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GOF the Masterchef

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My small country town held a Masterchef competition last week. It was a fundraiser at the church for our beloved Bishop Risotto Parmagiano. He is suffering from depression and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome after he scored an incredible 99% in a paternity test of the Rawlinson quintuplets.

Our talents are for giving
As philanthropic deeds
To the destitute, and spawn
Of Bishop’s holy seeds.
There were nine young contestants,
Plus me, I tagged along
With ‘old age and treachery’
Whistlin’ Willie Nelson’s song.


Seven of ’em exited
Before the show began.
I uncorked my flask marked ‘Anthrax’
And they all took off and ran.
So as I surveyed pots and woks
And lentils, nuts and ghee,
There remained just the three of us;
Gaylord, Fat Anne and me.


Next to go was gourmand Anne
With a loaf of sourdough bread.
Golden brown and shaped a little
Like Bishop Risotto’s head.
Smiling wide with nostrils flared
Fat Anne was thrilled to bits,
But I’d laced her flour with Epsom Salts
And the judges got the shits.


Gaylord mortar-pestled with
An alcoholic grin,
From vodka in his drinking glass.
How the hell did that get in?
He fell down drunk and went to sleep,
So now I’m here to boast,
‘Bout how I won the Masterchef
With canned baked beans on toast.



GOF’s gift to gastronomy

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Photo credit; LOM

Photo credit; LOM

Cooking in the 21st century has become unnecessarily complicated.  It’s like employing a helicopter to relocate a baby wombat from one side of the Murrumbidgee River to the other when I could have done the same job more rapidly and economically using my slingshot.

After tapping your utensils to the beat of the following gastronomic etude you will be left flabbergasted and wondering  “How on earth did GOF reach this extraordinary level of proficiency in the kitchen with so little practical experience?”

The obvious answer is that I was tapped on the shoulder at an early age by the spatula of epicureanism and endowed with the golden gift of culinary genius, because Lord knows it most certainly didn’t come from spending long hours sweating over chopping boards or peering with hopeful expectation into oven windows.

For two reasons;

1.  Someone else has always been happy to step up to the hotplate whenever my plane of nutrition has dipped to a dangerously low level.

2.  I am an excellent browser and forager of nature’s foodstuffs which don’t require the application of heat in order to render them edible.   For example, Weetbix.

From the beginning;

My Mum somehow prevented the early onset of kwashiorkor and the addition of little gof’s name to Australia’s infant mortality statistics, despite all the wowsers and moral missionaries during the 1940’s warning new mothers against “putting your disgusting filthy pornographic nipples into the mouths of innocent babes.”

I survived by suckling on the teats of  Beatrice, our tolerant, nurturing and productive Jersey cow who had all the necessary Government approvals and documentation enabling her to be a wet nurse for Australian children.

Eventually my parents decided that I’d been freeloading long enough so they dumped me on the doorstep of a residential Agricultural College at the age of sixteen.  During the following three years a coagulation of greasy foreign chefs fed me food which clogged my arteries and cemented my stools to Building Foundation Strength Number 10.

Then came New Guinea and a succession of domestic servants, two of whom I am happy to report were considerably more picturesque than useful in the kitchen.  One school of thought is that I was nothing but a lazy, spoilt and  pampered little colonial bastard, but truth is that I was generously contributing to the local economy by employing them.

For the last 32 years Mrs GOF has been captain of my ship of nutrition, so it is always dietarily disconcerting at times like this when she leaves me alone in my inadequately victualled lifeboat to fend for myself.  There is a real risk that I may founder on the shoals of starvation.

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This has occasionally been mistaken for Australia’s Coat of Arms.

It is actually a pictorial menu.

Today I choose kangaroo.

Ingredients;    This scrumptious recipe includes all three food groups essential to good health.



Skippy mince  with a subtle continental influence.

Skippy mince with a subtle continental influence.


There are green ones, and yellow ones and white ones and orange ones, and they all get put in.......etc etc

There are green ones, and yellow ones and white ones and orange ones, and they all get put in…….etc etc


These three products contain all the minerals essential for good health such as 551, 635, 721, 257, 312, Sodium, Chlorine and Potassium iodate.

These three products contain all the minerals essential for good health such as 551, 635, 721, 257, 312, Sodium, Chlorine and Potassium iodate.


One saucepan only.  The use of more than one saucepan, one knife, one fork and one plate is extravagant and will result in avoidable sink-misery afterwards.)

One saucepan only. The use of more than one saucepan, one knife, one fork and one plate is extravagant and will result in avoidable sink-misery afterwards.)

Plating up

The secret to truly great food lies in the process which we chefs refer to as ‘plating up’.   Delicious food like this deserves to be presented with love, care and artistic finesse. Please take careful note of the following delicate sequence.

