicc mummas.

Then add butter. I think the recipe called for about three tablespoons of butter, but I believe in being liberal with dairy-based fats. Life is there to be lived and, damn it, butter is solidified life, so take a big spoonful of it. If you’re doing this yourself – and I strongly advise that you do – dollop the butter in the gaps between the sprouts until your heart feels full and your zest for life returns.

Now, I realise that this butter and water combo may sound extremely odd to you, because I also had my doubts. I was a sceptic, but now I’m a convert. You just have to have a little faith.

Close the lid on your little sprouts, bringing the pan up to a medium heat. After maybe five or ten minutes, the water will have evaporated. By this time, the water will have softened the sprouts, cooking them all the way through. And then it’s the butter’s time to shine. Rather than settling for soggy sprouts, let them brown up in the goo of the gods. After a few more minutes, your sprouts will be cooked completely but will have an outer crispness that hugs your soul.

Enjoy with a big hunk of steak, on a sanga with brown bread and freshly-cooked chicken breast or out of a novelty-sized mug.

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Winter longing

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, June 20, 2018

Winter can be a dark, depressing time.

Yes, devouring more bread-related foods is lovely. Crackling fires are divine. And it’s easy to pretend you’re a Norwegian Disney princess when there’s a thick layer sparkling frost on the grass. But no matter how cute you look in a beanie and extra-thick flanny combo, the cold, blistery season presents some serious low points.

It means you spend more time inside, because going outside requires far too much effort. And this means you spend more time alone, with because you’ve decided venturing outside to see your friends is more effort than it’s worth or, most likely, your friends have decided that venturing outside is more effort than you’re worth. And because of this aloneness and insideness, you tend to spend a lot of your down time curled up inside a blanket like a grumpy sausage roll, alone with your own thoughts and stale musk.

All this time on your own can lead you to some dark places. You learn things about yourself that you didn’t know and are confronted with parts of you that you’ve been pretending don’t exist.

It can be very dangerous indeed because, if you’re like me, it might lead to you to ruminate on the things you don’t have; that all important thing that’s missing from your life. When you’re cold and alone, it’s much harder to ignore the painful throbs of a heart aching for more. The longing becomes unbearable.

Yes, it puts into sharp focus how much I really, really need a clothesline.

When I left for Sydney, I didn’t think about. I was younger then. I arrived with the spring, when the sun’s rays lingered and filled apartments with warmth. A clothesline would be nice, I thought, but not having one wasn’t the end of the world. I was strong. Independent. Resourceful. I didn’t need a rotating frame.

But now winter has set in and I’m realising just how foolish I was.

Leaving aside the fact that having a rotating Hills Hoist means you’ll be able to liven up any dull barbecue/dinner party/wake with a round of Goon Of Fortune, there are some other practical delights of a clothesline I yearn for. Yes, yearn, like a one-dimensional female character in a 1950s romance epic yearns for an emotionally-distant solider with questionable views about the role of women in society to return from The War.

Having to dry an entire load of laundry on a clotheshorse is more deflating than you’d think. When the sun rises late, sets early and only hits your apartment for a short period of time, your clothes can take days to try. Days. After one particularly miserable weekend, my jumpers were still so damp after 48 hours of “drying”, I could have sucked enough water out of them to last me a day in the desert.

You drape your cheap, pretend-not-to-be-aware-of-how-unethically-they-were-produced clothes on the bars, knowing full well that the dank smell of confinement and your personal… aroma will never completely dry out of their fibres.

With a clothesline, you can hang clothes outside and get at least some progress from the icy breeze and winter sun. But not here.

Instead of a backyard, I have a balcony a little bigger than a ute tray with an extremely windy outlook. You can’t leave an unsecured clotheshorse out there unattended because there’s a high likelihood your washing will blow away.

As such, it’s a rarity to be able to position the clotheshorse outside to let the sun scorch the one’s clothes/linen/sinful past. I long for that smell sheets get after being hung to dry in the sun all day – it’s a smell that assures you all the germs have been fried. And knowing those germs have died horrible, horrible deaths helps me sleep at night.

I had my sheets on the balcony when I started writing this, so I could hop up and grab them if they blow away. I was literally watching laundry dry/living the glamorous big city life.

And because you can’t leave it outside, your laundry has to be hung in the lounge room. Suddenly, your collection of novelty pyjama pants and I-can-get-just-one-more-wear-out-of-these undies becomes an art installation for all to see.

Look, maybe it’s just the cold talking. Maybe once the sun comes out I’ll realise that I’m fine on my own.

But right now, as I sit in my damp apartment surrounded by knickers and musty gym gear, I want a clothesline and I don’t care how desperate that sounds.

