Category Archives: Food

I’m Shit at Pokemon Go

You’ve got two choices when your world is in the grip of a craze:  Invoke disdain or plunge off the Pokemon cliff with all the other lemmings. (Anyone remember Lemmings?)

Of course I had a go.  Five minutes after I’d decided to download the game there was a Squirtle beside the couch, and two more pocket monsters in the kitchen.  It took rather longer for me to figure out how you’re supposed to catch them, probably because I’m not twelve.

Actually, I’ve yet to see a twelve year old play it.  The game first caught my attention when I was suddenly having to weave the pram around all sorts of wierdos clustered with their phones by the beach.  The usual elderly walkers, tiny dog draggers and pram pushers were completely outnumbered by groups of men all either giggling or waving their phones about in a mad way and swiping at them.  Grimy tradies in high-vis, H&M clad students, the occasional considered hipster (always bearded, wearing headphones, and resolutely collecting rather than battling.) Day after day the crowds got bigger.  Here’s what our park looks like now:


Not much of a crowd today, granted, but it’s a chilly Tuesday at about 2pm.


It is a lot like a fancy dress party, you can just rock on up and ask random people about stuff.  Unfortunately, if you’re a middle aged woman with two kids the ONLY thing you have in common with these people is Pokemon Go.  Unless you really actually give a shit you’re going to have to fake talking about Razz Berries and Lures and Bulbasomethings.

But still, the world promised to us by science fiction is here.  Your reality can blur with zeros and ones into a new space, that’s limited only by server issues, battery power, signal, cold fingers, data plans…




Not a Pokemon.

Retro.  Collectable.  Contestable. Cute.  It was, with augmented hindsight, always bound to be a hit.  Funny that if you’re wearing Google Glass you’re an arsehole, but if you’re waving your phone about trying to catch little animated monsters you’re currently cool.

How long will it last?  Anyone care to wager?  I reckon it’s got about 3 more weeks down here in the middle of a Melbourne winter.  But the scale and speed of this phenomenon is hard to fathom.  The threat of war or the dissolution of democracy rarely inspires people across the western nations to gather together in crowds this size.  Dire warnings from health professionals can’t move this many folk to their feet.  A few pixels on a smart phone can, and that BOGGLES MY MIND.  Can the next world-wide craze please be beneficial to the environment and social equality?  That would be nice.

But back to me, and being shit at it.  I caught three pokemon quickly and easily, then discovered that you had to keep the app on all the time while you’re walking to find the flighty little bastards, which is a real battery-suck.  And the more I delved into leveling up and controlling a gym and blah blah blah the less I cared about the game and the more I cared about all the important information that was falling out of my brain to fit that stuff in.  If I’m going to learn another language, I’m going to make it Italian or Spanish, not Pokemon.  In the end I was handed a choice:  walk a bit further down Railway St and try to catch a Charizard that had just appeared, or bite into my freshly made borek from the Altona Station Kebab shop.  Guess which won?


Tagged , , , , , , ,

I’m Shit at White T-Shirts

If you’re going to spill curry on your new basic, I recommend a nice aloo gobi from Flora’s Flinders St.

Tagged , , , , , , ,

I’m shit at being classy

I am, however, really good at being white trash:


How does one get their slab of cheap piss home from the offie? Balanced above the head of their only son, of course.

Tagged , , , , , , ,

Second Children are second class citizens

This is my 10 month old son, eating a chip.


“I’m only half-Scottish, so this feels only half-right”

If anyone had given my daughter a deep fried greasy bit of carb at 10 months I’d have knocked it out of her hand and given them a lecture, then gently handed her a piece of washed organic cucumber to nibble on.  This might be why she hates me now.

Kid number one we read all the manuals, ingested all the contrary information and distilled it into precious, personality-defining heirlooms of type-A angst.  Kid number two?  I’ve yet to mash a mix of homegrown vegetables through a strainer for him to spit out and rub in his hair.  I’ve yet to sit sobbing in a supermarket carpark because he’s not sleeping the right amount of hours in a day.  Occasionally I fish bits of dirt, craft supplies and floor-food from his gob and consider that parenting.

When I weaned his sister in a frantic late-30’s attempt to conceive again as quick as possible I felt so guilty I would drive across Glasgow to the posh whole foods shop to purchase organic formula expressed from actual archangels for my little cherub.

At least wee Bruce is still on the boob.  (Yes, we called him Bruce, which in Australia also marks him as a second class citizen.  The politest response I’ve had to his name is “Oh, is that a FAMILY name?”)

Luckily for him he’s not getting kicked off the nipple anytime soon, because I’m too lazy to deal with the 4am screaming tit-tantrums and more importantly, I’m dropping about a kilo a month.   Weird diets, exercise, calorie counting, we’ve all tried them, and deep down we know they’re all bullshit.  There’s only three things that will help you lose weight effectively:  Breastfeeding, amphetamines and youth.  (Don’t try all three at once.)   I’ve decided he can breastfeed forever, and I’m going to squeeze my boobs through the school fence bars for his lunchtime munch just so I can continue to eat what I like.

So he’s now not even a second class citizen, he’s just a weight loss technique.  Poor second child.

Tagged , , , , ,

I’m shit at baking

20 minutes to mix up a “poolish ferment” that promised to make my bread light and airy.

4 hours of doing other shit.

30 minutes of measuring, mixing and kneading and kneading and kneading and knuckling and kneeding.

90 minutes of doing other shit.


Oh, you beautiful, quivering yeasty organ of white carbo-wonder!

Another 30 minutes or so of shaping and smearing and lovingly rolling and I realise it’s now nearly midnight.  So into the fridge it goes, so it can prove slowly overnight and I can wow my family with my suddenly-signature Roast Peach and Pumpkin Spiced Scrolls for breakfast.


OH FOR FUCKSAAAAAKE!!!  Fell at the last hurdle:


It took me more time to make these than it did to give birth to my son.  Might as well have left these buns in the oven for 9 months too.



Tagged , , , , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: