It is Sam’s birthday and I’m going to cook for him. I’m going to make him nice stuff to eat. I’m not going to be rubbish and do nothing like I did last year.
I have to organise myself and I have to head to the supermarket. I have to look at recipes and make lists of ingredients that I need.
I’m going to make him a quiche, he says he’s never had one. I’m going to bake him a red velvet birthday cake. And I’m going to make marijuana brownies.
I decide on a fennel and orange salad to go with the quiche.
Shane is in Sydney for the weekend. Amazingly, the washing machine is empty. I checked. He seems to have been doing washing all week.
I lit a fire and ate my breakfast. I flicked on my lap-top and opened the recipes section.
I, of course, opened the news also. Naturally. The Friday off of the entire week off, I am pretty relaxed.
I called Jack, he has little work, just a job for me assisting in Collingwood, maybe. But nothing else.
I don’t know if I am being paranoid, but it feels like Jack has gone off giving me work. I have nothing really to base this on except intuition… and the fact that he hasn’t called in two weeks to give me a new assignment. I wonder if I have done something wrong? What the fuck am I going to do if that really is the case?
Oh fuck the world, I think. I’m not going to even think about it. Unusual for me, I know.
It is after 1pm by the time I am ready to leave the house. It is 1.30 by the time I remember that I haven’t, actually, wished Sam happy birthday, and I do so.
I message him, he answered with, Have you just remembered? I tried to explain that I hadn’t, that I remembered the moment I got out of bed, but the reasons why I hadn’t messaged him up until this point don’t make sense. I was trying to work out a food menu to surprise him with tonight. Some how, in my mind, that equated to keeping everything a secret up until this point, when I realised that was ridiculous and that, of course, I didn’t have to. So, how was I to explain it to him? He didn’t care. I needn’t have worried. He was distracted with the fact it had taken me two and a half hours to make a shopping list and that I still hadn’t left the house.
“Slack Christian.”
I seem to whizz around the supermarket in no time, the only thing they don’t have is buttermilk. Bugger them, I’ll have to go to Coles.
Coles is out too. “Oh, some guy came in an hour ago and cleaned s out,” says the wog boy Coles dairy guy. I momentarily contemplate Piedmontes, to the north, or Tribeca, to the south, wondering what drug can be made from buttermilk, but decide against it.
I head home instead, stopping back in at Wollies to get a small carton of full cream milk, I only drink low fat normally. I’m sure buttermilk wouldn’t be low fat, just think about the title?
Tick, tick, tick.
I made the cake first. I lit the fire.
I made the brownies second. I put on an old Elizabeth Taylor movie.
I made the quiche and salad last. I poured a… several glasses of wine. I wondered how many straight boys would put on an old Elizabeth Taylor movie, pour a glass of wine and settle in to cook for the afternoon? I mean, it doesn’t matter, it wasn’t meant to be a benchmark, it was just a thought.
I’m still cooking when Sam arrives. I’m a bit pissed but the lounge room is warm and the fire is crackling. He seems pleased. I tell him to sit down and relax, I’m going to do it all, he doesn’t need to do anything.
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