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Seeing clearly

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, June 13, 2018

I’m posting this on the 6.20am bus on Thursday morning, so please forgive the lack of italicised commentary. As much as I love the idea of adding extra info like I’m in the bonus featurettes in the box set DVD of my life, reading and writing on the bus makes me queasy. And as much as I’d love to have an excuse to head back home on this dreary, rainy day, I’d prefer not to have to deal with the fallout of vomiting on the upholstery or, even worse, another passenger. I probably should have public vomit insurance, but, as far I know, that doesn’t exist yet.

And, with that, please enjoy the latest of my ongoing first world complaints.

There are plenty of pros and cons about my glasses.

The biggest pro, obviously, is that their dark, circular rims communicate to the world that I enjoy a good Wes Anderson movie, I know the lyrics to more Modest Mouse songs than just Float On and that I probably shop at op shops (in case the bold, high-waisted plants I’m probably wearing wasn’t a dead giveaway). They act as mini-windshields when you’re in an open-aired vehicle, meaning you can keep your eyes open without the fast-moving air stinging them. They give you a sense of protection to ease your irrational fear that a magpie is going to go right for your peepers.

And, I suppose, they do help me to see.

However, with all these positives, there are also negatives.

For one thing, they perfectly illustrate just how much of a greasy person I am. I wipe my glasses constantly because I’m forever smudging my lenses with my grubby little mitts. I can’t pinpoint the cause of this, but perhaps it has something to do with my “more is more” philosophy when it comes to butter.

Opening an oven door instantly transforms my glasses into fog simulation goggles. It’s annoying and, actually, quite dangerous when you consider I’m carting around piping hot (and expertly-prepared) food with low visibility.

And then you have the issues with rain. The droplets on the lenses obviously impact visibility, but the splashed glass effect also looks quite funny to other people. This means that you want to run dramatically through a rainstorm as you deal with your emotional issue of the day (or, just as legitimately, an emotional issue you just invented because you didn’t have anything bothering you at that particular point in time you but still wanted to make use of the moody weather) and turn up unexpectedly at someone’s doorstep, the theatrical effect is lost. No matter how many times you listened to How To Save a Life by The Fray, your I’m-broken-but-adorable act will be undone by the comedy of your water-speckled glasses.

I discovered a new glasses complaint over the weekend. Unless I’m extremely tired, I don’t hop into the shower with my glasses on. I’m short sighted, so I can definitely manage to navigate the metre square enclosed by tiles, glass and an invisible sound barrier that keeps my renditions of Celine Dion’s classics from leaking into the rest of the house. However, after years of staring at a computer screen for much of my day, the details get a little foggy at my feet. I mean, I can still make out that I have all ten toes (and, thanks to an overzealous dancer at the office Christmas party, nine-and-a-half toenails) but there is a thin filter of obscurity down that low. So when I’m showering, I never realise how dirty my shower is.

I don’t notice the sludge, comprised of soap scum, my dead skin cells and miscellaneous sauce spillages to form a blackened splattering on my tiles. I don’t know that my shower represents every colour on the grime rainbow – from pimple pus yellow all the way through to dried dam scum greenish-black.

I only realised this when I randomly decided to clean my bathroom over the weekend. I thought I only needed to freshen things up, because I’m not really that dirty of a person. I don’t spray fake tan or use mud masks or anything, so I thought a little once over was all that was required. And this was somewhat true – because everything at eyelevel was mostly clean.

But when I knelt down by my shower, fully bespectacled, I was horrified by what came clearly into view. I’m used to asking myself “why are you like this?” but this was a completely different tone. This wasn’t a half-disappointed, half-amused exclamation, it was a confronting blend of disgust and concern.

I was in that shower scrubbing for the good part of an hour.

And here’s the conundrum: my poor vision meant my shower was becoming a bacterial breeding ground unchecked but, on the other hand, I was happily oblivious to the fact that I was bathing in mould, probably building up one heck of an immune system. Ignorance is bliss, no?

Didn’t my poor vision protect me from the grimy reality I was living?

Does it matter that my shower was so dirty if I never noticed?

The answer to that question is: yes, obviously. That’s how you get tinea, you filthy, filthy human being.

I pledged to never let it get that bad again, and I meant it. But then, I didn’t even notice how sparkling clean my shower was when I next used it.

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Absolutely barkin’

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, April 6, 2018

The other night, I got up on my high I’m-from-the-country horse.

Now, this is interesting considering I’m someone who needs a block of wood as a boost to hop up into the saddle and I’m only just competent at riding (and that competence is arguable, however, considering that time I fell off a horse, broke my wrist and my life crumbled to pieces because I could no longer write, drive manual cars or shower without the company of a plastic bag).

