Tag Archives: Writing101

All this stuff

29 Sunday Jun 2014

Posted by in My Journey, Writing, Writing101

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Tell us the story of your most-prized possession.

 

For the final day of the Writing101 challenge the prompt is to tell the story of my most prized possession. But I’m not going to do that. I want to talk to you about material things. I’ve spent a bit of time over the last few days thinking about, no, obsessing over, the stuff I own and whether I actually need it. Now that I’ve quit my job and have a more uncertain income situation I’ve been considering whether it might be time to move house.

There are pros and cons to every living arrangement. The room I have now is pretty cheap and it’s in a great location. On the other hand, the room I have is weirdly shaped, cramped, and drafty and there are ants in summer and there are four people living here (not to mention with various overnight guests). So, pros and cons.

I looked online for other places that would be less expensive, just assessing my options, and I started thinking about what I would take with me if I moved. There are some things that I’ve been carrying around with me for years that I hardly use, but for whatever reason I’ve been hanging on to. Objects which are associated with memories, with times in my life.

Take my stereo for instance. It was a present for my fifteenth (or possibly sixteenth) birthday from my parents. My brother sourced the components from the second hand hi-fi place he was working in, it’s chunky and old and I love it. It also comes with the two speakers I got at fifteen and the two much bigger speakers I inherited from my second boyfriend (the gothy one from this post). I’ve taken this stereo with me every time I’ve moved house since I left home, and if I’m honest, it’s really awkward, because it’s massive and loud and analog and and and.

It feels like a betrayal to consider getting rid of it – I’ve had some really great times with it, listening to music on my own, or using it to blast the neighbours at parties, but not lately. I’m beginning to realise that I’m a pretty big nanna; I don’t like parties or late nights, and for the most part I’m happy to listen to music through my computer. Which means I don’t need, or use, the stereo.

What other stuff am I hanging on to ‘just in case’ I want to use it? How often do I catch myself buying stuff just because it seemed like a good idea? I feel myself being a mindless consumer, wanting something just because it’s there, and it’s shiny, and someone else has it.

I know that things can have a lot of significance based on where you got them, who you got them from, what memories you’ve created with them, but in the end everything is just stuff. We’ll remember the stuff that’s great without the thing to remind us, especially if it’s a good memory. We’ll remember the hard times that we’ve had, deep in our hearts, whether or not we have the objects there to remind us.

I want to be able cherish the things I have and use, but to be able to disconnect myself from them when it’s time. Stuff is just stuff. The more you have, the more you have to lose. The more you carry the heavier the burden. I don’t need stuff to be happy. Most of my memories are stored in digital form anyway – my writing, my journals, my photos, are all on hard drives (and some websites), I won’t get rid of those, but what else do I need? I just need something to eat, somewhere to sleep, something to do, and people to love and to love me.

I’m going to repeat that to myself that over and over until it’s true.

What if?

28 Saturday Jun 2014

Posted by in My Journey, Writing, Writing101

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Today is a free writing day. Write at least four-hundred words, and once you start typing, don’t stop. No self-editing, no trash-talking, and no second guessing: just go. Bonus points if you tackle an idea you’ve been playing with but think is too silly to post about.

 

I identify as a feminist. Usually I’m completely happy with this, but sometimes, I find myself wanting things that are decidedly unfeministy. Like a boyfriend and a baby and a house in the suburbs. I’ll turn 30 later this year. It keeps feeling like this should be a big deal, like I should have sorted my shit out by now, but it is pretty clear to me that I really, really haven’t got anything sorted out.

I’ve just left a perfectly good, if soul-crushing, permanent part time job for nothing. I haven’t really got another job to go into. I plan to study full-time next semester, but without Centrelink/welfare payments I’ll have to get a job of some sort to survive. I have been in a romantic relationship for a total of four weeks out of the last (nearly) three years. I’m generally not doing well in the ‘being a grown-up department’.

The difficulty for me with these conflicting desires is that I know, intellectually, that I’m capable of being happy without a husband, baby, house and white picket fence. I also know, intellectually, that having these things does not guarantee happiness, and that many people would look at my free, arty farty lifestyle with envy, but I still want them. I guess there’s that part of me, having grown up with all of those expectations of normality, that wants to fit in.

I always saw myself as a parent, a mother, and the idea that it might not be a reality for me is kind of hard to fathom. I’m not so invested in the idea for a baby that I would have one alone, I don’t mean any disrespect to single mothers/parents, but it seems like a lot of hard work, and I’m not up for that.

