I fed Amy tonight. She inquired into the recipe, which reminded me that I wanted to post it sometime, because I'm inordinately proud of it. Though it's the simplest meal known to man, it's the only thing I have ever cooked that didn't come from a recipe. I am not an innovator in the kitchen. I am not a Good Cook. But I invented something!

Though when I say it's the simplest thing... the process is. The ingredient list is slightly complicated. In fact, the whole thing is just a by-product of our lifestyle, really.

Dee's Badminton Night Spaghetti

Ingredients:
- onion
- carrot
- garlic oil (buy a head of garlic, separate and peel the cloves, shove them all in a jar, fill the jar with olive oil, refrigerate. Now, any time you need garlic, it's ready and waiting, and also, the oil is delish)
- tomato paste
- olive brine (the sort of kalamata olives we buy come suspended in a generous quantity of brine - never throw stuff like this away!)
- pasta of your choice, but you'll feel stupid calling it "badminton night spaghetti" if you use penne, now won't you?

Method (to her madness):
1. Slice carrot and onion. Throw into a saucepan and saute with garlic oil (and butter, if you like).
2. Saute a little longer. Caramelising never hurt anyone, and besides, you're busy checking your email.
3. Mix up a teaspoon or so of tomato paste (your tastes may vary) with some olive brine. Enough so that it's not so sludgey. Around a third of a cup, all up, maybe up to half.
4. Tip the goo into the saucepan with the caramelisey veggies. Stir well, and leave to simmer. This is a good point to remember that you should have had the pasta on five minutes ago.
5. Let the sauce simmer down while you cook the pasta. (Sometimes it's fun to add a little olive brine to the pasta water.) Add more liquid to the sauce if it starts looking dry or pot-sticky. I find spooning some water from the pasta saucepan works fine.
6. Basically, it's impossible to simmer the sauce too long, though I haven't experimented with this. Usually I'm too hungry. When the pasta is ready, tip it all out into a bowl, stir, and chow down.

Serves: usually just me, but occasionally Amy too!

The back door at work's out to get me.

Apart from this flaw, the office is pretty good. It's the third office we've been in in the two years I've been working for the company. They've been steadily improving. The first office had two desks and about two and two-halves people working there, and occasional people coming up to have their lunch, and no room for anything. The second office had three and a half workstations, and a fair amount of shelf space that we still, somehow, managed to fill entirely. Publishing, man. Just kill a tree now.

But this office has space. Room for five desks, and a separate space with a board-table thing where we can have meetings and stick the boss when he comes in to annoy us. Room in the corner for the fridge and kettle and Dave's toastie sandwich maker. It even has an interesting anomaly in the horizontal plane of its floor, right beneath and to the right of my wheelie chair, which makes it briefly and flounderingly exciting when I forget about it and lean back in my chair.

When it comes to doors, though, this office is challenged. The entrance to the bookshop, the boss has repeatedly promised us, will one day have a door. A real one, that locks. In the meantime, it has the base of a bookshelf gondola, turned on its side and functioning as a roadblock. We have to lever our way past it to get it, which can get quite challenging when you're carrying three flat whites.

The other option is the back door. The back door is a real door. It locks. It has a handle. The handle is metal. And every time - every single time - that I reach for it, it zaps me.

The vehemence changes. Some days it's a barely noticable pht. The other day I actually saw a blue spark arc across.

Clearly it's only a matter of time before it gets it right, and I shortcircuit the world.

When it happens, Amy? You can have my climbing shoes. And my kidneys, if need be.

That's Ms Cyborg Ninja to you.

Dear Tickle Me Elmo,

You're just a slut, aren't you? You seem so innocent, you seem so carefree and young and giving of your no-restrictions, no-qualifications, childish love. But actually, you're sitting there in your little box - your cardboard equivalent of your street corner - selling your body.

And then you wriggle, and simper, and declare that you "love" me. How am I supposed to take that? How am I supposed to believe you, when I've seen you say precisely the same thing to the person before me?

I'm living my life in perpetual agony, expecting betrayal every moment, seeing it lurking in your guileless eyes. Do you really love me? Or are you going to leave me for that cute blond toddler? I'm getting too old, aren't I? Losing my girlish figure. Starting to get demanding. It's so hard when you don't change, you never change. I wanted us to grow old together, but you...

