The first time I considered paying for a psychic was when a man I barely knew stopped replying to me. I remember sitting in my room, flipping my phone face-down, then face-up again, over and over, as if repetition might change the outcome.

I reread our messages and replayed our conversations with the kind of attention usually reserved for solving a case gone cold. There was nothing. Still, I kept looking.

Eventually, I moved from messaging to interpretation. Instagram tarot accounts, horoscope experts, crystal selections – all of which flooded my feed – each confirming he would return, inevitably.

I did not book a reading. Instead, I felt content just lingering in the space that existed before it. That small suspended moment where interpretation still feels like control.

It is strange how quickly uncertainty becomes its own system. When nothing feels fixed, meaning starts to leak into everything.

Housing is abstractly unaffordable, groceries have quietly become a luxury category, and every headline is so outlandish it reads like satire. So silence starts to feel like something worth decoding rather than something that simply is.

It is in this atmosphere of not knowing that people cling to smaller systems of meaning – tarot cards, horoscopes, lucky charms, rituals – anything that offers even the illusion of control. I am no stranger to these systems.

A tarot spread becomes legible in hindsight. Draw the Tower or the Devil and it starts to feel explanatory. I sage my room when the “energy” feels off and do egg cleanses when clarity feels extractable.

Every Friday I leave a love charm by the window because it’s Venus’ day in Aphrodite (whatever that’s meant to mean), in hopes I attract the love of my life, preferably one who can split rent. Crystals remain for now, decorative.

Do I really know what I’m doing? Not really. Not because I don’t believe in any of it, but because certainty itself feels increasingly outsourced.

Which is probably why I’ve never had my fortune told by a professional. There’s something about putting my fate in someone else’s hands that scares me. What if I hear something I can’t un-know, something that makes interpretation feel less optional?

It is the not knowing that feels most thrilling, or the way it becomes meaning. I might be paving the path to my own undoing, but the hope is what keeps things alive.

There’s comfort in fortune telling – a refusal to let reality remain purely accidental without first trying to give it shape.

Because you don’t need things to be true to treat them like they are. Even if it’s all misread.

For those unfamiliar with the children’s magical TV show ‘H R Pufnstuf’, let me introduce you to the surreal world birthed by the minds of the Krofft brothers in the 1960s. I was acquainted with the show by my dad, a child of the 1960s, who played it for my sister and I every Saturday morning, though likely more for himself than for us.

Some might say the show is an allegory for drug culture. From the title alone, you surely would not be surprised. Folklore will tell you “H R” stands for “hand-rolled”. “Pufnstuf” needs no further explanation. Then, take the garishly-coloured, crudely-costumed characters and the setting of “Living Island” – where quite literally everything is alive and conscious (I suppose a vegetarian would not survive) – and it might occur to you that the show is mimicking a psychedelic trip. But I don’t want to talk about drugs. I want to talk about the layers of magic of this iconic show.

The first layer is the way I had no idea about any of the drug references while watching the show as a child. But many shows have this charm: the ability to appeal to children and adults simultaneously through the use of cleverly-concealed adult references.

What makes ‘H R Pufnstuf’ my most fondly-remembered show is its uniqueness. The plot centres around a boy, Jimmy, who winds up on Living Island after he naively jumps into a magical self-driving boat, which mid-voyage, turns out to be evil and whisks him off to the mysterious island. The boat belongs to a witch – wicked as she is foolish – named “Witchipoo”, who targets Jimmy because he has something she wants: a magical, diamond-studded flute named Freddy.

All this is established in the theme song alone, which incidentally is surely the catchiest TV show theme song ever written.

The series chronicles Witchipoo’s schemes to steal Freddy while Jimmy attempts to return home, aided by the magnanimous H R Pufnstuf, a yellow dragon with orange hair. Another hero is Freddy himself, despite being the reason for all Jimmy’s problems in the first place.

There are parallels between ‘H R Pufnstuf’ and another standout magical tale of my childhood, ‘The Wizard of Oz’. None more potent than the protagonists having a magical object, serving both as their source of trouble but also the object that saves them.

There is a lesson in this; a hope that our source of challenge might also become our greatest blessing.

The show was not extended for a second season due to high production costs (surprising, when the costumes look like a kindergartener made them). So, we never find out whether Jimmy returns home. But if it was inspired by ‘The Wizard of Oz’, maybe the whole disaster was a dream (sleep or drug-induced) after all. We can tell ourselves that Jimmy woke up, content but mysteriously changed for the better.

Unfortunately, I can’t fly across the world on my magic broomstick to show you the actual seven wonders of the world. What I can do however, as a self proclaimed born again witch, is show you the knick knacks that make my life just that little bit more magical. Don’t worry, there is no eye of newt…yet

My For Luck Card

Luckily for me, I was gifted this by my mystical mother when I moved to Melbourne four years ago, and it has not left my side since. The few times it has I have felt as though a great curse has been laid upon me.

My Little Book of Spells

What’s a witch without her spells? Whether it be shopping lists for potions or words from other worlds for incantations, every little thought is tucked away in this book of mine.

My Matches

Ironic given witches’ history with fire, but needed nonetheless. For lighting candles, or heating cauldrons, these boxes and I are a match made in heaven (or hell, depending on what side of history you’re on).

My Witch Hat

Although not your stereotypical cone shaped headpiece, one needs to pair their all black fits with something equally hexing. Plus, I’m yet to find a good spell for sun safety so this’ll do the trick for now.

My Crystal Marg

Take a sip from my concoction of crystals, shaken not stirred, for some crisp, refreshing mindfulness. Please note: recipes will vary depending on what your intentions are.

My Hair

Hair is a key ingredient to a lot of spells and potions, specifically ones intended for yourself. Alternatively, having the luscious locks of others can be incredibly beneficial for voodoo dolls and other witch crafts.

My Bewitching Book Mark

Another gift from my enchanting mother, which has gotten its fair share of wear and tear. While many of the books I read are fiction it never hurts to sprinkle a touch more magic into the brew.

As you forage herbs under a full moon with your animal sidekick in tow, here are some whispers of guidance you might hear from a witch.

1. Write down your dreams, they are advice from your spirit guides. Yes, even the dreams that seem random. Pay attention to recurring themes. For example, if you see a body of water in your dream analyse its behaviour as it is your inner-self reflecting your current feelings. For example a rigid and heavy wave may represent uncertainty. While you are going about daily tasks, you may be distracted by the demands of life. This is where jotting down dreams can help you reflect on the themes you are not paying attention to.

2. In tarot decks the most misunderstood card is the tower. I see people respond frustratedly to the tower and its lightning strikes. The card indicates eruptions and sudden destruction. But, do not fret when you are met with this card. The universe has blessed you with a chance to adjust and build a new structure by tearing down what you may not have realised is no longer serving you.

3. When you are cleaning your space keep the windows open with the intention to allow the old air to be cleansed and returned anew. Remember everything you give and take is a transaction – if you let something go it means you are making room for something new. Do not ignore the urge to clean out your space and donate half your wardrobe (within reason, of course). This is often your intuition preparing you for something fresh, a new beginning that is exciting and awaits your empty spaces.

4. Set intentions while you light the wick of a candle. You can use a simple white candle as a base for anything you may want to attract. However, know that different colours symbolise different things. For example, pink for love, green for money and black for protection.

Bonus tip: Different scents can also assist your practice. A lavender scent will help summon calm and relaxation and a citrus scent will help ignite creativity.

5. Always remember that you could have a thousand four leaf clovers and your path could be clear of cracks but the truest form of luck and attraction is in your thought process. You can say all the affirmations in the world but if you are not maintaining positive thoughts then the words you are repeating are worthless.

Don’t forget to always keep your crystals in your pockets and notice the angel numbers. The guidance is there to help but it whispers to you. Are you slowing down enough to hear it?

🌑Full Moon - with the moon at the height of its power, this is the time to step into YOUR power and unleash your potential. 🌑

The history of witchcraft is deeply interconnected with the battle between feminist power and patriarchal oppression, from the witch trials in the 1400s-1700s to W.I.T.C.H protests in the 1960s-70s and even modern day hexes on Trump. So a full moon witch playlist must be a feminist battle cry too🔥

These songs have been chosen for their themes of feminist empowerment (and a healthy dose of rage) - I recommend listening in order for the best energy build and release!

Build up:

Artemis - AURORA

The Feminine Urge - The Last Dinner Party

labour - Paris Paloma

Savage Daughter - Ekaterina Shelehova

Rage Crescendo:

Burn Your Village - Kiki Rockwell

RAGE - Samantha Margret

Not Exotic - Frosty

This song is an important reminder that connection to land, spirits and the beyond has always been a practice in indigenous cultures around the world, which was then condemned and “taboo-ed” by white supremacy and colonisation. Unfortunately, modern day witchcraft often appropriates these indigenous practices - please be informed, ethical and respectful in your witchcraft practice!