On the other hand women who don’t have kids are supposed to be focussed on their careers. In a lot of ways I am focussed on my career, my aims to be a writer, but that’s not usually what people mean by career. I don’t want to climb the corporate ladder. I don’t want to work really hard so I have lots of cash and no time. I often feel like a massive failure on lots of different societal measures of success, although I seem to be pretty good at academic pursuits which is supposed to be desirable, but usually only on the way to career or babies.

So how do I make peace with myself, with my path, if I won’t achieve ‘success’? Even if I don’t want to. How do I tell the part of my brain that wants money, husbands, babies and houses to be quiet so the other part, the part my heart knows is right for me, can guide me? And what if my chosen path is never ‘successful’? I might get a few things published here and there, but I might never be a full time writer. Maybe I’ll be working in admin a few days a week and churning out writing that no one will pay for and hardly anyone will read when I’m 75. I really want to be ok with this. I will always have ambition, and that’s great, but I want to be able to be happy without those things.

What if I’m a bad feminist because I want those things? What if I can’t achieve the things I want? What if the things I want aren’t socially acceptable? What if I’m a failure as a human being? What if I want things that won’t make me happy?What if… What if…

But what if I just stop worrying and start living? How about I try that and see how I go from there.

Yaya’s house

26 Thursday Jun 2014

Posted by in Writing, Writing101

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

When I sit out the front of our house, on the verandah, with my legs pushed through the gaps, my feet don’t touch the ground. Mum has a flower garden in front of the house – she likes it to look nice for people who walk past. Depending on where I sit, I can scrunch the leaves of her bushes between my toes. She doesn’t like me doing that, but sometimes I do it when I’m not thinking about it. It’s not really my fault you know.

There’s a little old lady who lives across the street, Mum says she’s a Yaya, she said that’s what a Nanna is called when she’s Greek. I don’t think she looks any different from my Nanna, so I don’t really understand why she’s called a Yaya. She’s lived in that house since before I can even remember. Sometimes she has her grandchildren over to play. I don’t like to play with them though, they’re a bit younger and I feel weird going over there, they yell a lot and always throw their balls over the fence, it’s really annoying. Mum says it’s because I’m shy, but I just don’t like going to other people’s houses that I don’t know. Anyway, there’s a big truck outside her house today. It’s full of all sorts of weird stuff, boxes mostly, that they’ve been putting in her house. I asked Mum what was happening, she said she didn’t know but that maybe her daughter was moving in with her. She also said that meant that the kids who come to stay will be living there now and that I should make friends with them. But I don’t think I will.

The men in the truck are standing around a tall piano that they have rolled out of the truck. I can’t quite hear what they’re saying but seem to be saying it really loudly, and waving their hands at each other like they’re mad. The Yaya has just come out of her house and she looks really tired. She is talking to the men with the piano, they’re waving their hands at her too but they’re being a lot more calm now. Maybe you can’t yell at a Yaya like you can’t be rude to a Nanna.

My feet are a bit itchy, so I rub them on the boards. It’s really nice on the verandah out here in the school holidays. Mum takes the day off sometimes when it’s holidays and spends it with me, and sometimes I go stay with my Nanna. Sometimes my Gran comes to visit us too, that’s my Dad’s mum. She doesn’t come very often because my Dad died and it makes her sad to see me I think. I don’t really know. That’s what Mum said anyway.

Mum’s going over to see the Yaya to see if she needs anything. I don’t know what she would need, she’s got two men from the truck to help her unpack and three kids and a grown-up daughter, but she said it was polite. It seems weird to me. She wanted me to go over there too, but I told her I didn’t want to. I watch Mum until she does inside the Yaya’s house, then I start squishing the leaves with my toes. She won’t know, I’ll only do the leaves at the back.

Fear

25 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by in Writing, Writing101

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

I’m standing on a windswept cliff top, everything below is whipped into a rage by the winds, the sea throwing itself against the rocks. I’m cold, wearing only the jogging clothes I came up in, damp with sweat. Slowly I turn back to the thing that frightened me, your face, crushed by the conversation we’re trying to have.

“You can’t break up with me. You said you loved me.”

I take a step towards you, my hand outstretched,then let it fall as I release the breath I had been holding.

“I do love you, I will always love you. But I can’t do this.”