I’ve written about my tendency to ham up my rural roots in the big smoke (see, I’m even doing it now) before. It’s just something that happens when you are surrounded by people who don’t know all the lyrics to Boys From The Bush. I automatically pretend I’m a member of the Outback Club. I’ll use strange words like “sorghum” and “charolais”. I’ll find a way to bring swags into the conversation so I can let it slip that I’ve slept outdoors. I may even start talking about the “rain out our way”.

And then I get into my rants. It all depends on what’s topical at the time – milk prices, live export or that extremely private, little-known gentleman Barnaby Joyce. Whatever’s been in the news.

But because I’ve been a little out of the cycle (I don’t know if you know this, but I was, like, in Europe. I’ve been to France, sweetie). So I’m not fully up to speed with the current events that I can chime in about “them bastards in Sydney just not bloody getting it”.

However, that’s not going to put a dampener over my bonfire (that you can light because you’re like five kilometres away from your nearest neighbour, I tell them) of country pride. I have this tendency to stew on things that annoy me about Sydney that wouldn’t be an issue back home. As such, I always have a backlog of “things that really shit me” that I can draw on at the moment’s notice.

And, recently, the targets of my rants have been dog owners.

You see, it’s now trendy to have border collies as pets. And I don’t disagree with that; they are lovely dogs that enrich many human lives. But the thing about border collies is that they were bred as working dogs and have a metric heckload of energy underneath that glossy, fashionable coat. They need to run. They stimulation. And they need big, open spaces.

Now, I doubt there are many backyards big enough for a collie in the eastern suburbs of Sydney. You can take them to the park every day, but they’re still being cooped up in a tiny yard – or worse, an apartment – for most of the day.

I’ve even started seeing kelpies being walked in Sydney parks. Kelpies in the city, for heaven’s sake. It’s bloody silly and makes me quite angry.

So, back to the other night. I was standing next to a guy at a reputable late-night kebab shop and we got talking about animals. I can’t remember how the conversation started, but the lovely thing about late-night kebab joints is that most people up for a chat. A whole new set of social rules apply. People are friendly. People actually talk.

Anyway, it came out that old mate had a kelpie.

And because I’d polished off a whole bottle of the finest, cheapest rosé the bottleo near me had to offer, I was in a ranting mood.

I started going on about how much space kelpies need and that they’re working dogs and that’s pretty bloody rough to keep the poor fella cooped up in the city. I don’t know how coherent I was at that time of the evening, however I did my best to berate him for having a working dog as an ironic appropriation of working class culture as an inner city status symbol. I may have even used the word “wanker”.

I thought I was doing pretty well at making it clear that I wasn’t from Sydney and that I knew stuff about the world because of where I happened to have grown up, portraying my background as proof of my superiority as a human even though it was something I had no control over.

But then old mate told me he was a farmer visiting Sydney from Victoria.

Oh. Dear.

According to my somewhat hazy memory, I backpedalled a bit then tried to rope him into my rant about wanker dog owners in Sydney. But for the purpose of ending this column on a comical note, I’m going to pretend I said this:

“So uh… get much rain out your way?”

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Tupper-where is my life going?

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, May 30, 2018

Just an update on where I am as a person now.

I live in a share house situation, which tends to breed passive aggressive behaviour and, if you’re silly enough to move into a house with a clearly-non-council-approved spiral staircase that leads to a maze of dungeon-like rooms like my friends were, scabies*.

* This is not a joke. This is what happens when five boys decide to live together and only the landlords of houses in need of demolition will approve them to rent. They caught actual scabies. Scabies!

Thankfully, passive aggressiveness appears to be the only infestation plaguing my flat and the flare-ups are minor and only seem to occur when the bins fills up.

Ever notice how whenever you take out the rubbish – no matter how infrequently you do so – you always feel like the only one who ever does it?

Any time you banish the waste to the confines of a wheelie bin, it makes you feel like a truly noble being. It’s like you’re the only one willing to take a stand. In you mind you are a heroic waste crusader; the last frontier keeping the household from being violently swallowed up by a mountain of empty yoghurt containers and banana peels.

I was taking out the recycling bin the other day, in a wee bit of a huff. I mean, I had to go all the way down the hall, down the stairs and open a door with a bucket in my hands. And I had to put on shoes to do this. The injustice of it all was difficult to ignore.

But, because I’m the backbone of the household and the defender of filth*, I humbly carried the bin downstairs to the bay of wheelie bins underneath my apartment building.

* I may even deserve a statue, or at least an oil painting of some description, to commemorate my great sacrifice for the greater good. It’s only reasonable. 

