Mini Series: Bold Plans, Soft Landings

Holiday Projects, I Didn’t Finish

Part 3: The Recipe I Started Cooking and Finished Ordering

There is a very specific kind of confidence that shows up uninvited.

It whispers, “Today, you will cook.”

Not something small. Not survival food.

A proper meal.

From scratch.

With ambition.

With ingredients that have been sitting in your kitchen for weeks… judging you silently.

On this particular day, I listened.

“I’m cooking tonight,” I announced.

The Audit Committee (my husband and children) looked up briefly.

Not alarmed.

Just… documenting.

They’ve seen things.

Oscar wagged his tail. Loyal. Supportive. Completely unaware of the chaos about to unfold.

I sensed the judgement.

“In my defence,” I said, “I am a good cook. I just… don’t always feel aligned with the kitchen.”

Pause.

“But today,” I added with confidence I had not earned, “I conquer.” I ignored the hawk-level surveillance from the Audit Committee—survivors of my previous food experiments.

I began strong.

Vegetables were washed like I was hosting a cooking show. Chopping happened with confidence and background music. At one point, I paused… and nodded at myself.

This is who I am now.

A chef.

Naturally, the universe intervened.

The recipe began to get… interpretive.

“Simmer for 10 minutes.”

Now, “simmer” is a beautifully vague instruction.

Low heat? Medium heat? A gentle philosophical warmth?

The recipe offered no clarification. And while I admire creative freedom, I do believe certain situations benefit from clear direction—especially when heat and reputation are involved.

I adjusted the flame like I was negotiating international peace.

The pan had its own interpretation.

Oil responded enthusiastically.

Spices became… expressive.

And something began to develop a deeper level of intensity than originally planned.

I remained composed. After all, this is part of the process. Every good dish goes through a moment of transformation.

A few minutes later, the kitchen had warmed considerably—along with the situation.

Then came the next instruction:

“Cook until golden.”

Now, I respect a good visual cue. I really do.

But “golden” is… subjective.

Golden like lightly toasted? Golden like restaurant-level perfection? Golden like we’ve gone too far but let’s stay positive?

I stood there, analysing the situation like it was a critical life decision. Because at this point, I wasn’t just cooking—I was interpreting art.

At that exact moment, the Audit Committee (my husband) walked in.

He looked at the pan.

He looked at me.

He took in the aroma—or what used to be an aroma.

And chose silence.

“I’ve got it under control,” I said, confidently adjusting something that did not need adjusting.

He nodded—the kind of nod that says, I trust you… to make your own decisions.

Meanwhile, the dish had… matured.

The smell deepened. The texture evolved. The kitchen developed character.

Windows were opened. Not casually. With intent.

And that’s when clarity arrived.

I opened a food delivery app.

Not dramatically. Not emotionally. Just… efficiently.

Because this was no longer about cooking.

This was about outcomes.

Dinner arrived.

I plated it beautifully — because presentation is strategy.

We sat down.

No one asked questions. No one referred to the kitchen. No one mentioned the word “home cooked.”

The children ate with quiet focus—the kind usually reserved for exams or important life decisions.

The Audit Committee (my husband) took a bite, paused, nodded once, and said, “Nice.”

A very powerful word.

Oscar approved immediately. No hesitation. No analysis. Just pure support.

And just like that, dinner was complete.

Peace was maintained. Dignity was preserved. History was not discussed.

Lesson Learned:

Cooking builds confidence. Ordering builds wisdom.

And knowing when to switch?

That is maturity. 😌✨

Part 2: The Wardrobe I Began Organising and Ended Up Emotionally Processing

On a rainy day—the dramatic, sky is crying with me kind—I decided to organise my wardrobe instead of going out for lunch with my gym gang.

Of course, they were not going to be happy about this.

But my wise mind refused to step out, get stuck in traffic, and start shouting, “Come on, mate! What are you waiting for? A red-carpet moment? MOVE!”(Obviously with the windows safely closed. I am bold, not reckless.)

So yes, this decision required sacrifice.

And this was serious. We had a sacred rule: no matter what, we meet once a month for lunch and eat absolutely everything, we’ve been denying ourselves all month.

That lunch is not casual.

That lunch is motivation.

That lunch is the reason we torture ourselves on treadmills.

That lunch is holy.

You do not cancel holy things lightly.

And we had another rule: whoever cancels must lead the next team workout and burn the highest calories.

So yes. That would be me the next day. Running. Sweating. Regretting.

But in that rainy moment, organising my cupboard felt like forced character development. When we made the lunch plan, the app promised sunshine. But thanks to the Minister of Atmospheric Chaos, it was pouring.

Not raining.

Pouring.

Sydney weather lately behaves like it’s going through an identity crisis. Summer feels like winter. Winter feels like… something we don’t discuss. So, I sent a dramatic last-minute cancellation message to the group chat. And immediately put my phone on airplane mode. That is not something we need to analyse.

Plan revised: when the sky cries, we re-organise and cry together.

I put on my headphones. Rock and roll. Because no serious life decision should be made without background music and minor hip movement. Then I opened the wardrobe. The moment I touched the doors; clothes fell on me like a betrayal. Like mud when you slip and dignity leaves your body.

So many clothes. Do I wear them?

