I’ve been possessed by a 1950s housewife. Photo: Envato @Wavebreakmedia.
Don’t be fooled by my reasonably modern appearance — inside me lives a thrifty 87-year-old woman with calloused hands, an opinion on washing powder, and a deeply suspicious attitude toward Uber Eats.
My husband says I was born in the wrong century. I say he’s lucky I haven’t churned my own butter yet.
But as prices climb faster than a Woolies checkout on a Sunday, I’ve noticed my inner Nan rising like a well-fed sourdough starter.
She’s telling me to put down the takeaway coffee that’s adding up to $350 a month and pick up a glass of lemon water … since lemons are free in the backyard. And honestly? I’m listening.
Lately I’ve been haunted by flashbacks: Nan’s house, the smell of simmering relish, and a cupboard beside the fireplace stacked with more jars than a Masterfoods factory.
I found her tomato relish recipe last summer and gave it a go.
A friend said she ate hers straight from the jar with a fork and would’ve happily paid $15 at a market for it.
Which is flattering, though I know it didn’t taste exactly like Nan’s. Hers had notes of nostalgia and probably asbestos and mould from the 1900s kitchen.
That relish went on everything: mashed potatoes from the garden, peas we’d all pod at the table like it was some kind of green beadwork circle, and pork steaks (which, we later found out, came from Doris — a pig we’d named after the pig from A Country Practice. RIP, Doris.)
My veggie garden can grow peas and potatoes, but unfortunately, council frowns upon backyard pigs and free-range cows in Shellharbour. I make do.
My lemon tree and little veggie patch are thriving, and I’m currently freezing bags of lemon zest, spinach, kale, tomatoes, and beans like it’s the Y2K panic all over again.
I know what you’re thinking: “Is it really cheaper to grow your own food when seedlings cost more than a Netflix subscription and dirt ruins your shellac?”
Well, let me offer you a $2 bottle of nail polish and some unsolicited advice: once you get going, the garden does half the work.
My tomatoes self-seed like teenagers on TikTok — you can’t stop them. And I’ve got celery I don’t even remember planting.
And just like Nan taught me, I stretch meat further than a pair of old leggings.
Leftover spag bol in a Tupperware container? That’s a meat pie now.
Roast chicken? Soup, sandwiches, then stock. One bird, three meals, zero waste, and I didn’t spend $60 on a single Uber Eats order that forgot the aioli.
Modern luxuries are nice, but nothing beats a freezer full of meals you made yourself stored in ice cream containers and the smug sense of superiority that comes with it.
My idea of “takeaway night” is pulling out a mystery container labelled “???” and hoping it’s lasagne and not an unrecognisable meat in brown gravy. Beef casserole, maybe?
Nan was the queen of stretching a dollar. She bought home-brand everything in bulk — except coffee, because she wasn’t a savage. She couldn’t do without her International Roast Instant Coffee.
And when dinner was done, if there were no homemade jam tarts or rock cakes left, the Arnott’s biscuit tin was opened … which later became a sewing kit. You know the one. Red lid. Smelled like mothballs and sacrifice.
Clothes? Handsewn and then passed down to your siblings. Jumpers? Knitted. Rashy, itchy, and with sleeves long enough to trip you down a hallway.
I remember my Year 10 leavers’ dinner dress — a handmade blue velvet number that made me look like a Spanish matador on a cruise.
Which, as I write that, now has me wondering what my friend thought when I knitted a beanie, booties and cardigan for her newborn baby last year. Yes, I’m into homemade gifts.
And laundry? Forget fancy pods. A bit of Velvet soap and she’ll be squeaky clean. In fact, Nan used that stuff in the laundry, the kitchen … and even on her face.
Of course, I can’t quite recreate everything.
These days, you buy a toaster and it lasts two years. Nan’s toaster could take down a burglar and still make crumpets.
Trying to watch The Flying Doctors but the TV picture is rolling on repeat? Give it a whack. Or, in extreme cases, take it to the repair shop. Now? Any slight technical glitch and it’s thrown to the tip.
And then there’s the “budget” streaming habit that somehow costs $100 a month. Meanwhile, you’re watching the latest season of The Handmaid’s Tale for free on SBS.
If you want more entertainment, pick up a library book. I’ve found myself reading Nan’s highly educational homemade recipe book from her mum’s group, titled: Now Wondrous Ultra Special Sensational Mouthwatering Cookery.
Between tips such as “To sharpen scissors, cut on the neck of a sauce bottle” and recipes such as Weet-Bix Cake, was a recipe titled “To Preserve A Husband”.
Spoiler: It involves “peaches and cream” and not “constantly keeping them in hot water. This makes them sour, hard and sometimes bitter”.
In the end, you won’t need an expensive gym membership when you’re snapping beans, kneading dough, and hand-washing woollens. You’ll be moving constantly.
And you won’t need to book a wellness session — you’re living it. Where do you think “nanna nap” came from?
So yes, I may be a frugal throwback in a world of air fryers and avocado toast, but if the cost of living keeps rising, maybe it’s time we all got a little more old-school.
Now, excuse me. I need to go stitch up a door snake (aka, a draught stopper) before winter hits.