And as I was tipping countless wine bottles I’d not drunk a sip from (not that I’m bitter or anything…) into the bin, I noticed something: three containers looking suspiciously like Tupperware sitting in another recycling wheelie bin.

I had to investigate.

And sure enough, my eagle eyes had not deceived me. There were three clean, perfectly sound containers just sitting there, abandoned among the empty hummus tubs and water bottles.

As someone who learned much about the workings of society through the prism of Mum’s Tupperware Parties, I knew this was gold.

This wasn’t just some crappy plastic container from the two dollar shop; this was the good stuff. It’s the stuff you write your last name on with a nikko pen so someone doesn’t snag it from a primary school barbecue. I mean, those were airtight, stackable containers that could keep your jam drops fresh for week. And, being my mother’s daughter, I knew these babies had a lifetime guarantee*. Sure, they were missing their lids, but you don’t just throw something like that away**.

* I promise this hasn’t been sponsored by Tupperware in any way, not that I’d say no to a few spare lids. I just am very well-versed in the benefits of Tupperware, having spent a life time with no first-hand experience with weevils.

** But something tells me these people had more dollars than sense. I mean, one of the containers was quite large and had a label on it that read “dried apricots”. Those wrinkly bastards aren’t cheap. If you eat them so much that they need their own designated container – let alone a big arse container – then you’re obviously making bank. One day I’d like to be wealthy enough to not care about a Tupperware lifetime guarantee, but I can’t see it happening. 

So of course I fished them out.

And then I started digging to find the lids. Some would call this “dumpster diving” but I would be more inclined to label it “not being the kind of dingbat who would turn their back on free Tupperware”. I’d also like to point out that it was a recycling bin, so it wasn’t like I was rummaging through used nappies.

Perhaps this will turn out to be a pivotal moment in my life, clearly marking the end of my youth and the beginning of my adult life.

I mean, there are few things that scream “grown up” quite like a dedication to extending the shelf life of baked goods through proper pantry storage. There was no turning back now.

And in case there was any doubt about what I’ve become; I wasn’t even disappointed I only found one lid. Because now I have an excuse to “have a few of the girls around” and put on a batch of scones*.

* Pumpkin, of course. 

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Rosé coloured glasses

Well, it’s the second weekend in a row that I’ve spent my day of rest recovering from reckless consumption of rosé.

It’s an ugly kind of hangover that feels leaves you with the faint stinging sensation of regret that festers in the pit of your stomach like an old nectarine rotting in the bottom of a fruit crisper. It’s a rancid, squishy feeling that is all kinds of unsettling. Aside from the overwhelming need to lie down, gives you the feeling as if you’ve wasted your day, derailed your life and set yourself on course for ruin. Looking at the world through rosé coloured glasses is the most unflattering of filters, casting the harshest of lights on reality and covering everything in a murky film that would stain a dishcloth.

Now, given my constant state of being and the fact that I’m about to put a new fridge on my credit card (a call out for a fridge sponsor on Instagram was rudely ignored and I can no longer exist with an insulated wardrobe as a refrigerator), it usually doesn’t take a couple of litres of pink wine to give me this feeling. I can get there all on my own. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s extracting the depressing details out of a situation of ruminate on, swilling them around my brain like the clumps of warm dairy swirling around at the bottom of my teacup.

But I’m trying to be more positive. And by that I mean, I’m not actually going to be positive, but will attempt to be less negative.  And by that I mean that I am at least aiming to keep my negativity down to a nice, mild level– just enough to be amusing but not too much to be concerning.

You see, I just watched two episodes of Simply Nigella, which was exactly what I needed while nursing a sore head and lugging around a cinder-block-heavy heart weighted by the news of the great Anthony Bourdain’s death. Her voice is like a hug. Something in the way she does things tells you you’re not a piece of shit in a way that you actually believe it. Somehow, watching her crush up Cornflakes with her hands or peeling ginger with a spoon reminds me to be a little kinder to myself.

So I’m looking back at my day with a softer gaze.

Yes, I may have had chocolate cake and two-and-a-half teaspoons of Big Mac sauce for lunch. I may have caused irreparable damage to the lino in the kitchen trying to get a look at our broken fridge. And I frivolously spent forty still-one-week-until-pay-day dollars on an unhealthy amount of Mexican takeaway for dinner. But sometimes these things happen.

Sometimes, you do need that second Tim Tam after 10pm. Some mornings, you’re going to wake up with mascara smeared on your pillow. And some afternoons you’re just really not up to going to that rock climbing gym you said you’d go to.

There’s always tomorrow… especially when that tomorrow is a public holiday, which you can use to put your life back together.

