Noms Blog in a Teacup

Posts from the “family” Category

Dog Turds and Shortbread

Posted on March 1, 2015

The G Mart, my 85-year-old granny, worked all of her life in the local hospitals kitchen from the tender age of fifteen. Countless early mornings for 60 odd years she walked to and from work, enduring hours of cooking, peeling vegetables, carving meat, plating it all up and then the cleaning. She loved her job and only retired when they forced her to. She sat in the industrial sink on her last day while they doused her in flour, the cheesiest grin on a little old woman you’re ever likely to see. I’m not even sure Gran is five foot. She has a tiny little body of probably less than 40 kilos wringing wet! Short pearl white hair, that’s freshly set every Friday. Daily…

Pumpkin Patch & Popcorn

Posted on February 25, 2015

Horses aren’t one of my favorite things. They were for a period, however over the years a couple of experiences have steered me away from them. I can ride, that’s for certain. Well I could! Not sure about now though, getting on one might be a task with me being older, less flexible and somewhat heavier than in my youth. Not to mention the issue of breasts. Horse riding and an ample bust are really not friends, unless of course you’re wearing a sports bra, crop top or two, and a straight jacket over the top. This story isn’t about riding though. Nor is it about breasts. Clunes lies next to an old volcanic mountain, Mt Beckworth. Back when it was formed it threw…


Posted on February 24, 2015

LIke most kids, I grew up watching my parents canoodle. The odd pinch on the ass here or a quick grab of a tit there. There was never a real sexual buzz about it, it just, ‘was’. Dad was a real Romeo. The Don Yuan of farts, ass slaps and dry humps. The kitchen sink was often a place for him to pounce, while mum had her hands distracted in the sink. He would tower over her, arms roaming, hips grinding and the canoodle would begin. She would giggle, pushing him away, flicking suds every where. It was normal. Dad is the eldest of eight children, and was the shortest of the five boys, standing at six feet two inches. The term “built like a brick shit-house”…


Posted on February 18, 2015

Folding the washing today, I couldn’t help but think about how easy it is now. I detest the fuck out of it, but it’s easy. Collecting the dirty washing is the chore for me now. Always a never-ending supply of it. It’s in the bathroom, in the bedrooms, pushed down the back of the lounge suite, screwed up in a corner, left lying around over a chair or outside where the boys took it off. It never ends, and then there’s the missing socks… where the fuck do they go? We wear them, chuck them in the basket, they go into a washing machine, then a dryer maybe or onto the line and then wallah! One of the fuckers is GONE! Kill me now.…


Posted on February 17, 2015

Being as it was Shrove Tuesday yesterday I thought I would blog about pancakes. To most they’re just pancakes. A sweet, sticky, fluffy disc of love. I love em! Actually, I really fucking love em! I love everything about them. The high they give you. The sheer delight it brings those around me eating them. Their taste. Their texture. To other people they’re a sweet treat, dessert or a special breakfast. But, to me they are the ultimate symbol of Christmas Day. Weird? Fuck yes, I know, but I love it. Christmas Day as a kid was always spent in two places. Usually a hot lunch with Mum’s side at the G Marts (AKA Granny Mart) in Rainbow, followed by a more relaxed tea at…

Third Born

Posted on February 17, 2015

I suppose it makes sense to begin with my earliest memory. Not all my blogs will be memories but I think it’s a good start. I was not quite five years old. Four years and ten months to be exact. It was the middle of June, 1980, wet and fucking cold. At some point my parents moved to Ballarat, the arse end of the world! Mum would travel “home” to Hopetoun, in Northwestern Victoria to deliver my two younger sisters. I was born in Hopetoun too, in 1975. My parents were raised in the area and lived there at the time. However for this particular drive from Ballarat to Hopetoun, a three and a half hour epic journey when you’re a kid, the youngest child’s birth was imminent. I am…