There are portholes in life when you’re adrift; not knowing if you’re coming or going. This is a dish for those moments. It’s for those murky duvets of time when you only know for sure if it’s 3 am or pm by going outside and squinting at the sky. This is the sort of food you should make when the fridge is bare, bar eggs and milk collected from a convenience store.
I used to know that feeling care of jet lag, when the lounge room was scattered with suitcases, yawning open and the only sound in the flat was the rattle and hum of the first load of washing.
Now I …