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‘How was ya trip?’

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, April 23, 2018

Apologies for the lack of bonus italics commentary with this one, I’m posting this during game one of Origin, between exclamations of “for fuck’s sake!” and the tackle count restarting. 

The tricky thing about going overseas is condensing your trip into an informative yet entertaining sound bite when people ask how it was.

These days, no one has time to hear the whole story; there’s only room for the highlights. And I get that – it takes me far too long to tell a story and I often lose my place. Short, snappy highlights make sense.

Given my whole livelihood depends on my ability to tell stories, you’d think I’d be able to spin a decent yarn about a trip to overseas.

But you’d be wrong.

I’m having a lot of trouble carving up my trip into entertaining, easy-to-digest chunks. The memories of my trip are jumbled together in a messy clump, like that bottom drawer where you throw all the junk you can’t find a place for but don’t want to throw away.

Thankfully, I’d anticipated this post-holiday memory loss, and used my smartphone to photographically document the small but important details of my journey. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so I figured I’d let my photos do the talking.

But because it would be unreasonable and quite egotistical (even for me, someone who commands a fair hunk of paper each week by talking about themselves) of me to demand hundreds of my photos be printed in the paper, I’ve selected one image from each day of my trip to describe to you. I hope they culminate to paint a vivid picture of my travels:

Day one: a tiny bit of bread from a cheeseburger, purposefully leftover so I could tell myself “I didn’t eat the whole thing”.

Day two: jewellery with a matching dagger – to remind me to commission myself a necklace-earring-dagger set once I’m rich and fabulous.

Day three: the Cliffs of Dover at a distance that makes them look extremely underwhelming.

Day four: my hand, holding a bit of cheese up to the Eiffel Tower with a disapproving look from a guy in my tour group in the background.

Day five: a dad wearing a belt with dogs embroidered on it while reading the info about artworks in that classic reading-historical-plaque stance all dads seem to take.

Day six: a wine bottle and a packet of chips strategically placed in the grass at a French truck stop.

Day seven: a cider bottle I thought was a display of excessive packaging.

Day eight: a coaster featuring my terrible life advice before it was hung from the ceiling of a backpackers’ bar.

Day nine: me, looking extremely unimpressed next to the Leaning Tower of Piza.

Day ten: me, seconds after spitting a massive wad of phlegm over the side of the only bridge the Nazis spared in Florence.

Day eleven: a very large, very old statue of a pinecone that I don’t understand the significance of.

Day twelve: a delicious eggplant parmigiana from a servo.

Day thirteen: a pizza with hot chips on it, taken from a shop window.

Day fourteen: a half-eaten bowl of sauerkraut.

Day fifteen: a close up of a girl in my tour group’s eye.

Day sixteen: a plastic cup of prosecco with a strawberry ice block in it.

Day seventeen: a sausage, slathered in curry sauce on a bed of hot chips. No chicken salt.

Day eighteen: magnets depicting the sausage, slathered in curry cause on a bed of hot chips. Again, no evidence of chicken salt.

Day nineteen: a windmill house poorly-framed by my shivering hands.

Day twenty: a paper cone of hot chips with ketchup, mayonnaise and diced raw onions on top.

Day twenty-one: two tomatoes, stuffed with meaty, Indian goodness.

Day twenty-two: a man in sunglasses, clearly judging me for taking a photo of the British flags hanging over the street.

Day twenty-three: green post boxes, which I thought was extremely exotic.

Day twenty-four: my big toe after half the nail was ripped off at an Irish pebble beach.

Day twenty-five: a cup of tea in the foreground with a Saint Bernard puppy in the background.

Day twenty-six: my dinner – a single-serve of hazelnut spread I’d snagged from a hostel breakfast – on a fold-out tray on a train.

Day twenty-seven: an over-priced airport steak.

Day twenty-eight: a miserable, rainy Sydney through the window of an aeroplane.

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“Health” nuggs

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, May 16, 2018

You’re perhaps becoming a little sick of my shithouse recipes by now, and I don’t blame you. I am too. I’m also currently reading Heartburn by Nora Ephron, which is quite laden with recipes. So I understand your fatigue. 

However, it’s important to note that I drank a very, very cheap bottle of rosé – among other things – last night, so today wasn’t the most productive of days. I mean, sure, I achieved things. I listened to Kanye’s new album. I created a very sad Instagram post that attracted 20 plus (plus! I say!). I showered my body. 

Looking back on that list, I realise now that I did manage to do a lot of things.

Which is perhaps why my mind is so fatigued now, weary from a day of ticking off extremely achievable goals. 

