Finding a (hangover) cure

I woke up with a hangover. A deep, throbbing, truly embedded red wine stinger. I thought I’d been well behaved. My best buddies had joined me for dinner and had brought over a couple of bottles to enjoy with the beef. I had obviously got a little carried away with my cooking confidence, thinking my delicate sips were in controlled fashion.

If I had of been in my twenties, kid free and frivolous, I would have slept it off; escaping my bed because I was sick of it by 2pm. Brunching late into the afternoon, eating avocado because I didn’t have a mortgage and reading a broadsheet newspaper from cover to cover because I had the room.

But not this time, not this decade, not in this current climate. My hangover was welcomed to Sunday with a hardcover Richard Scarry book wedged into my eyelid and a cry of a wet pyjama pant followed by demands for breakfast and Octonauts and Lego and activity. Ouch. It was 6.07am.

Trying to hide my disappointment in myself, I made pikelets and demolished them as best as I could just so I could shovel some Panadol into my body. I drank tea. I drank Nescafe. I had a sneaky cup of cordial. I was on a mission to destroy this heavy beast that was consuming my body.

It was now 11.30am. The sun was bright. We went to Williamstown Beach.

For someone who grew up in country North-East Victoria, I find it such a joy to live so close to the beach. I mean, you can ride your pushie to the water from where I live. However, on this day I chose to drive. I had promised my son a sandcastle and we had packed three Tonka trucks – and carrying those metal beasts anywhere is a commitment.

We arrived and set up our spot: towel, lunch box, Tonkas, buckets, shovels. We were set for at least a few hours.

And hell, if there is anything to rid yourself of a filthy hangover, it’s Willy beach on the cusp of spring. That fresh sea breeze off the water is enough to lift your spirits (and lift any spirits seeping out of your body). Dipping your toes into the freezing water is a spiritual release of any toxins trying to escape from your winter-fied toenails.

And if that’s not enough, tucked right at the tip of the bay is Kiosk D’Asporto; a delightful, sunny, super-happy café that will turn any hangover frown upside down. Cakes, donuts, milkshakes, gelato, pulled pork sandwiches, salads and seriously THE BEST fish and chips you can find westside.

On this particularly ‘difficult’ day for me, I was super grateful for the smiley, stunning owner handing over a small cup of red jelly to my son who almost wept with joy at the treat. It was a top distraction for the anticipation of the freshly fried lunch goodness that was coming our way.

We ate our treats and watched the footy players wade through the fresh water, the pooches splashing about with sticks and balls and a weird fish-looking thing and a couple of hotties on their skateboards proving that being in your late thirties doesn’t mean you can’t smash out a few grinds along the esplanade.

With the lunch in our bellies, the hangover well and truly forgotten (except for reciting it word for word in this column), we built a mega sandcastle, collected some shells and blessed the sunshine and sea for making us feel so jolly good. We headed back home to Yarraville, sand still between our toes and our jean cuffs damp and sticky from the ocean.

With tea well and truly on my mind along with the downhill slope to bedtime on the horizon, I decided to not be a parental hero and cook up a storm but instead give the new local pizza joint, D’Asporto, a go.

The same owners as my lunch time haunt of the day, the pizza – just like my lunch - was unforgettably gorgeous. Traditional in all the right ways, with toppings to top off any hangover day and a base so textured and balanced, it can barely be described, just illustrated with a fine tip pen in an archival document for future generations to study.

My son and I demolished two pizzas (as takeaway in the comfort of our own home), we bathed and were in pjs by 7pm. It had been a big day, but the seaside had reset it and our D’Asporto pals had fixed it. It was perfect.

Treat yourself to a double decker D’Asporto Day this week. You will be a better human for it.

You can find The Kiosk D’Asporto at 99 Esplanade, Williamstown and Pizza D’Asporto at 2-6 Ballarat Street, Yarraville (in the Village Green).

This article first appeared in the September issue of The Westsider.

Six Things in Six Days

1. I've worked out how to crochet, now I want to teach myself how to knit. I'm going to start with a scarf before I take on a pair of socks.

2. We are moving offices at work this week so I'm going to bake a cake. I'm thinking lime and coconut. Yesssssssssss.

3. This week, I promise, I'm pruning my roses. I'm hoping my neighbour can teach me (again)

4. I just wanna hold onto that last bit of heat. Found this collection in the local op shop.

5. I picked a stack of this holly in the country on the weekend (it's so fucking prickly). Gonna hang some round the front door and maybe earn a couple of extra kisses (from the hubby or chance visit from Channing / Scott Eastwood / James Marsden)

6. I'm busting to make or build something so getting some inspo from the last edition of Frankie's Spaces publication.

Enjoy your week friends.

xx

Caravan of Courage

Just returned home from THE BEST weekend.

This was the equation:

Caravan + kids + beach + pals + fire pit + meat + mud + bikes + hikes + swimming + beers + dirty feet = THE BEST weekend.

We hired a rad caravan down at Skenes Creek. If you've never been to this hideaway caravan park near Apollo Bay, it's time to try it. This sensational area is like a time warp to 1986, in the best possible way.