You’re crying, I watch the trails that the tears make down your cheeks.

“You know it’s for the best, in the long run. I’m holding you back, you know I am. You’ll never do what you need to do while we’re together.”

“I can’t do it without you,” you protest.

“You can. You have to. I can’t hold your hand anymore. It’s not fair on me, and it’s not fair on you.”

I kneel beside you in the sandy grass, taking your hand in mine.

“It’s ok. Really. Trust yourself. Take the job, go to New York, make a new life for yourself. I can’t leave, but I don’t want to stop you from achieving your dream.”

You look so small, bewildered that I can’t follow you, but there’s a steely resolve in your eyes.

“Everything we have had was beautiful. I will always cherish it,” you say with a sigh.

You turn away, getting up to leave.

“I always hoped you would be able to conquer your fear and come with me. I hoped my love would be enough, but I see now it’s not. I’m sorry.”

You’re still holding my hand, but you drop it as you walk away.

“I’m sorry.”

I know. I’m sorry too.

Lost and Found

24 Tuesday Jun 2014

Posted by in Art, Writing, Writing101

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

During my adventure on Sunday in the laneways of Melbourne, I came across something that looked like discarded drawings. In a laneway near the law district which was a weird combination of old and new, on the cobbled street next to a big blue skip, was a large, forlorn looking piece of paper. When I first saw it, I thought it was just rubbish, but then I realised it was very white.

As I walked up to the paper I saw, in the fold, a half-hidden charcoal sketch of a nude figure. I wanted to know why someone would have thrown it away, and looked around for other clues. Further down the laneway, where I assume the wind had taken them, were other pages of drawings. I couldn’t have told you exactly why, but these pages, lying dead in an alley, filled me with an intense feeling of melancholy. Someone out there had hated their own work so much that they’d discarded it. They had hated themselves so much that they couldn’t bear the reminder of what they saw as their own inadequacy.

Flanigan Lane - discarded art

Flanigan Lane – discarded art

Perhaps I’m being overly dramatic. It’s just as likely that this artist didn’t care about the drawings. Maybe they were doing a life drawing class with their partner, or a friend, and didn’t have any room in their heart for the scribblings that they made. It’s almost as sad to think of people who don’t have room for art – people who are too busy, or who just aren’t paying attention. I suppose it reminds me of the person I used to be when I didn’t have time to work on my art, at time when I discarded my work, didn’t value it, or nurture it. I remember how sad I was, how there was a deep wound inside me that I didn’t even realise was there. Occasionally I look at my life now and think about how stressful it is, or how far away from my goals I am, or how I’m a bit lonely, or sad, or whatever, but sometimes I remember where I came from. How distant that person who started on this path seems. Now when I’m sad I know it. When I feel something I can really feel it. Before I didn’t even know I was unhappy, I thought that this was as good as it gets.

There is no way that an artist can keep everything that they produce, of course there will always be a selection process going on, there must be in order to grow. I do it with my writing all the time, get half way through some ill-formed concept and decide it’s never going to work, but it really reminded me that sometimes you can’t see the value in your own work and we have to be gentler with ourselves sometimes.

The Evil Corporate Takeover

21 Saturday Jun 2014

Posted by in Art, Music, Writing, Writing101

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Or “The Importance of Paying for It”

Today’s prompt it to write about an event that is about to be taken over by an evil corporate, or shut down. Please note that the opening scenario is completely hypothetical – don’t panic!

 

Avid followers of this blog will be aware that I’m in love with the Astor Theatre. It is beautiful, unique, and full of love for cinema and for nostalgic art forms like actual printed film. So when I heard that they were signing a merger with one of the big cinema chains, my heart broke.

My heart broke, not just because the Astor as I know it would be gone, but because of the fact that an amazing, independent business was not able to support itself. In a culture that seems to be obsessed with being ‘anti-corporate’ and supporting the local up-and-coming businesses, in a city were artisan and craft markets are flourishing and where everything is about mason jars and mismatched antique crockery, one business that is actually providing something culturally valuable just can’t survive.

I mean what the fuck people? We can all sit in our armchairs and talk about supporting local businesses, but how many of us actually do it? When was the last time you went to a farmers market instead of Coles or Wollies? When was the last time you visited your local library? Or bought a book from an actual bookshop instead of from Amazon? How often do you buy products owned by Coca-Cola Amatil? Or Unilever? Or supermarket ownbrands that try to undercut anything new? It’s so easy to go through life not thinking about the choices you make and how they shape our world.