And so, rather than dazzling you with a well-crafted, revenant piece of writing, I’m just going to slap another reheated recipe in front of you, telling you “ya git what cha givin – don’t be so bloody ungrateful”. And, yes, it is chicken nugget related. Again. 

I’m sorry, that’s all I’ve got in the freezer. 

Of course, no autographical cookbook of mine would be complete without an ode to crumbed chicken.

But I’ve already gifted you with the secret to the best schnitty ever (make your own breadcrumbs) and the culinary masterpiece that is a trough of nugg-chos (nachos, but with chicken nuggets instead of corn chips).

Thankfully, I have another nugget-related recipe up my sleeve.

I can’t remember when I started making these, but I do know it was born from a desire to both eat chicken nuggets and be healthy.

As someone with neither a dependant child nor a job that requires me to use spreadsheets, I can’t comment on If Women Can Have Both (a question no one seems to really ever ask men).

However, I can say that, when it comes to nuggets and health, women (and men, for that matter) really can have It All. It All does, however, come with compromises.

This isn’t a clean eating recipe requiring coconut oil or something that can only be grown at a particular altitude in the Amazon. But it’s also not exactly the same as what you’d get from a drive-thru at a fast food restaurant.

It’s like KFC but it isn’t, and you have to accept that.

It’s at this point that I’ll drop the disclaimer I’ve learned to apply to my everyday life: expect the worst.

It sounds negative, but years of disappointment have taught me that lowering those expectations to the very bottom rung is an excellent means of protecting yourself. If the outcome is as disastrous as you expected, then you at least get the satisfaction of knowing that you were right. But if things turn out great, then you get to enjoy the fact that things aren’t terrible and, as a plus, that good outcome will seem even better when you compare it to the train wreck of a situation you were expecting.

And with this, I’ll launch into the recipe.

Step 1: On a wide dinner plate, dump two or three heaped tablespoons of wholemeal flour. Now, I have neither the power nor the resources to force you into using slightly healthier flour. Domestic flights are expensive, so I can’t come to your kitchen to personally shame you into using a particular ingredient. Perhaps one day I will be able to communicate with birds and send a fleet of magpies to monitor you on my behalf, but I have yet to win their trust.

Step 2: Crack in a bunch of black pepper and a good sprinkling of salt.

Step 3: Mix together with a fork, trying not to get flour everywhere, because wiping up flour with a wet cloth can coat your bench in a filthy paste that lingers for days.

Step 4: Grab two unnaturally large chicken breasts, cutting them into slices no more than 1cm in thickness.

Step 5: Realise that chickens don’t really have actual breasts because they aren’t mammals, and wonder what other lies you’re being fed by The System.

Step 6: Press each slice into the dry mix, coating each piece in as much flour that will stick to the moist, sticky chicken-goop.

Step 7: Pause for reflection.

Now, I’m going to level with you – this isn’t actually that healthy of a recipe. The next step is going to involve a lot of oil and delusion. If you wanted to be healthy, you could place the chicken on an oven tray, coat the chicken in a light cooking spray, and bake. But I choose to say yes to life, and that means saying yes to shallow frying and lying to yourself.

Step 8:  Say yes to life.

Step 9: Pour a good tablespoon/ladle of extra virgin olive oil into a frying pan, warming to a medium heat. I say extra virgin oil because it’s something I’ve told myself is healthy for years and don’t want to do any research that might suggest this isn’t the case. Besides, it’s probably better to cook in olive oil than a mixture of butter, lard and milk chocolate, right?

Step 10: Once hot, place the first batch of chicken in the pan, turning once the edges are white, firm and curling up slightly. This shouldn’t take too long as the chicken pieces are quite thin.

Step 11: Cook chicken on the other side until they reach your ideal level of golden-brownness.

Step 12: Repeat the process, making sure to keep topping up the oil levels.

Step 13: Serve to your friends, making the case that the wholemeal flour and lack of “highly-processed ingredients” makes this meal healthy.

Step 14: Avoid any follow up questions, changing the subject if necessary – bringing up the Kardashians generally does the trick.

 

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This one made it to print

How to make gravy

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, May 9, 2018

Now, we Maguires aren’t much of a Paul Kelly family. Dad’s into Slim, The Eagles and, as all sensible people should be, Diana Ross and the Supremes. Mum dabbles in a bit of Johnny Farnham and Petula Clark. And ever since it made its cracking debut back in 1999, Britney Spears’ banger Hit Me Baby One More Timehas been getting spins in the Maguire house. Last time I looked, it was still next to radio in the kitchen, ready to be played at a moment’s notice.

