My Biological Clock Is Just a Timer for Pork

On not wanting kids, but still wanting something to fuss over.

A bowl built for eating on the couch, but plated like I invited someone over (I didn’t).

I don’t want kids. Or—I don’t think I do. It’s one of those things that might change, might not. Who’s to say. But as my peers start nesting and naming tiny humans, I’ve found myself wanting something of my own. Something to fuss over, something to obsess about.

Food has been that obsession for a while now. Outside of my actual job, it’s what I think most about. I listen to food podcasts (I’ve played Home Cooking with Samin Nosrat more times than I’ll admit), binge food-centric YouTube channels (Alison Roman, obviously), rewatch old cooking shows (The Naked Chef—yes, still iconic), and have a mildly concerning crush on the way Stanley Tucci says “pancetta” in the audiobook of his food memoir, Taste. I even read cookbooks in bed like they’re novels. Nigel Slater? Human chamomile.

A messy pile of my fave cookbooks—weathered, butter-splattered, loved.

But it was the 2009 Hollywood delight Julie & Julia that basically inspired the format of this Substack. Not in the “I’m going to cook my way through “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” sense (though I did try—and fail—to make a proper hollandaise once during lockdown), but in the sense of writing about food with a kind of chaotic devotion. It’s giving: obsessive home cook processes feelings via butter. Which, to be fair, is a genre I’m very comfortable in.

Another genre I feel deeply at home in is bowl food. Hearty, slouchy, warming to the core—it’s perfect for these frost-bitten Melbourne days. Which is exactly what drew me to this Alison Roman recipe, calling for dried guajillo chiles and tomatillos. A tall order if, like me, your local grocer’s international aisle is mostly just soy sauce and coconut milk.

Usually, I’d skip the specialty shop detour and do what any reasonable person would: sub in whatever dried chiles are lurking in the pantry and call it an adaptation. Canned tomatoes instead of tomatillos? Sure, close enough. But for some reason—age? boredom? the desire to fuss?—I decided to do the full thing. Ordered the chiles and tomatillos on Amazon (sorry Mum) and let me tell you: it was worth it.

The chiles were smoky, rich, almost chocolatey without actually tasting like chocolate. The tomatillos brought that punchy, bright acidity that made the pork feel less like a meat blanket and more like something you could feasibly eat before 8pm. We ate it over a pile of shredded iceberg lettuce because I’m a woman who likes contrast, and swapped the oregano (sorry, Alison) for coriander because I couldn’t shake how much the oregano made it feel like I’d accidentally wandered into osso buco territory.

The pot of chili doing what it does best—simmering, stewing, smelling delicious. Negroni on the side because I believe in balance.

So no, I don’t have any plans to swaddle anything—except maybe a tortilla around some of this leftover pork. But I do have this: a dish I cared enough about to source niche ingredients online, a Substack I’m finally getting off the ground and a fridge that now contains more than just champagne, cucumbers, and high-protein yoghurt. And really, isn’t that also a kind of nesting?

Anyway. Make the pork. Or don’t. But definitely eat something that makes you feel a little bit obsessed and a lot like yourself.