Food for thought

I’ve been in my workplace just long enough to scrape in two monthly morning teas. At each event, someone drew three names out of a hat. Those drawn were charged to supply the next morning tea. It’s a bit like the reaping in The Huger Games, really. And, guess what...

Lucky, lucky me.

I get to work with Steve (who says he’s attended one morning tea in the last 12 months) and Paula who calls me Jacinta (not my name) and whose role eludes me.

I have to figure out what to take.

Scary.

These things are always political… Somehow, you have to be impressive without looking like you’re showing off (this puts the giant chocolate gateau off limits).

Fatso pregnancy cookies are also out – I already flashed them round my team in a fit of friend‑making during my first fortnight. And Florentines are gone – the boss has staked her claim in this department and there’ll be no toe‑treading from me.

Meringues are out (women don’t like white powder on their boobs). Party pies and sausage rolls go like hotcakes but even if I make them from scratch (the rolls and pies, not the hotcakes), people might mistake them for the pre-fab variety and then my credibility will be down the toilet.

I’m told slices rock but I haven’t really been a slice girl since making chocolate crunch from the indispensible Central Cookery Book in the late 70s. Someone suggested soup but, really, who has soup for morning tea?

Then there’s the calorific versus diet‑friendly debate – the fruit and sushi platter versus profiteroles and carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.

So, how about the humble scone? Bill brought scones last week (his grandfather made them). I'd never tasted a scone that contained coconut before. They were somewhat on the arid side. Jarrod said they were all right with jam on them. They weren't. I suspect it might look a smidge like one-upmanship if I caused a Devonshire tea to materialise. (Though, why one would even bother to demonstrate scone superiority in that circumstance, I don’t know.)

That’s another thing: this morning tea exercise is much easier for blokes. They seem to be able to get away with buying a pack of TimTams/party pies/donuts or having their mother/wife/grandfather cook for them. If they do actually venture into circles culinary, it doesn’t matter that a three-year-old could better their charred pikelets/lame corn relish dip/stale fairy bread because people are just impressed that they gave food preparation a go. Bravo! Little clap for the big man.

On a serious note, I have a handicap (I'm not averse to dredging up childhood deprivation). My mum wasn’t born in Australia, so I didn’t even discover the joys of staples like chocolate ripple cake and jelly slice - let alone prepare them - until well into my thirties. (When we were kids, she thought sending us along to girl guides with French stick slices smeared with John West tuna paste was classy.)

Luckily, I’m also a bloody good cook.

So, as for this wretched morning tea - at this point, I’m fairly committed to taking along my divine (if I do say so myself) spinach pie that looks healthy but only tastes so good because there’s half a kilo of extra tasty in it. Maybe I could balance it out with my sister’s low fat fudge that looks and tastes sinful but won’t trash any diets.

And when I inevitably run over budget, will I pay for the extra ingredients from my own wallet? You bet I will. (God, my ego’s expensive.)
Image: Simon Howden