As such, we’re not too familiar with the framed Kelly gravy recipe. Thanks to a bit of incidental exposure due to the boom of ironic bogan culture in metropolitan areas, I know to shout about giving my love to someone called Angus when the song comes on at a house party, but that’s about it.

I’ll also point out that I’m from a staunch Gravox family. We’ve tasted perfection and we don’t want to muck around with all the variables that can spoil a gravy. We’re not going to chance it with a risky pan-juice-and-flour combo when there’s a ripping lamb roast at stake. Nah. We like the powdered stuff you get from the box.

But that doesn’t mean we settle for a weak, salty dam water concoction of a gravy. We like a nice, rich glob of flavour to drown our potatoes in.

And just because our gravy is made up of hydrolysed vegetable protein and “natural flavour”, doesn’t mean we don’t make it our own.

Mum, for example, will sometimes mix it up with a few sliced mushrooms. When she’s cooking sausages under the griller, Mum will spice up a batch of gravy with a few slices of onion – this particular recipe calls for Dad gleefully calling out “onion gavy” at least twice, which I believe stems from an inside joke about a bloke he knew who pronounces “gravy” without the “r” and loves his onions.  Some traditions are best left unquestioned.

I however, have put my own stamp on the goo of the gods.

I like to say that it’s “a secret”, as if I’m from a cultured family that passes recipes down through the generations. It sounds wholesome.

In reality, most of my recipes come from the back of packets and the only things passed down my family trees are a tendency to hoard things and scoliosis. So this is the best I can do.

The secret: rosemary.

Thrilling, right?

But there’s more to it than that. It’s not about the rosemary, it’s what ya do with it:

The first thing you want to do is to get the Supreme Chicken gravy. Don’t get the instant just-add-boiling-water stuff – it will only disappoint you and make your potatoes/entire life limp and soggy.

The next thing you want to do is get your hands on some oil. If you’re cooking a roast, collect the juices from the roasted hunk of meat and tip this rich, bloody oil into a non-stick frypan. If you don’t have meaty juice, just use a good olive oil.

Then, chuck in a few teaspoons of dried rosemary. Now, you could defs use fresh rosemary from the garden, but us Maguires aren’t great gardeners so the concept of plucking some herbs from a functioning veggie patch is foreign to me. And considering we’re using powdered gravy, we may as well go down the highly-processed path.

Speaking of highly processed, now is the time to make your gravy paste. It’s like curry paste, except less natural. The box says to use one-and-a-half tablespoons of powder, but because of my undeniable zest for life, I tend to end up with two heaped spoonfuls. I put this powder in a cup measurement, adding a splash of water to first make a paste, then gradually adding more water once that’s been mixed. This process makes me feel like a real cook, but also prevents lumps from ruining your day.

Next, fry the rosemary on a medium heat until the leaves start crisping up.

Gently pour in the gravy water, stirring with a plastic spatula. Why a plastic spatula? Because it’s usually already dirty by this point and I can’t be arsed washing up unnecessary spoons.

The wide surface of the frypan should make your gravy thick and rich in a few minutes, so keep watching it until it reaches your desired viscosity.

Next, tip this delightful brown sludge into a jug of some sort. You can either place this on the table with your roast, or grab a straw and take the jug into a darkened room to watch reruns of The Nanny by yourself.

 

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This one did not

Friday Night Eggs

On Friday night I invented a new recipe.

Well, it’s not exactly a new recipe. People have been baking eggs in tomatoey goo for centuries. And I’m hardly the first person to think, “I know! A bit of bacon will really make this”.

But no matter how common this recipe is, I still feel slightly accomplished for having put it together at the last minute. Not only did it save me money, but it meant I was able to get rid of the stuff in the fridge I’d hoped my housemates would have eaten while I was away during the week. The added bonus? I was able to turn a pathetic Friday night in into a blog post, therefore justifying my sad existence for literary purposes. I am no longer a loser; I am an artiste.

And with that, I give you my recipe for Friday Night Eggs.

Step one:spend one hour trying to work out what take-away to order, umming and ahhing over the expensive vegan options that would make you feel like a health goddess and the honkin’ fried chicken your heart wants.

Step two: Come within millimetres of ordering a vegetarian pizza (adding chicken and extra sauce) before deciding you need to reign in your spending and resolve to have eggs on toast like a responsible person.

Step three:put saucepan of water on stove, lowering in one egg, losing grip of another, cracking it and placing it gently back in the carton. Put another non-cracked egg into the water.

Step four: decide you’re worth more than boiled eggs on toast with butter (geez, someone has tickets on themselves!) and turn to the limited supply of food you have stored in the panty and the third of a shelf you’ve been allotted in the share house fridge.

