Perhaps it is nostalgic memories of my childhood, or post teenage metabolism denial ("It's totally fine, I am now just going to sleep off this entire pizza."). Whatever it is, ice cream makes me happy.

I hate to liken myself to a creature that spends 80 per cent of its day licking its own feet, but that look of pleasure a cat gets when being pat behind the ear - that is me eating ice cream.

I have an ice cream routine that sees me coming back time and  time again for that sweet, sweet, cool rush of gooey goodness. Every day in fact. 

So is ice cream addictive? Absolutely. 

I promise you this recipe I dreamt up on the weekend is 100 per cent worthy of such an obnoxiously long title.

I have been politely declining beetroot’s renaissance for some time now.

To me the ‘humble beetroot’ is somewhat of a deceiving mistress. Hiding behind that vibrant magenta façade is in fact a rock hard, earthy-tasting carrot/potato lovechild. 

Originally used for clothes dyes, winter road salt and animal fodder, you can hardly blame a gal for taking a wide berth.

I am one of those rare breeds of people who absolutely ADORE winter.

Albeit only for a few fleeting months in Queensland, winter means it is time to dust off the boots and snuggle up by a fire on the beach. 

Equally as exciting is the abundance of winter fruit and veggies that slowly start trickling into supermarkets. My all time favourite of these - rhubarb. 

Having been raised on a farm in reasonably remote Central Queensland, I understand the importance, even necessity, of eating seasonal produce. 

The amount of miles our food travels these days is truly abhorrent, and so even though I now live in the big city, I am very conscious of buying local, in-season, food. 

For me, there is nothing like a healthy dish disguised as something naughty. 

Hence, a pancake that tastes like sweet delicious bananas, but is actually stealthily harbouring loads of spinach, is in my opinion the ultimate breakfast food. 

Also, eating psychedelic food makes me very happy. 

Cześć!

While I was growing up, I literally thought that borscht was a word my Polish grandma made up. 

Don't start thinking that I am a crazy racist or anything, my grandma, as lovely as she is, has some of the worst English I have come across - despite having been in Australia for over 50 years. 

Essentially, this means she coins a lot of her words and phrases into a kind of pigeon Polish. So when she told me the bright red soup she was ladling into my bowl was called borscht, I did my usual smile and nod response.