Dagman’s Diaries: The Foodie

WHAT IS it with women? Why can’t they be ordinary? They’re always re-inventing themselves. I couldn’t work out the old one but now I’ve got a new one to try to figure out.

Take me mum fer example. After years of me eating “Whatever’s on special,” or “If I cook it you can eat it,” and “There’s kids starving in Africa that’d love to eat that,” she’s suddenly become a ‘foodie’. She’s got addicted to those cooking’ shows. She can’t get enough of Jamie Oliver and she loves Master Chef which I can’t stand on account of grown up men crying cos their egg is too runny, and I go, “Get a life, mate. It’s FOOD, fer crying out loud. You cook it and you shit it and then you do it again!”

Mum hates that Gordon Ramsay though. She goes, “I can’t stand him! Fuckin’ potty-mouth piece of shite!” And she turns him off so hard you’d think she was crushing a beetle. Then she marches into the kitchen and goes and does Beans on Toast with Crispy Bacon and it’s waaaay much better than any of that quizzine they do!

I’ll let ya into a little secret: I’m a bit of a cook meself. I specialise in left-overs. You reckon that’s funny? It’s a skill, mate. I learned it over years of practice. See, me mum never throws anything out — just in case. So I’d be finding bits of cheese and yoghurt and some mash and a little cup of peas and stuff at the back of the fridge and I gets to thinking: What can I do with this?

So I mix up the mash potato, peas and cheese with the egg and fry it. Add salt, pepper and tomato sauce, and mate, if you’ve got a sausage you can add to the mix, it’s Heaven!

Then when you’ve done eating, splash the left-over yoghurt onto the plate and let the dog lick it all off and clean up the plate. How about that! Win! Win!

And me mum thinks I’ve eaten the rest of the yoghurt so she’s pleased I’m eating healthy and I don’t enlighten her. Win! Win! Win!

See me expertise started with a sandwich when I was about seven. I liked red food so I reckoned that if I put all the red stuff I liked on a sandwich, it’d be really good. Raspberry jam and tomato sauce are two that I remember.

Why I’m so good at cooking is explained in two words: Cling Film. Ya gotta love cling film. See, years ago they’d have a bit of food left over and they’d have to eat it or chuck it, but now we have cling film, we can cover up something like a half a avocado and now you don’t need to throw it away until two weeks later! That’s progress!

Actually, I ain’t never gunna eat avocado ever in my whole life (green splodge with wrinkly skin), but cheese, now that’s completely different. Sorta like avocado and cheese. I mean, who’s gunna eat chalk? That’s stupid. Chalk and Cheese? A teacher made that one up, I bet.

Aw fukkk! I lost me thread again! Cling film, cling film and cheese….

Oh! Has any of youse wondered why, when you pull off the cling film off a bit of cheese, cut the cheese in half, go to wrap it up again, there’s not enough cling film left to wrap it up? I’m pulling it really careful like, and the bloody stuff splits and a corner of cheese sticks out, and if I ignore it, it goes hard like soap. That’s when you need a dog to eat the end bits.

Still, I like cooking and I don’t reckon enough blokes do it. Okay, they turn the steaks and snags on a barbie, but ask one to make a cheese sauce from scratch and not a clue! I was talking about this to Crabs once (cos it’s a long way down to Geelong and you can only pick yer nose for so long before you run out of interesting bits) and he goes, “Why? Felicity does the cookin’ and she’s far better at it. And I don’t ask her to come down to Geelong and fix lavatories. Division of labour, mate. Chicks cook; men work.”

“Men are chefs.”

“Aw fer cryin’ out…. Your mum likes that Jamie Oliver, the Naked Chef bloke, Yeh? Eh, imagine him frying eggs. If he gets a bit of hot fat on his ol’ pork sausage and he wouldn’t be naked any more. Soon see him in a pinnie! Look, I seen his show once, and he’s all up the farm and chattin’ up the farmer and then he comes back and he cooks up some splodge in a brick oven and he’s got a gas burner and it’s all out the back in the garden. Y’know what I reckon? I reckon he makes so much mess, his missus won’t let him into the house. Men shouldn’t cook! That’s nature. Cookin’ is secret women’s business!”

I think about this fer a while. I’d been thinking of writing me own cookbook fer blokes, but perhaps I’d be the only bloke to read it and that wouldn’t be much use cos I already know what’s in it if I wrote it.

I dunno, maybe I’m wrong and men shouldn’t cook. Maybe I’m just in touch with me inner Goddess. Sheree talks about getting in touch with her inner Goddess and I asked her if I could watch? Yeh, you don’t wanna know how that went! I wore the bruise for a week.

Sheree and me mum have something in common (but don’t tell either of them) cos Sheree never throws anything away, either. Like shoes fer instance. I swear this is true. Sheree goes shopping for some new white boots cos her old ones were worn down, she loved them so much. So she comes in with some new ones and they’re almost identical to the old ones, but new, obviously. So I sling her old ones in the bin for her, and she goes ape-shit!

“Whattya do that for?” And she grabs them back out and shakes a tea bag outta one.

“Well, they’re yer old boots…”


Where do women go to learn to growl? Eh? I can feel me boys retreating just at the sound of it.

“…aaaand you’ve got new ones.”


“I give in. I’m a bloke. Tell me in little words and small sentences and I’m sure I’ll get it.”

“I’m keeping the New Ones For Best!”

And I swear this is true, too. She wraps the new ones up in their box and puts the old ones back on her feet!

I don’t understand it. I mean, I know when I get new work boots, I keeps me old ones for a while to wear the new ones in and get them all soft and wrinkly the way me feet like it. That’s just sensible and it’s completely different… like avocado and cheese!

Later on that night, Sheree goes weird on me. How can I tell, you ask? Well, she’s sorta giggly and she’s sorta bumping into me all the time and she’s saying nice things — and then she disappears! I can hear the shower going and then when I’m nice and comfy in front the telly, she’s back. She’s wearing her dressing gown and her new boots and she marches in front of the telly and goes, “How d’you like my new boots, now?” and she drops the dressing gown and stands there starkers!

What can a bloke say?

“They’re lovely boots, doll. Come and sit here an watch the footy show with me…” apparently wasn’t the right thing. Women! I’ll never understand them!

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