Wind Down & Shake It Out:

I like what I like - Kimmortal

*Affirmation after affirmation. Also the culmination of everything witchcraft brings together for me: creativity, queerness, empowerment and living outside “the lines”.

Free - Florence + The Machine

Call Me The Witch - lùisa

Listen here!

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Growing up, summers were for dry grass and sweaty sleeps. For waiting until mum allowed us to turn the air-con on when she decided it was an appropriately hot inside-temperature to justify it. For sheepish knocks on the neighbour’s door wondering if we can use their pool. For trips up the East Coast beaches where more often than not there would be a cool change and we couldn’t even swim. Only to come back to the sweltering heat of North-East Victoria.

Summers were also for omochitsuki.

Now if you don’t know, in Japan it is custom to make and eat mochi at New Years, where the stretchiness of the glutinous rice is meant to emulate and manifest the elongation of your life. This event is called omochitsuki. You’ve probably seen the videos of two people working harmoniously as one person pounds the grains between a wooden mallet and bowl, and where the other flips the ever homogenizing mound and comes closer and closer to having their fingers pulped, but doesn’t flinch even once.

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Well, we did that at home. But, it often crept further and further into January and then into February, until you kind of forgot it was in the name of elongating your life to eat such an unholy amount of delicious mushed up rice.

Between the heat that wasn’t designed for eating hot ozoni (soup with various vegetables and mochi eaten at New Years) in, the occasional wombat running around that was being nurtured to adulthood after its mother was found road-killed, and the swaying and rustling eucalypts, this day feels so quintessentially Japanese-Australian to me.

Omochitsuki (Australia edition), is hosted by my mum’s longtime friend, Nobuko-san, where it seems like all the Japanese people living between Mansfield and Albury congregate with their delicious homemade goods in hand. In the middle of nowhere off a dirt road, we all come to this beautiful wooden house to eat, chat and watch as Nobukosan’s husband Shaun pounds the mochi with his expertly home-made mallet, flicking in grass occasionally as he goes, which of course we pick out later.

I went to omochitsuki for the first time since moving out of home last weekend, and just felt at ease. Everyone had the shared goal of eating and sharing food. And as I stood around the table with the kids of my mum’s friends, shaping mochi into little balls to be stuffed and rolled with different flavours, I realised they were all just like me - so Australian and so Japanese at the same time.

We get to come to this place where there’s nothing more natural than to eat mochi under the Australian sun. Where people play cricket and jump into the plunge pool then come inside to eat ajitama, yaki-onigiri and homemade nigiri-zushi. Where Nobuko-san feeds a baby wombat milk on her lap cooing in Japanese (よしよし、お利口さんね). There’s nothing more natural than omochitsuki in the middle of the bush.

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Prior to October last year there were two things I was afraid of — birds and travelling.

Why do I fear birds? Well it’s kind of unexplainable. Maybe I’m jealous because they can fly at any given moment and I can’t, yet they still insist on walking in circles around my feet, waiting for me to drop some crumbs.

As for traveling, I had sworn against it for life. I made this oath to myself when I was 12 years old. On that fateful day, I was headed for Disneyland Paris with my family and friends, and when we arrived they got off the train while the doors started to close in front of me, leaving me behind. Due to this experience I would deny every chance to leave the country or even take a train unless I had to. But, I arrived at the stage where I was about to step into my twenties and my comfort zone was suffocating me. I heard myself asking for something new, something that would make me scared. The feeling of being comfortable was growing into a fear itself.

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During my time travelling I would catch myself becoming anxious and then healing that anxiety with gratitude for what was in front of me. The first time I remember doing this, there was a plate presented in front of me holding a variety of fresh pastries in Sweden. When I took the first bite into the cardamom pastry I had immediate flashbacks to when I had tasted the essences of the small pod. Every bite I’d take of my Dad’s signature Kabsa and how I dreaded accidentally catching a cardamom pod in my mouthful. The annoying pod was bitter, floral, earthy and inconvenient to chew on its own. Still without it, the dish would be unfamiliar, lacking the abundant and grounding taste that ties the entire dish together.