The on site caravans with their chocked up wheels and dusty annexes are like holidays from my childhood, the beige exteriors bringing an instant feeling of calm.  The smell of charcoal and sausages bringing back memories of fortnight-long vacations in Mallacoota, Nelsons Bay, Port Stephens, Caloundra.

The sight of packs of kids racing their pushies along the track, taking a risk and smashing out metre long burn outs wearing only thongs and a pair of faded boardies. Filthy children with sand stuck between their toes, their parents sitting by the caravan stoking the fire pit, iceburg lettuce ready to fill a rissole sandwich.

No money is spent on these holidays. No TV is watched. No bedtime routine is followed. Sometimes there isn't even a shower before bed coz 'I had a shower on the beach and I've wiped my feet with a towel, mum'.

It's the best.

I love waking in the morning and watching the zombie-like parents in their checkered ill-fitting pj's (some dads just wearing their jocks) heading towards the shared toilet block, still glaring out its 1980s sunshine pine coloured rendered brick, with concrete planters filled with succulents and cigarette butts standing like two soldiers at the entrance. Sometimes the parents look nervous, knowing they need to shit but aware of the queue.

At night, you might bump into the same person, no longer a stranger because you had to tell their kid off for licking the communal bin, and you chat in front of the mirror with your mouth full of toothpaste.

It's the best.

Our pals, with their sons in tow, would run around with our boys at the beach, on their bikes, up the track. Jumping, wrestling, smashing the sand. Kids being kids. No adults in sight.

At night, we would nestle in after the kids had gone to sleep for tea out the front of our caravan, watch the fire burn and discuss the difference between Aldi and Coles, favourite pizza toppings and holidays of our youth.  Adults being adults until someone would let off a fart then we'd all cack ourselves with laughter.

Caravaning. Camping. This is the way forward with our holidays now. Long ago are the days of five star resorts and stunning hotel rooms. But by golly, it's so much fun to be disgustingly grotty for a few days, acting like a kid, just like it was 1986 all over again. I can't wait to return next year.

Best weekends

Are there any other publicist / chef relationships out there? If so, please knock on my door and have a beer with me as I'd love to hear your stories of logistics, shift work, balance and options and how you find ways to pump up the jam.

Hubster and I totally pumped up the jam yesterday. We had a freaking RARE as fuck Saturday DAY AND NIGHT off together, but as we have an almost three year old, there was no sleeping in. Instead we pre-planned the night before a seriously rad beach trip.

Our favourite beach to head to is Indented Head because it has a funny name and one shop called a General Store and no phone reception. It's very cool.

We packed badly (only one nappy and no shoes for the kid + a broken beach tent) but it didn't matter. It was a pearler of a day and shoes are overrated in summer.

If you have never been to Indented Head before, it's time to try it. Especially if you have a toddler. There's a shipwreck, rock pools and sail boats. And it's just so goddamn quiet you can hear yourself think. Only about an hour and a bit from Melbourne-town too. Leave your phone at home.

But it came time to leave the beach and grabs some snacks which meant pick up some shoes for the kid thanks to the superbly hot ground. We could only source Haviana thongs in Portarlington for $25 a pop (kill me - for thongs!) which meant the extravagant lunch we had in mind turned to pies, Oak flavoured milk and jelly slice at the local bakery. Which turned out to be pretty excellent if you're into 1990s-style baked treats.

It's these weekends, half planned, half winging it that turn out the best. Flicking on the radio to hear Foreigner, spotting a pirate ship at the pier, grabbing a kilo of muscles from a boat, and my favourite, scoring freshly picked fruit at the local Williamstown Farmers Market and watching my kid sit on the ground and devour piece after piece after piece until all my coins ran out.

Happy Valentine's day to all the loved up people out there. May you be eating the food my man is cooking up today while he works or listening to the sweet sounds of the orchestra while I work tonight.

I hope next weekend is filled with just as much love, if not... .find yourself a jelly slice and discover love at first sight!

Missing Person

I want to let you in on a little secret. Actually, it’s a pretty big secret, because I feel a little embarrassed about it. But it’s not a ‘do-not-tell-anyone’ secret like the time I got so hideously drunk off five beers and spewed in front of my son, or a ‘please-don’t-judge-me’ secret like the time I used a tea-towel  tied up with a ribbon as a nappy and took my son to Coles’ to buy nappies (I was totally and ashamedly out), or a ‘what’s-wrong-with-me-medically’ secret where I laughed so hard I weed my pants a little moment.  No this is a secret that I want to tell you because I don’t think I should feel embarrassed about it. So instead, I want to share this secret so other people can say: “Yo, Ali… I’m in exactly the same boat. Let’s be mates and freaking rule this world.”

Summer Dreams and Ice Creams

There’s something in the air and it smells. It’s not just the smell of teen spirit. It’s the smell of summer. But it’s different this year and it smells so good.

The smell is popping up everywhere I go. At a recent dumpling showdown with friends, an argument broke out about whether it is ‘Creaming’ or ‘Creamy’ soda and then it reached new heights on the difference between brown or red soda, then it went even further as to who made it better: Kirks or Tarax? (In my opinion it’s Creamy, it’s brown and Tarax did a ripper version in a black can with a gold stripe).

As a kid, my brothers and I were only ever allowed soft drink at special occasions. We would have Creamy Soda or Pasito at Christmas and it was such a treat.