I’m going to be honest with you. 

I know this blog is full of baked delights, so it probably implies I dream of sunshine and butterflies and view the world as a utopic paradise where everyone is kind-hearted and joyous and clouds are made out of fairy floss that doesn’t make you fat. 

But I have been somewhat misleading and I feel bad about it. There is no denying I am a regular old pessimistic Lemony Snicket. 

The last few years have seen a massive growth in food trends. Some of these I welcome with open arms/mouth. Eg: Ramen Burgers for the win.

Others, like food foam and chlorophyll(?!), not so much. 

And why would any mentally stable human being faux diagnose themselves with coeliac disease? You know that means you can’t eat bread, right? 

As I write this recount of warmer times, Brisbane is cold, grey and reminiscent of Gotham City.

I am an avid tea drinker. Green, black, white, milk, no milk – I don’t discriminate. Right now, my poison of choice is classic black, steeped a little too long, with a zesty twist of lemon. 

So when I stumbled across an art exhibition in regional Queensland not too long ago, dedicated to the woolly warmers that house our favourite pots, I lost my mind a little bit.  

I am slowly starting to realise that I have something wrong with me.

It happens the same way every time, and at least once a day. I eat myself into a kind of stupor. I am an animal and I can’t make it stop. 

I am commonly lamenting the extra pork rib I absolutely didn’t need while I shamefully big spoon my pillow and tell myself tomorrow is a new day. 

At a work conference recently I went way too hard on the cheese platter and started sweating so profusely I actually had to go home. 

This year I moved into my first self-contained apartment. By apartment, I mean converted garage located behind an actual house. 

Regardless, in the absence of any normalising company, I felt myself seduced into a lucid memoir of my experiences in share houses. 

In Australia, applying for a share house is akin to filing adoption papers. 

Our rental market is a dog eat dog game where one mustn’t underestimate the mild, middle-aged mother inspecting tenancies with her precious brats. No doubt she is a sly old witch who is well attuned to the art of rental trickery.