Eating for earthquakes – or, you’ll put anything in your mouth if you’re desperate enough

Under ordinary circumstances this column would be dedicated to providing recipes for cheap, good eats for people who aren’t necessarily natural cooks. However, these are not ordinary circumstances and as such I feel it necessary to outline for you, if not outright recipes, then at least a vague meal plan for use should we be struck by another catastrophic earthquake. As you will have learned, having something ready and available to eat is of the utmost importance during a disaster, be you shovelling silt, spending all day looking for the cat, doing some heavy furniture lifting or just sitting around drinking and feeling unsettled.

For starters: three keys to basic hygiene

1. If you are lucky enough to have water, boil it for three minutes on a bbq or camp stove or put some bleach in it, as it might have poo in it. Use boiled water for food prep, wiping down the benches, and rinsing ingredients.
2. If you have silt dust everywhere, wipe if off your cooking and eating surfaces. It may not have poo in it, but it certainly smells like it does. Your emergency cask wine should not have un bouquet de merde et boue unless specifically indicated by the manufacturers (I’m looking at you, Chausseur medium red).
3. Sterilise your hands often. If you don’t have the proper stuff, try high proof liquor – a houseguest brought us some duty free Johnny Walker Black label and this seems to work well, although Bacardi 151 would be better (beware naked flames).

Step one: eat your perishables

As the power is out, many of your tasty frozen treats are thawing and dying a miserable, room temperature death, but this is not as bad as it seems for it means that you will eat like royalty for at least a day or so. To start, eat the ice cream and other associated frozen confections. Experts agree that squishy ice cream is acceptable for dinner during a crisis as the taste pleases, the sugar invigorates and the fat content comforts.

Next, throw out anything unlabelled or of dubious colour and assess your meat situation. If you are vegetarian or vegan, now is not the time to get on your high horse! Rather, the protein injection will keep you fit, full and active and make it less likely that you will be the first against the wall in the unlikely event of everything going in the direction of The Hills Have Eyes. For example, Mr Longbean and I sat in almost embarrassing comfort a few days after the earthquake as we ate a mustard and maple glazed homekill ham that had defrosted, and we have not yet been eaten by CHUDs. QED.

Now, fire up the barbecue, the camp stove or the gas hob. If you have none of these then blatantly ignore the fire ban and dig a fire pit as it’s safer than a bonfire (but still smoky and suspicious), although not recommended if your water table is so high you can’t even dig a poo hole. Engage in a boozy meat party that would make the Romans proud, invite the neighbours, and clear out your fridge. Cook up corn on the cob in foil, fried mushrooms and tomatoes, and toasted rolls. Pick at crayfish. Toast marshmallows in the log burner. Feel smug.

Step two: face facts

Within a few days your leftovers will be eaten or have perished, and the ex-frozen veges will have been percolating in their juices for way too long to justify drinking them like a chunky smoothie. As you emerge from your saturated fat bender, realise that this is the dark time the inside cover of the yellow pages kept warning you about. Work your way through preserved and dried foods - lychees straight from the can, Milo powder by the spoonful, and a medley of creamed corn and Campbell’s Chunky on Salada crackers.  Argue over the pickled onions, even though they’re those gross sweet ones and you hate them. Avoid Pak’n’Save because you’re terrified of a giant box of washing powder falling off the rack and onto your head in an aftershock. Hang around volunteers in the hope of being given some baking. Pick at dried noodles but avoid the flavour packs. Drink all the beer, even the Double Brown. Despair.

Step three: get creative

Your lifelong ambition of being a food MacGuyver is about to be realised. After exhausting the hospitality of friends, neighbours, parents and strangers, it is time to take matters into your own hands. After considering stray cats and chastising yourself for your inconsideration, construct a net out of dental floss and string with small stones for weights, and head down to Horseshoe Lake reserve (beware, New Brighton Rd is a pot-holed mess).

Avoiding disgruntled locals and contaminated river water, catch and kill yourself a juicy waterfowl – those Muscovy ducks with the red faces have always looked like they’ve had it coming, but avoid the little black scaups (too cute) and the swans (too vicious). Break its neck with your bare hands, befitting a true pioneer. Pluck it, gut it and clean it, making sure you don’t break the bile duct. Keep the heart and liver to make gravy with if you’re that way inclined or if you’re having Year 12 bio flashbacks. Cut off the head, wingtips and feet, rub the cavity and skin with salt and spices, stuff it with orange wedges, and roast in your hooded bbq hot enough to render the fat (waterfowl are well-insulated against the cold). Alternatively (if you’re short on time), remove the breast and pan-roast it alone with orange zest, cranberries and red wine, all stolen from an abandoned New World. Be interrupted by your flatmate who informs you that BP has reopened! Oh frabjuous day! Abandon your ill-gotten gourmet meal and go for a butter chicken pie and a V, for civilisation has been restored.

And all going well, you will have survived the earthquake without having a coronary, contracting food poisoning or being arrested. Well done. Next time, stash more baked beans.