These choices don’t require you to be bold, they just require you to be mindful, and I know that requires a lot more energy than just buying shit on autopilot, but please try. Worse than our supermarket behaviour though is our complete devaluation of cultural artefacts – live theatre, independent cinema, poetry, writing, music, photography, the list goes on. We live in a world where we expect this stuff to be accessible for free. We expect there to be a never-ending stream of new stuff available for consumption and yet, we as a society are losing sight of what it takes to produce it. Every new novel is a struggling writer trying to pay their rent. Every new album is an artist sitting in their bedroom in the middle of the night trying to record because they have to get up in the morning and go to work in a cafe. Every amazing photo of the night sky, or the city at dusk, or a glittering beach that you ‘borrow’ and share on your Facebook feed without giving proper credit, was taken by someone trying to make a living from their art.

I guess what I’m trying to say, in a long winded slightly ranty sort of way, is that if we value art, if we value entertainment and new creative voices, we have to start showing our support in real dollars. When you see an exhibition advertised, go see it! When you know someone who’s launching a book, go buy it! When you hear of a new band performing, go hear them! I get that our society is changing with the digital age and the accessibility of free stuff, but I think it’s important to keep in mind what that means. Nothing comes for free, and in Australia with the Coalition government trying to change the budget in a fundamentally-terrible-for-the-arts way, now more than ever before we have to support local talent with our own money and time.

First Person

20 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by in Writing, Writing101

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Dear First Person,

How’s it going? I was just thinking to myself about how often are things written to you. Most blogs are written in First Person, and that’s pretty great. Coming in a close second would be Third Person, lots and lots of narrative is written in Third Person. You also get to have dibs on most journalistic stuff, although that’s often written in passive voice to hide the fact that it’s First Person.

I hardly ever see anything written in Second Person, it’s hard to tell a story in ‘you’ but I know it’s been done. Frequently by people who are studying creative writing and want to challenge themselves, or prove that they’re different, or to be original – but who can really be original anymore?

I don’t know where I’d been without you, First Person. It would certainly be a much more confusing world if you, Second and Third person were all the same. I mean it’s difficult enough that Second Person singular and plural are the same in English, what if you and Third Person behaved like that?

Sure, it might lead to less of an ‘us’ and ‘them’ mentality, because ‘us’ wouldn’t exist, or at least wouldn’t be distinguishable from ‘I’ and ‘they’ wouldn’t be different to ‘he/she/it’, but it might also mean that no one ever felt connected to anyone else because everything is ‘I’. And while we’re on the subject, could you get together with Third Person and come up with a gender non-specific singular pronoun that isn’t ‘it’? That would really help with stuff, and ‘it’ is pretty awful when referring to human beings.

I should probably let you go now, actually, before we get too far down a pronoun rabbit hole. This was just a quick note to show my appreciation for your participation in my language. I’ll see you around.

All my love,

Fleur

Is My Cat an Atheist? The Definitive Quiz

19 Thursday Jun 2014

Posted by in Writing, Writing101

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Have you ever wondered whether your cat has the same religious affiliations you do? Have you ever wondered whether cats believe in God? Or whether they have an concept of the afterlife? Well so have we! That’s why we’ve trawled through the relevant literature and found ten perfect questions that will allow you to ascertain whether you need to organise a conversion party for your cat.

Q1: When you walk out of a room, does your cat:
a) knock stuff over, then look really guilty;
b) knock stuff over, then look at you with disdain;
c) knock stuff over, then yowl melodically;
d) knock stuff over, then walk away.

Q2: After using the kitty litter, does your cat:
a) try to hide the poo in the litter;
b) just leaves that shit right in the open;
c) my cat uses the toilet, and it can flush;
d) my cat refuses to use the litter box.

Q3: Your cat will show you affection:
a) after you’ve dug it out of the bedclothes/couch;
b) whenever it feels like it, there’s no pattern;
c) after you’ve fed it, or it’s pissed on the carpet;
d) after it’s just viciously scratched your face/couch/child.

Atheist Cat - pic by Cheezburger

Atheist Cat – pic by Cheezburger

Q4: When meeting new people, your cat will:
a) show quite a lot of initial affection, but will then become reclusive;
b) blows hot and cold as it sees fit;
c) is generally affectionate, especially if the new person doesn’t like cats;
d) will be friendly enough to get close, and will then hiss, scratch and spit.