Step five: Take one can of crushed tomatoes, which you once bought from the local corner store to make up the $10 necessary to pay for your milk via Eftpos. Smile, because your impulse “I’ll need that one day” buy paid off.

Step six:turn off that saucepan, baby, because you’re having baked eggs!

Step seven:open can, dip a fing, taste the tomato mush and decide there needs to be more flavour to your sad, solo Friday night dish.

Step eight:with a limp flick of the wrist, slop the crushed tomato into a circular cake tin, which you selected because it was the only viable option in the pantry. While the tomato is slush is going into the tin, lament over how many suitable novelty baking dishes you have stashed at your parents’ house. Think longingly about the baking dish with a duck as a lid and cruse, once again, that you live in a share house in Sydney and not a cute bachelorette pad in Queensland surrounded by all your humorous cookware.

Step nine:crack one egg into the mush, before realising you need to bulk up the mixture for there to be enough of a well to keep the egg in one clump.

Step ten:open the fridge, removing all remaining items you have on your shelf.

Step eleven:roughly slice and dice half an obscenely large onion while telling yourself the slapdash job is an example of the “homely” look.

Step twelve:slice two pieces of shortcut bacon into strips, not because you’re responsible about potion control when it comes to fatty meats, but because that’s all you have.

Step thirteen:consider the black pudding you bought when you’d just returned from Ireland, in need of sustenance, being too jet lagged to make proper decisions and homesick for the isle of your ancestors.

Step fourteen:sniff said meaty tube, noting that it seemed a little odd.

Step fifteen:decide that the blood-based sausage would make for an interesting quirk in the recipe, opting to add a few slices cut large enough to be easily picked off in the event of yuckiness.

Step sixteen:sprinkle in some oregano from a housemate’s shelf, justifying your use of it because you bought the house a bag of novelty Toblerones from the duty free shop.

Step seventeen:crack in the egg that was already cracked, therefore finding a us for the tainted egg. Be sure to congratulate yourself for your resourcefulness.

Step eighteen:grate on a good sprinkling of Perfect Italiano Romano Cheese, which you selected because it was what you had in the fridge, which made it to your shopping basket because it had the “great for risottos” on the label. Feel fancy because one of your housemates has a grater looks kind of like a spatula, and that’s the kind of thing Nigella would use.

Step nineteen:crack black pepper over the top, because you’re gourmet as heck.

Step twenty: place cake tine into the oven at a temperature you’re not entirely sure of, going for the fan forced-and-grill option to get a nice crust to the cheese.

Step twenty-one:grate some of that fance cheese with the fance grater over a slice of bread, setting aside to place in the oven at the last minute for dipping. Ensure you have enough bread left for an alternative dinner of toast and jam in case the dish turns out to be crap.

Step twenty-two:using the water from your abandoned boiled eggs mix, rinse out the tin of tomatoes, because you’re not a wild animal who puts dirty tins in the recycling bin.

Step twenty-three:put on some fluffy socks and wait. Wait to live. Wait to die. Wait for ran absolution, that would never come… or write up your actions before you forget them/to leave the paramedics a detailed description of what you’ve taken in case things go horrendously wrong

Step twenty-four:pull out the cake tin after like nine minutes, declare to no one that it “looks like vomit” and replace it on the middle shelf.

Step twenty-five:decide to watch one episode of Grand Designsor an English crime drama while tucking into your spontaneous meal.

Step twenty-six:After about 20 minutes, check on the eggy goo and decide it’s go time for the bread, placing it on the top shelf.

Step twenty-seven:prepare yourself.

Step twenty-eight:plonk the cake tine on a wooden chopping board, whack the bread on the side and start feeding your face while wondering when red-headed Collin from Love, Actually replaced the chap from Murder in Paradise, eating the goopy mess straight from the cake tin like the uncultured swine that you are.  

As an aside, I did eat all the pieces of black pudding from the tin, leaving only a bit of yolk uneaten as it felt like a bit too much. I’ll conclude by saying that the dish certainly filled the void in my stomach – I ate one-and-bit eggs, two bits of bacon, half a large onion, a whole tin of crushed tomatoes and a piece of bread. The void in my heart wasn’t entirely plugged, but it was a dish warm enough, cheap enough and semi-healthy enough to not make me hate myself, so that’s alright by me.

I’d give it a 6/10, but I don’t know if my 10 is the same as a cooking competition judge’s 10.

One word of warning – later that night I had what I can only describe as a black pudding nightmare. I swear I kept waking up and smelling black pudding, like some kind of meaty sleep paralysis attack. It’s this odd phenomena that prompts me to suggest that whichever poor, misguided soul who attempts this recipe uses a black pudding that’s less than weeks old.

 

 

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