I am shit-scared of birds. From magpies to the occasional tiny sparrow. While in Stockholm, I visited a cafe called ‘Pascal’ and there were a few of those small brown birds by my table. If I was back home I probably would’ve ran out. But in Stockholm while tasting the flavours of those pastries I told myself “yes I am afraid, but I would much rather be trembling in Stockholm with this pastry in my hand than back home eating something I’ve had countless times”. So I told myself I was just cold and took another bite. The surprise of the pistachio-filled pastry spoke louder than anything else and I swear I reached a new dimension with every bite. Don’t even get me started on the cinnamon pastry, it tasted like an episode of Gilmore Girls where the lalalalas are playing.

From that moment on, the squealing aversion to the occasional pigeon would not impact me and the opposing voice demanding that I should’ve stayed home got quieter. I realised food is familiarity. The taste in the travel was a gentle reminder of “you’ve faced this before”. I was grateful I’d faced fears. Taste is powerful enough to heal. If you had told me on that train years ago that taste lingers, traces of it follow you back home and it becomes immortal, I would have believed you and a little more in myself. Gratitude for the food on your plate makes every bad day better. I can’t ever be in that cafe again with that same fear again. Flavours, whether sweet or savoury, remain sacred. Taste helps you face fears.

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I am what some might call a pesto enthusiast. From heaping it into my pasta to lathering it onto my sandwiches, it’s my go-to. My friends and family would say I just don’t know how to make any other dish. And while they might be right, it means I’ve become a master of my craft. So I’m going to teach you one of my current pesto favourites, the People’s Pesto Pasta Salad. As a vegetarian and a previously struggling university student, I find this to be a tasty, yet simple and cheap dish that also packs a healthy, satisfying pesto punch.

Ingredients:

• Approx. two jars of your favourite pesto (I say the more the merrier, but a bit over 220g should do the trick)

• Two cans of chickpeas

• Two Lebanese cucumbers

• Two truss tomatoes

• One white onion

• One bag of your favourite shaped pasta (I personally like Fusilli)

And if you’re feeling extra fancy (and rich)

• Feta

For Seasoning

→ Please note I don’t normally measure, I just go based on vibes, so feel free to do the same

• Two teaspoons of garlic (I use the powder, but any garlic alternative will do)

• Three teaspoons of paprika

• Cracked pepper + salt + chilli flakes to taste

• One and a half tablespoon olive oil

This recipe serves at least four, so if you’re making it just for yourself, cut them down appropriately. If you really want to, this includes the pesto, but a little extra pesto never hurt no body, right? Evidently, I’m a pesto person and eat it all the time, so usually, I just half this recipe and have leftovers.

Instructions:

1. Boil water and cook your pasta as per the instructions on the packet.

2. Meanwhile, chop the onion into small cubes, and drain and dry your chickpeas

3. Heat olive oil in a large pan on medium heat, add the chopped onion, and cook for approximately one minute before adding the chickpeas in a single layer. Fry for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.

4. Once golden brown and slightly crispy, turn the heat down low and add the garlic and paprika. Stir well to coat and cook for another three to four minutes. Leave to cool.

5. The pasta should be ready by now, so drain it and leave it to cool. I often put mine in the fridge to speed things up.

6. While the chickpeas and pasta are cooling, cut the cucumbers into quarter slices and the tomatoes into small cubes.

7. Once cooled to at least room temperature, it’s time to assemble! Mix the pasta, chickpeas, cucumbers, tomatoes and my favourite ingredient, the pesto, together. It doesn’t particularly matter what order, but I usually mix the pesto with the chickpeas and pasta first.

8. Season with salt, cracked pepper, chilli flakes and for my fancy friends, feta.

9. Finally, and this might be the most important step…enjoy!

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I’m writing this seated in a black leather chair at a wooden table, quixotically sipping on an empty glass that moments ago contained an almond latte. In front of me is an exposed brick wall, with shelves supporting FRAGILE boxes. Above me are exposed matte black beams and pendant lights; to my right is an onsite coffee roastery.

It’s a café with that all-the-rage-right-now industrial aesthetic but the fact this café is nestled between a workwear shop and glass repair shop makes it seem authentic.

This is Saazaa, my recommendation for your morning coffee, either to have in or to-go.