Q5: As a tribute, your cat will bring you:
a) a bird;
b) a lizard;
c) a mouse;
d) a severed digit.

Q6: When looking for a place to nap, your cat prefers:
a) your feet;
b) your keyboard;
c) on top of the curtains/blinds;
d) on me somewhere, this often involves claws.

Q7: If you catch your cat cleaning it’s own ass, it will:
a) stop immediately and pretend it didn’t happen;
b) continue cleaning, it doesn’t care;
c) get up, move to another room, then resume cleaning;
d) get up and start licking your face.

Q8: Your cat’s favourite toy is:
a) a piece of string/wool/shoelaces;
b) the mouse on a string;
c) the scratching post;
d) your favourite knitted top.

Q9: Where did you get your cat:
a) from my elderly relative;
b) I got it in the divorce/when my last relationship broke up;
c) I got it from an animal rescue place/shelter;
d) the cat chose me, I don’t know who it belongs to, but it won’t leave.

Q10: When taking photos of your cat with your phone, your cat will:
a) refuse to make eye contact, pretending to be coy;
b) pose with it’s genitals on display;
c) occasionally lick the lens, or act disinterested;
d) try to bat the phone out of your hand/doesn’t appear to show up on camera.

 

The Results

Mostly As: Your cat is Catholic! With that much guilt and ceremony it couldn’t be anything else. It’s favourite things would definitely include incense, gold leaf, indecipherable manuscripts, and monetary tributes. Can also have a tendency to rebel, so keep an eye on them.

Mostly Bs: Your cat is an Atheist! A curious mixture of good-natured and selfish, this cat knows how it should behave, but sometimes doesn’t because, well, what are the repercussions? I mean really, all they have is the now, so y’know, YOLO.

Mostly Cs: Your cat is Anglican! While less superstitious than the Catholic cat, this cat still has some strong beliefs and will always try to stand on proper polite behaviour. These guys are pretty low maintenance and will usually behave themselves.

Mostly Ds: I’m pretty sure your cat is possessed. Either that, or it’s the embodiment of evil itself. Or it’s just a cat. Who knows right?

 

Disclaimer: This quiz was written based on my completely negligible research. It’s entirely possible your cat might be neither a Christian nor an Atheist, but I’m not qualified to diagnose that. Further analysis of the cat’s behaviour should be undertaken by an expert. 

This quiz was in response to day twelve of the Writing101 course, inspired by an overheard conversation.

The House I Grew Up In

17 Tuesday Jun 2014

Posted by in My Journey, Writing, Writing101

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , , ,

Today, tell us about the home you lived in when you were twelve. For your twist, pay attention to — and vary — your sentence lengths.

I was lucky enough to live in the same house from the day I was born, until the day I moved out of home at eighteen. It was a big, Edwardian house in the suburbs. It had twelve-foot ceilings, and one of the widest central hallways of any house I’ve seen. It went through several changes while I lived there; walls were knocked through to make a bigger living space, linoleum flooring was ripped up to show off the floorboards. The most pertinent change for me, was the time I painted my bedroom. My bedroom started out with white walls and glossy dark red trims; ceiling rose, picture rail, skirting board, window frames and door. I have no idea who did the colour scheme. I didn’t like it.

I was slightly older than twelve, probably more like fourteen, but for the purposes of the exercise we’ll pretend that’s the same. After a period of strenuous negotiation between my parents and me, we settled on a colour scheme for my repainted bedroom. The ceiling would be pale yellow, the walls mauve, and the trims would be purple. I don’t think most parents would have agreed to these colours, but purple is my mum’s favourite colour so I was pretty safe. We also took the opportunity to rip up the weird, brown, seventies-era long pile carpet so the look was completed with pine floorboards.

During the painting of my room, I was moved into the front ‘formal lounge’ to sleep. This new room was much bigger than my bedroom, but it needed to be – it had a piano, a stereo and a set of antique couches from my great grandmother along with all the stuff from my room. It was also right at the front of the house on a main road.

For whatever reason, probably laziness and general busy-ness, it took us a long time to get the new paint job done. When it was finished, I loved it! I was the envy of all my (admittedly not many) friends for years, and my first boyfriend thought it was pretty cool too. The only other person I really knew who repainted their bedroom was my second boyfriend, Damien, who painted his bedroom black. He was a goth. He thought it was so cool, but I couldn’t help wondering how they were ever going to repaint the room if anyone else ever wanted to live there. He also had luxurious blood red velvet curtains and lots of candles and skulls. He may have been a vampire, come to think of it.

