Good Bones

Today, I found beauty in this poem. In a world that currently feels as though the beauty must be hunted for.

Good Bones. Maggie Smith.

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine.

In a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways. a thousand deliciously ill advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least 50% terrible and that’s a conservative estimate. Though I keep this from my children.

For every birth, there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged sunk in a lake.

Life is short, and the world is at least half terrible. And for every kind stranger, there is one who would break you.

Though I keep this from my children.

I am trying to sell them the world.

Any decent realtor walking through a real shit hole, chirps on about good bones. This place could be beautiful right?

You could make this place beautiful.



Cinque Rimpianti

Today I heard a tale from a palliative care nurse that intrigued and surprised me.

I spend a lot of my working life with people staring down the sometimes terrifying sometimes peaceful barrel of death. It’s most certainly not the easiest topic of choice, and one that makes people uncomfortable. It’s the one thing that links us all, but I understand people not wanting to sit around and discuss it. I most certainly don’t.

Bronnie Ware is a palliative care nurse from Sydney who found a common link of regrets in her patients. Her famous blog post is all over the internet, and she now writes books and speaks inspirational talk. (I’m probably one of the very last to find her). When I first heard her tale, I thought that the regrets would be along the lines of ‘hug the ones you love’ ‘tell the ones you love’ but instead it was true reminder of the person who you must be the most true and love filled to, yourself.

  • I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
  • I wish I didn’t work so hard.
  • I wish I had the courage to express my feelings.
  • I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
  • I wish that I had let myself be happier.

It’s made me feel that little deep pit of death uncomfortable writing this. But I think these regrets should be acknowledged and respected and a reminder of what a lucky lucky treat every new day is.






Pumpkin Soup

The pumpkin soup I made for dinner was really delicious. And just like the one that I used to dream of as a little girl on a mountain that felt that winter chill.

1/4 cup (60ml) olive oil, 1 chopped onion, 1 leek, 1/2 tsp ground nutmeg, 3 cups chicken stock, 1kg peeled pumpkin, 300ml thickened cream.

It really was so very straight forward and I’m sure not worthy of a blog, but simply sauteing the vegetables then adding the stock and pumpkin and blitzing when soft and adding the cream very last but oh so important minute.

I also added caramelized red onions, which I hadn’t done before but were so stupidly easy. Brown sugar, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, water and red onion in a small non stick saucepan for as long as they take (it took mine about half an hour). I literally did not touch them. I should have been making these delicious little babies for my whole entire life but at least I have the rest of my whole entire life to make them now.

I also made a bruschetta (pronounced with a K people a K) which I made up but had peeled zucchini which I just pan fried for about a minute, capers, mint, truffle oil, lemon rind and buffalo mozarella. For the first time ever I did the bread on a griddle pan and it made a real difference and if I shut my eyes I was in Italy which was a very nice place to be and a place I would actually quite like to be on this cold winters night.


Tasty (or not so) Tuesday

I’ve decided for the blog of 31, when my brain can’t find words I’ll keep a food diary. Because I love food. And eating. And Masterchef. (And also because it keeps getting to this time of day and I haven’t written anything and I get a bit panicked because I need to start a banking of blog posts.)

Two slices bread with fresh tomato and Vegemite. Luke warm tea (in order to skull while having 2.3 minutes to get ready for work). Short black coffee.

Soy latte. Boiled egg with salt salt pepper pepper.

Wrap. Slaw, ham, mayo. Delicious but small, too small.

Savoys and cheese. (Can ya tell I work in a hospital?).

Toast with slaw. Soda stream bubbles.

Pumpkin soup with caramelized onion. Zucchini, mint and buffalo mozzarella bruschetta. (No shit, and I made it all from scratch).

Innocent Bystander Pinot Noir. Black chocolate with almonds.


Second, not first. 

I’ve decided to change something this winter.

I’ve been very very lucky to grow up in a family where we have big wild winter skiing adventures. We have spent many days together skiing the Australian slopes, and being in the mountains is where I find true peace and clear mountain air clarity.

However, as I’ve been gifted with the “fear” gene my skiing days have also been consumed with “this is so icy you’ll break your neck for sure” “did you see that guy flying past? Totally out of control. Could do some serious damage” “WHO on earth do these maniacs THINK they are?!?” Which in turn has meant my skiing is not as quick nor as smooth as my family. And for nearly 25 years I realise (and yes disclaimer: this is a total first world problem) that I’ve been largely focusing on that.

So what my new 31 year old blogging self is going to do this winter is enjoy being second, enjoy being a slow skier and not wonder wonder wonder when I’m going to be fast – when I’m going to be skilled – when I’ll stop wondering if it’s time for hot chips and lemonade yet. And instead I’m going to be the slow skier who takes in long deep breaths of cold cold air and sees those around her as nice holiday pals rather than dementors with an intent to destroy me and my legs. Because I don’t mind if I don’t come first, as long as my family are there with hot chips and lemonade by the time I eventually get to the bottom.


This weekend, a new baby cousin named Eloise was born.

She’s the sweetest little cherub, with perfect pale eyebrows and the teeniest of squished up hands. My beautiful cousin Alex, is the most tender, gentle and loving new mama.

Eloise has reminded me (in only the way babies can) about what is important, and how the best things really are the simplest (like the smell of a newborns head). She is going to be such a loved little person and I’m so excited for the big beautiful future ahead of her.

In a world that’s sometimes tough and sometimes hard to see the good and the beauty (I’m looking at you Trump) little Eloise arrivals make everything seem just wonderful.


Peter Rabbit

Tomorrow we are going to plant the vegetable garden. There will be plenty of pictures and plenty of pride.

In honor of this, I am thinking of Peter Rabbit and Beatrix Potter. So here’s to them:

WE have a little garden,
A garden of our own,
And every day we water there
The seeds that we have sown.

WE love our little garden,
And tend it with such care,
You will not find a faced leaf
Or blighted blossom there.

Beatrix Potter.