Well, look at you! Your fur is still as red as it ever was! You don't even have wrinkles! Why not? You're always laughing, or grinning. You and your fucking cheery disposition. You don't take anything seriously! And every time I try to talk it through, you just put me off with endless declarations of love. What an idiot; I fall for it every time!

I just... oh god. I just don't think I can take it any more. I'm sorry, Elmo. It's over.

Overcaffinated in the toy aisle,
- Dee

Dear two-score people engaged in a conga-line going through the main thoroughfare in Myers, who I encountered just as I turned into menswear, chanting "Peaches, Mango, Peaches" and wearing a variety of silly costumes, with special mention to the four or five at the front in the council-worker vests, and the guy with the bugle,

You're fabulous. You made everyone's day so much more random. \m/

Respect,
- Dee


Dear Trent Reznor,

You brought the rock. All is forgiven. I'll even forgive you Starfuckers for how much Head Like A Hole went off.

Respect,
- Dee


Dear guy sitting behind us at the NIN gig,

Yer a muppet. Like Anthony said, if we were all zombies, you'd be the first one to say, "Brains". Drop off, and let Trent sing. He's better at it.

No respect,
- Dee

Redesign and exodus (in b-flat major). For various reasons, Jen has removed her blog. It's just me again. So I redesigned. The coffee, of course, remains.

ETA:
While working in FTP to effect the changes...
Me: Does this look empty to you?
Anfy: Pretty empty. What's the little arrow?
Me: It's to go up a level.
Anfy: Do you get new powers?
Me: What?
Anfy: You went up a level! Dude!
Me: *faceplant*

Dear Peter Beattie,

I understand that being Premier of Queensland for so long, and especially at the moment, is really not a happy-inducing sort of job, but do you really have to look that grumpy? It's not like you were always smiles and lollipops, but I must say, during my recent week-long holiday back in the homeland, I saw you on TV, and you looked grumpy. And what's more, you looked like someone who'd been in the habit of looking grumpy for quite a while now. It was ingrained. It was carved into your face. It looked, frankly, like you were about to pitch a fit any moment.

Amusing as that would be from a political leader, I don't think it would actually improve the situation. So, from my recent observations, here's some things about Queensland that I think might cheer you up.

1. That whole island/beach/Great Barrier Reef thing y'all got going on up there. It really is great. Even in winter. OK, the water was still a teensy bit cold, even for a pseudo-Victorian as I have apparently become - and I'd like to add that Anfy was a much bigger wimp about the getting wet thing than I was - but hey, we were only on Great Keppel Island, which isn't that far north, so I shouldn't really cast aspersions. And it was still entirely pleasant, what with the sand and the beautiful clear water, and the kayaking and the lounging by the pool. Also, I learned how to play table tennis properly, but I imagine as an experienced politician, you probably know how to do that already. There's archery, though. That's fun.

2. My mother's mince pies. I appreciate that you might not have had a chance to try them, Mr Beattie, seeing as I haven't seen you at one of our family Christmas gatherings. But take my word for it, they're truly happy-making. Especially when, as happened this trip, she makes a whole new batch just for me. Seeing as she'd gone to all that trouble, and we were only there for two days, I think I was justified in eating five in one day, right? (And if you agree with me, can you let my father know, because he's still calling me "greedy guts" and I think it's a little unfair.)

3. My cousin's garage. Have you seen it? I'm not sure how often you get up to north Rockhampton, but he's really done great things with it. He's turned it into a bar. And I don't mean one of those poncy home cocktail bars. I mean he's got a bar, with a cash register, and real bar fridges, and advertising paraphenalia on the walls. Not to mention a payphone (connected, but not taking coins), a pool table, a TV playing Keno results (recorded) and two more playing music film clips (much better selection than your average pub too!). It's truly impressive, if I do say so myself. (Before you rush up there to arrest him or anything, he's not actually operating as a bar. It's all appearances.)

Lookit that. Three big things! And I was only up there for a week! Honestly, Peter, I'm sure you can do much better if you just try. Think happy thoughts!

Regards and fairy dust,
- Dee

PS: If you're really finding it hard to shake the grumps, as a last resort you could always try kids. No, not eating them. While I must admit that they're not things that make me particularly "happy", per se, they're good for a laugh, right? Especially that misbehaving twin on Keppel who got sent "to the Naughty Corner". Best part of that was when her sister asked where she'd gone, and was told, "You don't want to know; it's not a very nice place!"