But I digress. My mother, father and younger sister lived in our house for a long time after I moved out. They only moved when it had to be sold as part of my parents divorce in my twenties. I have a lot of fond memories of that house, and a lot of memories that I think I have, based on photos that are in the collection at mum’s. There are embarrassing photos of me in the sea green bath with several other children, or sun-baking and mud-pie-making in the garden. And other memories like the ducks, the dogs, the guinea pigs, the cubby house, the big cyprus tree that fell over in a storm and destroyed the back verandah, the box on the front verandah for deliveries, the porta-loo we had while they redid the floors, and the other tree at the back that was struck by lightning once.

Since I left home, I’ve lived all over the place. I’ve lived in Wave Street, Queen Street, Heyington Avenue, York Street, Glenferrie Road, Alexandra Avenue, and where I am now in Richmond. Seven places in twelve years. Maybe I’m making up for never having moved as a kid, who knows, but I do know I’ll always remember the house I grew up in.

Mum’s One-Pot Chicken Soup

16 Monday Jun 2014

Posted by in Writing, Writing101

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Day Ten’s prompt is to write about a favourite childhood meal that meant celebration or comfort. I’ve been thinking about this for a couple of days and the one that sticks out for me is the chicken soup my mother made me when I had all my wisdom teeth out. Because I’d had all four wisdom teeth out under anaesthetic I couldn’t really chew for a week or so, so my mum blended this soup, which didn’t really work so well, but it was very welcome nonetheless.

I have a lot of love for Asian influenced brothy soups; Vietnamese Pho, Thai Tom Yum, really anything with broth and chilli. I think it comes from growing up in Box Hill, an area with a heavily Asian population, lots of Asian grocery shops that sold lots of excellent vegetables like bok choy, pak choy, and wombok, and tasty sauces with difficult to read labels. Plus, when made the way my mum used to, this chicken soup was a super easy one pot wonder and ready in about half an hour.

As a grown up, I often use this soup as a go to, particularly when I’m feeling a bit run down, or want comfort in winter. My old housemates, Simon and Kat, also got in on the chicken soup action, so here’s my recipe (or at least, it’s sort of a loose guide to the way I make it).

Ingredients:

  • Chicken pieces
  • Rice/ Rice noodles
  • Onion (optional)
  • Carrot
  • Greens – seasonal stuff, zucchini, broccoli, wombok, pak/bok choy, beans, peas, whatever you like as long as it’s plentiful and green.
  • Stock/Water
  • Chilli sauce
  • Soy sauce
  • Hoisin sauce

Method:

Fill a big pot about half way with water or stock. I usually use a stock cube, but if you have home-made stock that’s even better, or that broth they use to make pho.

Put the pot on the stove to heat while you get started on the other stuff.

Next, put the chicken pieces Into the pot. I don’t usually wait for it to boil, but you can if you like. Depending on the size of your chicken pieces you’ll need to simmer that for a while, maybe 10 minutes for small bits of breast or thigh, maybe 20 minutes for anything with a bone still in it.

While that’s simmering, chop the carrot, onion and greens.

After the 10 or 20 minutes has gone by, add your rice*, I’d say about 1/3 cup per serve or something. I don’t really know, I just kind of chuck in a mug full or so for a bit pot. Simmer the rice for 3-4 minutes.

Add your carrot and onion, simmer for another 3-4 minutes.

Finally add your greens and simmer for 3-4 minutes**.

By now your rice should be cooked, as well as your vegies and everything else.

To serve, put the soup into bowls and add chilli, soy and hoisin to taste. You can also add lemon juice and bean sprouts for more of a pho flavour.

Depending on your needs, you can make big batches of this which you can save for later, or single serving versions. Note: if you save this soup for later, the rice will continue to swell and you’ll end up with more of a stew type thing. You can add extra water/stock if you like, or just eat it as is it’s still super tasty.

*If you’re using brown rice, put it in 10 minutes earlier.

**If you’re using rice noodles, add them with the greens at the end.

 

This is probably not a great recipe if you’re looking for strict instructions, but I’m a fairly loose sort of cook. I’m having this for dinner tonight, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!