Australian Colloquialism Can Kill

Today I made soup. Tomorrow, I wish I hadn't.

A hearty pumpkin soup is exactly what this dreary soggy day neds.

It's been raining for three days straight now and roads have been blocked off, grass lawns seem to be floating and there's birds taking baths in the gutters. I'm pretty certain there are wallabies in every single front yard in my street enjoying these sudden showers too.

The whole country was on fire, and rain is exactly what everyone has hoped and wished and prayed for, and now the whole country is flooded. It's a lot to think about. So today I won't. Instead I find pleasure in taking the time to tediously peal, chop, grate and dice every root vegetable I can find. What does the weather matter right now when all my focus is on not cutting my thumb? What about that bottomless pit of helplessness that I feel each time I see a new burnt koala on Facebook? Right now I've been blinded with onion fumes and that's my main concern.

With all the ingredients prepared, they're unceremoniously thrown into the slow cooker and drowned in chicken stock. Drowned? No. "Covered" is an easier word and is so loose in its definition.

The joeys are covered in hand-sewn blankets. The buildings are covered in smoke. The driveway is more recently covered in water.

That's didn't work.

Soup. I'm making soup. Soup will warm up my body and fill my stomach. Such small and insignificant details I focus on. Warm body, full stomach.

Sometimes I wonder, is it selfish to hide the worlds bigger problems with my basic physical needs to stay at a comfortable temperature and eat?

Probably.

It's been a few hours now, I check my soup and am please to see it's all ready to go. Seeking the cherry on top, I search the refrigerator for sour cream

I seem to be down on my luck until I move a rather obnoxiously large jam jar to the left. What I am now witnessing is the glory of Heaven above tunnelling it's radiance onto one 5cm x 5cm cube.

A carton of sour cream! My uncharitable prayers have seemingly been answered. My charitable prayers of calm skies have not, however. I need a lesson in good prayer making.

One thing I might mention about myself; I don't believe in use by dates. I have never seen one - they don't exist.

Meanwhile, a steamy bowl of orange lumpiness sits basking in its own beauty on the table. Salt, pepper, diced chives, sour cream. Buttered bread? Yes yes and yes. What an essential.

They must make bread differently these days. Mine has green spots. All these hipster vegans infiltrating a most traditional practice.

I pick the most noticeable green spot off and flick it away out of sight out of mind.

Buttered, my bread is ready to soak. And soak it does!

Extra sour sour cream, and spotty bread with my amazing pumpkin soup, today is a good day.

It is now tomorrow and I now have red half-moons on the back of my legs. The toilet seat has fused into my skin and become one.

I hate everything I loved about yesterday. Karma is real. It's culturally insensitive to purposely and temporarily become ignorant to my nations perils, and focus on my own immediate wants. Now my gut is paying for yesterdays gluttony.

I have no clever or well thought through conclusion to this story of indirect self-destruction and unintentional heartlessness. But Australian colloquialism can kill and below is why.

Flora and fauna may be dying by the millions, but at least I was fed, right? I still don't believe in use by dates and green dotted bread is a new and exciting millennial invention. Deep within my soul the truth sticks out in a ridiculous manner. But on the surface level I have very easily convinced myself into believing the aforementioned with three simple words:

She'll be right.