1.  plate on top of saucepan thus

1. plate on top of saucepan thus

2. invert quickly

2. invert quickly

3  voila....GOF's Roo Stew for Bachelors....bon appetit.

3 voila….GOF’s Roo Stew for Bachelors….bon appetit.

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Ooooh……gotta go. Now in what cupboard did I put my Imodium?

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And then there was television

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“The Lord saw that man was as a lost sheep in the desert and that his eyes were shrouded with boredom, and his habits filled with slothfulness, so it came to pass that He sent unto his earthly children a kinescope in a box which He verily called a ‘television’.

And lo, the television fell upon fertile ground and within it grew sustenance for the soul of mankind such as The Beverly Hillbillies, Gilligan’s island, Bugs Bunny, John Wayne, and Daisy Duke.”

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House of GOF
December 20  2012

Dear God,

It seems you made an awful mistake.  Television is now almost a complete mind-numbing waste of time for two reasons;

1. Commercials

(a)  If I have to watch one more time that bastard (who has enough testosterone coursing around his veins to start World War 3) trying to sell me “53 stepladders in just one amazing unit’  I’ll scrape the dried blood and bovine testicular tissue off my old cattle emasculator and ensure that the twin sources of this aggravation shrivel up and drop off and render him speechless in all registers except soprano.

(b) There is a plague of funeral insurance advertisements featuring teary-eyed, whining, miserable, depressing and pathetic old actors being paid to give the impression of  “not wanting to burden the children with the cost of our funerals”.  

For God’s sake (sorry God) it is our responsibility and duty to burden them. It’s a lesson in life. We paid for their food, clothes, education, court costs and teenage abortions so the very least they can do is pay for our final barbecue. Besides, they know they’re going to get all the money back after they’ve ratted through our bank accounts and the hanging fern basket third from the left on the front porch.

2. Cooking shows

Oh shit, don’t even get me started God. Why did you allow all these idiots onto my small screen to boil, fry, bake, mash, roast, grill, saute, scramble and whisk our natural foods until they resemble something that came out of the arse end of an indiscriminately omnivorous cassowary?

Given your omnipresence and my appreciation of the finer things in life we both know that the only worthwhile cooking show is Foodie Planet hosted by journaliste culinaire Julie Andrieu.
I have included below some exquisite culinary highlights just for you, to counterbalance all the horrible things that you must see in your daily life as a deity……like pillaging and Lada cars and X factor.

Good luck with the end of the world tomorrow and I hope you will soon be able to find another job.

Yours Faithfully,


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The GofChef Cooking Show

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Sir Les

Today The Bucket welcomes senior English Expression students from Sir Les Patterson’s  Finishing School for Refined Young Ladies. They will be attempting to sniff out a few subtle examples of sarcasm which I have delicately and almost imperceptibly woven into the fabric of the following story.

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One of the most magnificent achievements of Australia’s technological development during the last 60 years must surely be it’s commercial free-to-air television network.

John Logie Baird and Philo Farnsworth probably whack their decomposing crania into the lids of their coffins in unison on the hour, every hour of every day, attempting to provide standing ovations for what we have done with their inventions.

101 reasons why I  love commercial television;

(Marry me if you want to hear all 101…’s some samples;)

#11.  Impartial political reporting.

#22.  Unbiased science-based commentaries focussing on the ecological health of our planet and an emphasis on good-news stories whilst doggedly resisting all the sensational alternatives.

#39.  Andie MacDowell is pure poetry in motion as she flounces her bouncy unreal L’oreal tresses in my face nineteen times daily……for the twentieth year in a row. She is the inspiration for my own utterly gorgeous coiffure.

#48.  The sincerity and genuine concern for my personal health shown by infomercial presenters.  For example, it is truly humbling that George Foreman is worried about the condition of my arteries and that Justin Beiber with all his worldly experience has discovered a miraculous cure for my dodgy skin complexion costing just $30 per month for the rest of my life.

#51.  The American chick with the foghorn motor-mouth who urges me to rotate myself back and forth and round and round on an AbCircle Pro machine until I’m so giddy that I will probably need to seek refuge by disappearing up into my own cloaca is such a joy to have as company in my living room every evening.

#66.  The sheer genius of modern television technicians who have the abilty to superimpose advertising graphics over critical moments in a game of football and the dirty bits of movies, along with the magic of compressing film credits down to the unreadable bottom one inch of the screen in order to fit Katy Perry and her gaping massive rampant pustular exploding zits into the top 21 inches.

#99  Shy and sensitive, quietly spoken introverted Scary Spice  hosting Dancing With the Stars and advertising Jenny Craig.

All in all I have only one tiny criticism of commercial TV stations;

They broadcast an insufficient number of cooking shows.

