It’s my weekly cook-up-a-storm day in The HotHouse Kitchen. My friend’s kids have been mourning the loss of takeaway, so I’ve come up with a menu that I hope returns some balance.
I’m taking over a casserole dish of special fried rice for their dinner tonight, plus some chilli con carne that can be turned into nachos on its second outing from the fridge. There will also be a pot of Creole pumpkin soup, which is an experiment.
Everything is packed with veggies so hopefully that makes up for the naughty things like corn chips.
Last week’s experimental dish was a vegetable dhal that I made up on the spot, which my friend said was her favourite, go figure! Hopefully the soup will hit the spot too.
Oh, and last night I made a really yummy Moroccan tart recipe for myself and the eldest. I skipped the chickpeas and added olives and toasted pine nuts on top. Super easy and tasty. Click here for the recipe.
My grocery shopping list is substantially bigger now that I’m cooking for seven. So I was transfixed by this note I found beside the wheel of my car when I was unpacking my latest load.
I have so many questions, which is oddly appropriate in light of the list being written on a Newspoll notepad.
How does the owner of the note keep their shopping list so succinct? Mine fills a similarly sized sheet of paper, in much smaller handwriting.
Is the Metamucil because they eat takeaway for breakfast and dinner every day?
Or do they get their dinner shopping separately to their lunch shopping?
If so, why?
Is the olive oil also purchased for the purpose of regularity or to cook their lunches?
I have no questions about the Tim Tams, they are self explanatory.
However, my biggest question of the day has nothing to do with groceries. It’s this:
How has the art of writing become so devalued in Australia?
I spoke to someone yesterday who was looking for a contractor to write 14 stories and compile two newsletters every week for $600.
No holidays. No super. No sick pay.
Just huge stress for very little financial return.
And some poor, desperate person will probably agree to do it.
My rage grew throughout the day.
What the actual?
By nightfall my anger had been replaced by sadness that being a journalist has been so devalued.
I am so glad neither of my children want to become writers.
Song of the day: Annie Lennox “Why”
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