I’ve spent my whole life in the eastern suburbs – specifically in Ringwood. I’ve moved from Ringwood North, to Ringwood East, to now, Ringwood centre. Twenty-three years flitting around Ringwood surely establishes me as a local. Drawing upon my years of local knowledge, I’m going to share a perfect day of eating and drinking spent in Ringwood and its neighbouring suburb Croydon, for the next time you find yourself out east.

Breakfast

Now, you’ve got your coffee, you can have breakfast at Saazaa too, but the offerings are limited, so I would recommend walking around the corner to Fingers Crossed, where all the classic Melbourne brunch options are available. If you are gluten intolerant like me (and the growing population of girls with gut issues), there are plenty of options to accommodate dietaries.

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Lunch

A perfect day of eating for me must include a cheeseboard, ideally consumed as a picnic. Shopping for cheeseboard items can be a fun activity in itself – especially if it’s at the gourmet grocery store (sorry, ‘provedore’), Jefferies. As soon as you exit your car at the McAdams Square carpark and spot it – picture a brick building, half-painted black, JEFFERIES gleaming in white -- you can tell that this will not be your average supermarket experience.

Timber shelves, soft lighting, and a generous flower selection (dubbed ‘The Flori Studio’) situated in the centre of the store set the tone. Barista-made coffee is available, the homewares aisle stocks Country Road, and matte packaging is abundant. Even the refrigerators are black and timber, with an expansive range of cheeses and spreads impeccably ordered.

Once you’ve exited the manmade oasis that is Jefferies, it’s time to enjoy your feast in nature. A five-minute drive away (or 25-minute walk), is the humble Alto Reserve.

It’s small but brimming with Indigenous flora and offers a tranquil picnic setting. About halfway along its short trail, you’ll stumble upon a clearing with seats carved into logs, a perfect place to sit and gorge on cheese. It feels like Winnie the Pooh might pop out from a tree at any moment.

Dinner

A stone’s throw from Alto Reserve, unassumingly situated beside a highway, is Holy Basil Thai.

What particularly strikes me is how inclusive the menu is, even offering meals suitable for people like me with an onion and garlic intolerance (so often the bane of my dining-out existence). It caters for vegetarians and vegans too. And I’ve always found the wait staff to match the friendliness of the menu.

Drinks

I would finish my day back in Ringwood at The Budgie Bar. It offers an extensive range of cocktails as well as the option to request a bespoke concoction if you’re confident like that (I’ve never done that, but you can).

Sip on your drink, reflecting on a day exploring the underrated culinary offerings of Ringwood and Croydon.

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No one likes being told what to do; there’s a reason why backseat drivers and mansplainers are universally hated. That being said, there are some unspoken rules to cooking that I would’ve appreciated when I first started in the kitchen. Here are a few tips and tricks I’ve collected over the years.

QUALITY:

• Don’t underestimate the importance of good quality ingredients. They form the backbone of a recipe; it’s hard to make a masterpiece out of shitty materials. Use your senses to guide your discernment when selecting produce, and remember, fruits and veggies are seasonal - use that to your advantage.

• Try to buy key ingredients (such as spices or sauces) from markets or shops of the corresponding culture. Basically, try to avoid the Woolies international section.

• A good knife and a good pan will outlast even your own lifetime. “Good” refers to craftsmanship and resource quality. Trust me, it’s worth the investment - I’m using a stainless steel pan that belonged to my grandma!

  

HEAT:

• If your oven-roasted veggies are coming out soggy instead of crispy, you might be overcrowding the tray. Escaping steam gets trapped between the pieces, instead of floating into the abyss (the oven). Leave a thumb-width of space in between each item and make sure the heat is high enough; at least 180°C.

• Also, if your food always ends up mushy, consider the impact of residual heat. Things won’t magically stop cooking when you turn off the heat; as long as it stays hot, proteins will keep denaturing and flavour profiles will continue changing. This can be addressed by taking food off the heat just before it’s done, or by rinsing things like veggies or noodles with cold water immediately after blanching.

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FLAVOUR:

• Taste, and adjust your food WHILE cooking - you don’t have to only try it at the end! Obviously make sure everything is cooked through, but try things like sauces while making them so that you can adjust it as you go.

For more advice, ‘Salt Acid Fat Heat’ is a beautifully written and delightfully illustrated cookbook by Samir Nosrat. Wholesome stories are interwoven with technical advice in a way that never comes off as pretentious. You can borrow it from your local library or a foodie friend - they likely already have a copy!

Enough micromanaging from me :) Go make something yummy and share it with your loved ones!