(At this point my dear reader, if you’re still here, it may well have occurred to you that there is a very thin line indeed which separates a higher-education tutorial for girls and………well……
just an old-fashioned rant.)

I wish to address this programming deficiency by submitting a pilot for my very own cooking show which I expect will probably be snapped up for syndication by at least one of the major Australian networks before it inevitably gains global recognition.

The script for Episode One follows…..this is my very own favourite French recipe.

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Dauphin a la Buckeť

The following quantities will serve an entire convention of my blog friends… are all cordially invited to gather around my garden fountain (which features a life-size marble statue of Elle MacPherson dressed up as an Eskimo) on June 31st this year.


One medium-sized dauphin  (at the time of writing I recommend fresh product from the Gulf of Mexico….remove head, fins, tail and all cancerous lesions before filleting)
Seven medium knobs of rasta.
Thirty one fresh unpeeled green gumptions.
Two lacks of daisical.
One large lump of Scary Spice.
Essence of Clostridium. (often difficult to source, but try your local Indian restaurant)

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Marinate the fillets overnight in Bolivian sombrero sauce into which the knobs of rasta have been finely grated and gently stirred.

Saute the fillets lightly before popping them into a Blasco saucepan (preferably with a glaspol lid) then sprinkle the diced (6mm) gumptions and daisicals on top with a clockwise movement of your right hand. Cook in a moderate industrial blast furnace for 20 minutes.
While waiting, please humanely tie up that unpalatable Scary Spice   like a turkey ready for basting, stuff it in a hessian sack and send it back to the United Kingdom where it belongs.  

Plate-up the dish with gastronomic flair (four or five sprigs will do) then drizzle one tablespoon of clostridium essence over the top.

Serve with an audacious racy little Madonna Merlot.

Bon apetit.

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Now if you’ll just excuse me, I need to take a Xanax and have a good lie down.  Please wake me up when Scary Spice is safely (or otherwise) back in England.

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Cooking with GOF: The End!

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If you see Mrs GOF, please don't tell her what I've done.

I've got 4 weeks to fix up the mess before she arrives home. 

Lucky I am a handyman.

PS.   No GOF or anything else apart from Vox's good reputation for intelligent blogs was harmed during the making of this cooking series.

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Cooking with Gof; Day 2 of 7

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Today was not my finest cordon bleu performance.

Occasionally circumstances conspire against even the most gastronomically gifted.

Conflagratus, the sous-chef for Julius Caesar in 46BC once had a diei horribilis in the kitchen which almost caused him to lose his mind.  In the event it mattered not, for it, along with the remainder of his head went rolling off the chopping block into historical oblivion.

To cut a long smoky story short, some items of my food caught fire and burned a hole in the gas pipe which made my oven explode.

But worry not, I am a handyman and will repair the stove and have this whole educational show back on the road again tomorrow.

Meantime please feel free to review the heavy work load we tackled on Day One.

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Cooking with GOF; Day 1 of 7

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Mrs GOF has just winged it to Minnesota to visit with her brother for 5 weeks.
She thinks I can't cook.

Well, unbeknownst to her, I have been absorbing knowledge by osmosis from the 23 television cooking shows that she insists on watching each week.
I am not interested in fancy haute-cuisine celebrity dishes.
A spit-roasted Jamie Oliver served in rich spicy sweet luscious and succulent Nigella sauce does not appeal to me.

I need down-to-earth food for one.  
(unless I get lucky at one of my M.C. Hammer tribute gigs in which case I might need to prepare a banquet.)

Every day for the rest of this week in The Bucket you will be privy to the finest gourmet selections from my culinary repertoire.

1. GOF's happy porridge.

1 loosely clenched fistful of rolled oats.
 1 tightly clenched fistful of sultanas.
 1 poofteenth of salt to taste.

Submerge ingredients in water and boil until it looks soft.
If, after plating up it is still too al dente, put it back in the saucepan and cook some more.  Re-serve, this time avoiding the charcoal layer on the bottom. The dog seems to like that.
PS  Plates are optional if you prefer minimal washing up.

2. GOF Signature Sandwich

Include salad ingredients of your choice restrained on the bottom by a slice of soy linseed bread and on the top by 2 lettuce leaves.


3. GOF's Stew

Ingredients as illustrated or any assortment of your choice.
Diced, pulverised, or julienned (huh….get a load of my gourmand vocabulary now Mrs Gof.)

Into a saucepan drizzle one inch of water, a smidgin of chicken stock and other condiments of your choice, then bring to the boil, progressively loading ingredients according to the amount of cooking time necessary to make each one edible. 
(this is an intricate and complex procedure, so please refer to my Order of Ingredient Insertion graph)

Drain off the liquid if you remember. 
Invert saucepan directly onto plate.
Clean up all the mess off the table if you didn't remember.


Plated up. 

Bon appetit.

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