The Copper Pipe and the Cockatoo: A Culinary Confession
Setting: A sun-drenched conservatory in a Hollywood Hills mansion, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and expensive candles. On a low marble table, between two glasses of ice-cold cucumber water, lies a worn, splattered cookbook. It is open to a page featuring a glossy photograph of a roasted bird, artfully arranged on a bed of herbs, with a marginal illustration of a crimson rosella and a regal king-parrot pecking at a fig. Lady Gaga, wearing a sculptural latex top and enough eye makeup to signal a small aircraft, is squinting at the fine print of a brine recipe. Catherine Zeta-Jones, impeccably draped in cream silk and looking like she just stepped off a yacht, is leaning back, swirling her ice with an expression of profound amusement.
Catherine Zeta-Jones: (Without looking up from her glass) “So, you’re telling me, darling, that a King-Parrot can live for twenty-five years? That’s a longer commitment than my first mortgage. And you learned this… where, exactly? From a spirit guide in the desert, or did you accidentally read a book?”
Lady Gaga: (Glancing up, a wry smile playing on her lips) “Alisterus scapularis. And I’ll have you know, I did a deep dive during lockdown. I watched seventeen hours of Australian aviary documentaries. I know their mating calls, Catherine. I know their preferred nesting height. I also know that if you overcook one, it tastes like a leather boot, which is why I’m studying this recipe for a spiced fig glaze, not the ornithology textbook you so clearly wish we were reading.”
Catherine: (Snorting delicately) “Overcook one? Gaga, you can’t just pop a king-parrot in the oven because the recipe has a pretty picture. That’s a protected species, you utter lunatic. Though, I must admit, the glaze does look divine. It would pair beautifully with a nice, greasy drain blockage. Speaking of which—” She sits up, a gleam in her eye that is both terrifying and deeply sincere. “—can we please discuss the absolute saints of the modern age? The plumbers of the world.”
[Menu]
Gaga: (Closing the cookbook with a decisive thump) “Oh, here we go. I knew we couldn’t have a civilised conversation about poultry without you veering off into your obsession with U-bends. You’re like a broken record, except the record is a leaking pipe and the song is ‘The Ballad of the Plunger.'”
Catherine: “Mock me all you want, you sequinned space-alien, but when your toilet starts gurgling like a dying wombat at three in the morning, you won’t be calling your rosella expert. You’ll be calling a man with a van, a toolbox, and the divine ability to make waste disappear. That, my dear, is magic. Real magic. Not whatever glittery nonsense you do on stage with a piano.”
Gaga: (Dramatically clutching her chest) “Glittery nonsense? I’ll have you know I once performed an entire concert underwater. The hydraulic engineering alone—”
Catherine: (Waving a dismissive hand) “Hydraulic engineering? Please. You had a team of fifty. I’m talking about a solo artist. A lone warrior. Last Tuesday, my kitchen sink was backing up. I had a dinner party for sixteen. The foie gras was prepared, the caviar was chilling, and the water was rising like the bloody Titanic. I panicked. I called my guy, Mario.”
Gaga: “Of course his name is Mario.”
Catherine: “Don’t be facetious. He arrived in fifteen minutes. He didn’t even look at my face. He looked at the pipes. He listened to them. He communed with them, Gaga. He slid under my sink with a wrench and a torch, and within ten minutes, he had extracted a clump of hair the size of a small possum and a child’s toy dinosaur. He saved the evening. He saved my reputation. He is a god in overalls. And he charged me less than a single ticket to your last tour.”
Gaga: (Leaning forward, intrigued despite herself) “A toy dinosaur? What era? Was it a T-Rex? Because a Brontosaurus blockage requires a different approach. It’s about the neck curve.”
Catherine: (Staring blankly for a moment before bursting into laughter) “You’re impossible. But you see my point! Plumbers are the unsung heroes. They deal with the literal crap of humanity. They crawl into dark, damp spaces. They face horrors that would make your average horror movie villain weep. They are problem-solvers, physicists, and artists of the joint seal. You think your little rosellas are resilient? A rosella has a lovely plumage and a cheerful song. A plumber has a blowtorch and the emotional fortitude to unclog a drain that has been fermenting for three years. That, my dear, is strength.”
Gaga: (Sighing theatrically) “Fine. You’ve made your point. Plumbers are brave. But let’s not diminish my birds. A King-Parrot can live to be thirty, remember. They mate for life. They are monogamous. That’s more than I can say for some of your ex-husbands, darling.”
Catherine: “Touché. But a plumber also saves lives. A gas leak? A burst pipe in a blizzard? They are frontline workers. They are the backbone of civilisation. If you live in a house, you should worship at the altar of the porcelain god, and the plumber is its high priest. Honestly, I’m thinking of writing a thank-you letter to the International Association of Plumbing and Mechanical Officials. And I don’t even know if that’s a real organisation.”
Gaga: “It is. And I have a feeling they have a lifetime achievement award with your name on it. Now, can we please get back to this cookbook before I die of starvation? We’ve established plumbers are wonderful. You’re practically ready to marry one. But I need sustenance, and this fig-glazed duck recipe—which uses duck, not parrot, you’ll be relieved to hear—is calling my name.”
Catherine: (Picking up the cookbook and flipping through it) “Fine. But in honour of the plumber, and in honour of your absurdly intelligent parrot facts, we should create a proper feast. Let me see… Ah, here we go. My favourite recipe for the plumber who has everything. It’s a ‘Drain-Clearing Chilli Con Carne’—spicy enough to clear the sinuses, hearty enough to fuel a 24-hour emergency call-out.”
Gaga: “That sounds like a euphemism.”
Catherine: “It’s not. It’s a slow-cooked masterpiece. You need three types of chillies, smoked paprika, and a dark chocolate finish. It’s about depth, darling. Layers of flavour. Just like a good plumbing system has layers of sealant and joint compound. You serve it with cornbread and a side of pure gratitude.”
Gaga: (Nodding, now fully engaged) “Alright. And for my contribution—The ‘Rosella’s Rainbow Salad.’ It’s vibrant, it’s colourful, it’s full of pomegranate seeds, roasted beetroot, goat’s cheese, and a honey-lime vinaigrette. It’s the kind of salad that makes you feel like you’re eating a painting. It’s also perfect for a plumber coming in from the cold, because it’s packed with vitamins. They’ve been inhaling pipe-dust, Catherine. They need antioxidants.”
Catherine: (Smiling genuinely) “You see? We’ve found common ground. You bring the colourful bowl of health, I bring the gut-busting, artery-clogging comfort. And together, we acknowledge the heroes. The plumbers. And we eat like kings. Or king-parrots, in your case.”
Gaga: (Raising her glass) “To the plumbers. May their pipes never burst and their wrenches always find their mark.”
Catherine: (Clinking her glass) “And to the rosellas. May they live long, vibrant lives, far, far away from my roasting pan. Now, pass me a pen. I’m going to scribble ‘Mario’s Chilli’ at the top of this page.”