Trainer: OK, do 30 more now. Let’s go.
Me: You’re fucking joking me.
Trainer: Me, I am not joking. Come on. 10. Then 10. Then 10. Let’s go.
Me: But my back hurts and my vestigial tail is killing me.
Trainer: Let’s go. If you do them I will buy you a cow.
I thought he said: ‘I will buy you a car.’ I don’t know a) why I thought that was even true, or b) why it spurred me to grunt through those mothers like there was a brand spanking Lexus ticking over in the forecourt. And I don’t even want a car. If I had to choose, the cow would win. A big, creamy Cambodian cow. I could ride it freestyle, or tie a little cart on the back and nip off to Lucky or down the beach, as per the Lexus. Maybe ‘nip’ is ambitious. But still. And I could write COW in big letters on the side.
Neither beast materialised, but I was barely disappointed. To have sat up 50 times in a row was a fucking miracle. I’m a born horizontalist with a bacchanalian monkey on my back and, since the dawn of time, I’ve been enslaved by many an insidious menu item, including a homemade cheesecake jones that has generously furnished convex abs and an arse the size of a milking shed. I’m that dessert’s bitch.
I’ve enabled myself into waddling middle age with whoppers like: ‘Cheesecake helps reduce the risk of osteoporosis.’ A silvery glimmer of Philadelphia in the Bayon dairy cabinet and my breath catches, my pupils dilate and chit-chatting trolley-pushing Parent Networkers should Get. Out. My. Fucken. Way.
I thought I was doing alright. Gym thrice a week and I’ve cut out those deep-fried banana snacks pushed on every street corner. I’ve been rising at sparrow’s to puff up and down Riverside in a singlet and Lycra pants even. I tried those exercise machines, by the way. They were all broken before I went on them, Officer. And then this last Australia Day I caved. A smug gwynethy kale expedition ended in a mammoth spoon-licking, crumb-sucking debauch behind closed doors, thanks to an innocent email greeting from my unscrupulous parents which contained an heirloom recipe from my Auntie Evie.
Before marrying rich, my mother’s elder sister was a spectacular cook and remained so until dementia made off with her recipes. In her heyday Evie was a stick-thin, glamorous, twice-married fashionista whose home, amidst the mustard carpets and avocado appliances of her neighbours, dazzled like a lonesome, wayfaring snowfield: Antarctic white from its knee-deep wall-to-wall plush pile to the sparkling sanitaryware you could just about eat dinner off. Unlike my sister and I, bolshy preteen heathens both, her children had spit-plastered hair and exquisite manners. Cousin Becky had a full Bo Peep mini cooking set. Cousin Roger wore an elasticated necktie to breakfast. The kitchen was Evie’s spotless domain. She wore heels and ironed aprons and ruled it like a culinary Nurse Ratchett. She scared us filthy little hippies shitless, but her cheesecake was legend.
At home here, with the blinds drawn in our shabby chic-less kitchen in the heart of CharmingVille, I baked the best cheesecake I ever tasted, which was all of it. It was a culinary masterpiece.
Gorging on my creamy, lemony nemesis took two hours of a fight with Cellcard Customer Service and the tail end of an Animal Hoarders episode (no cows, but 129 cats crapping all over).
And now I fear the floodgates have opened: all the things I love to eat are ambling home to graze. The new Burger King in BKK1 is just asking for trouble. It’s like Beelzebub, dressed as Channing Tatum, has walked up to me at a party full of Victoria’s Secret models and told me I am the most beautiful girl in the world and that everything will be OK if I just lay down in his arms. I know he’s the devil incarnate, but how can I resist The Tater?