Rarely.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, I live in gym clothes. They hug me. They understand me. They hide my stomach like loyal friends. But apparently, society refuses to accept gym leggings as boardroom attire.

I tried.

I raised it casually in meetings. I wore gym shorts under a formal top during virtual calls. And then one day… I stood up to grab a pen. We do not discuss what happened next. After that, I made a firm decision: official meetings require official clothing.

Back to the battlefield.

I pulled everything out and dumped it on the bed. A mountain of fabric. A textile representation of my personality.

“First things first,” I told myself. “We separate.”

Section one: office meeting clothes.

Section two: casual clothes.

Section three: my first love—gym clothes.

Section four: the dangerous one. The dresses that no longer fit my current body but refuse to leave my dreams.

That fourth section was emotional.

These were my favourites. Forest green. Pink. Navy blue. The “I’ll wear this when…” collection. In psychology—at least the version I invented—if something refuses to agree with you, you wait for it to surrender. I had been waiting for my dresses to surrender to my body.

Today, I declared war.

I picked up a forest green dress. Bought a year ago. Worn once. Beautiful. Currently optimistic. “It doesn’t fit,” I admitted. But then my brain whispered: you cancelled lunch. You’ll run tomorrow. You can fit into this in a month. And just like that, it went into the “keep” pile. This logic repeated itself for every single item in section four. Two hours later, I looked at the piles. Nothing had left. Everything had emotionally relocated. The wardrobe still couldn’t close.

So, I did what any mature adult would do. I refilled the cupboard exactly as it was.

Project status: spiritually intense. Physically unchanged.

Lesson learned: never open tiny wardrobe doors. They guard dreams, memories, and dresses that believe in future versions of you.

And a wise woman does not disturb her dreams.

I made myself strong coffee.

Turned on Netflix.

Because that’s what should have happened on a rainy day in the first place.

Coming Up in This Series

• Part 3: The Recipe I Started Cooking and Finished Ordering

Part 1: A Wall, a Dream, and the Audacity of One Inch

There is something deeply dangerous about the period between Christmas and New Year. Time dissolves. Calendars stop judging you. And suddenly, you believe you can become an entirely new person.

This year, that person was me—the woman of the house. The centre, the left, the right, the emotional support beam, the unpaid operations manager, and occasionally the Wi-Fi technician.

“I’ll paint the study during the holidays,” I said with the confidence of someone who has watched three home renovation reels and now considers herself semi-qualified.

There was silence.

Not confusion.

Not shock.

Strategic silence.

The kind of silence families use when they’ve seen this movie before and already know how it ends. The kind of silence that says, we support you emotionally, but we will not be lifting furniture.

The children blinked like buffering Wi-Fi. 

The Director of Unnecessary Spending Concerns (my husband) shifted in his chair, already calculating future expenses.

Oscar wagged his tail—loyal, pure, and blissfully unaware that ladders were about to enter his life.

And there I stood. Radiant. Determined.

Wildly disconnected from practical consequences. Feminism doesn’t always arrive as a manifesto. Sometimes it arrives as a woman holding a paint roller and unresolved feelings.

Oscar, naturally, was my only dependable ally. The children—technically adults—operate on a subscription-based maturity plan.

When I ask for help in the garden?

“Child labour.”

When car keys, autonomy, or flexible sleeping hours are required? Suddenly they are fully developed citizens with goals, rights, and destinations. Apparently, adulthood now updates itself according to convenience.

On a bright, wildly overconfident day, I began. I had prepared extensively—which is to say, I had visited the paint shop an unreasonable number of times. I asked so many questions that by my final visit, the staff waved goodbye like we had survived something together. Either we had formed a bond…or they were celebrating my departure.

I dressed for the role. Rugged denim one-piece. Hair pulled tight with a cute headband. Because if you’re going to abandon a project halfway through, you should at least look convincingly committed. Before painting, I did what any serious adult would do: I took photos. A lot of photos. Angles. Lighting. Candid shots of me bravely staring at the wall. Because effort undocumented is effort denied.

Then, finally, I began.

One careful coat… on one heroic inch of wall. Then another… on the neighbouring inch. The exhaustion was immediate.

Dramatic.

Historic.

I sweated like I had restored an entire heritage property. Without pause, I announced lunchtime. That’s when I felt it—the stare. Six pairs of eyes, Eight, actually, Oscar never misses a plot twist. They weren’t surprised. They were confirmed in their suspicions. To avoid confrontation, I pivoted gracefully. “Aren’t you all hungry?”

A rhetorical question.

A distraction.

A lifestyle choice.

During lunch, I gently dismantled my own project. “You know, we still have shopping to do for our upcoming travel,” I said. “The paint is drying beautifully. Also, rain is coming. I checked the weather. Really, stopping now is the responsible thing”

Silence.

Hawk-level scrutiny.

The Minister of Practicality (…also my husband) finally spoke. “So… what’s the plan for the wall you already started?”

Without missing a beat, I said, “Oh that’s intentional. It’s a style.” I added, “actually, the wall looks better like this. It’s abstract. It matches my new story. Very… emotional.”

Before anyone could question this logic, I stood up and left the table. The wall remains half-painted. The point remains half-proven. And yet—something was finished. Because the truth is, this wasn’t about paint. It was about belief. The belief that I could start. And the quiet wisdom of knowing when to stop.

Or at least, knowing when to stop publicly.