I remember being with Mum, after school, in the kitchen. I sat, feet swinging, humming, with my milk, a hugely thick slice of bread, fresh from the oven. Blackberry jam was spread generously and topped with recently scalded, clotted cream. I had been anxiously wondering whether I would follow Dad into complete baldness. Mum reassured me – “Look at Grandpa – 85 and a full head of hair!” My anxiety lessened.
She loved painting, dabbled with embroidery and had a garden that received a sizeable slice of her enthusiasm. But it was food that beguiled her. The kitchen was her Command Centre, the place from which she mustered her resources, contrived and served us delicious fare, meal upon meal. I can only think of one failure – Dad leading the family’s rejection against Mum’s Nettle Spanakopita – a lethal weed, beyond the pail! Not that we children gave much consideration to that fare. Tasty meals just happened. It was what Mum did; always!
Later, as family fortunes improved, she and Dad began travelling – Ceylon was an early trip – coming home with new ideas and recipes. The chilli wasn’t a huge success, but papadums remained a family favourite, as did the numerous small bowls of complimentary ‘sides’ to modestly warm curries.
The sub-continent was followed by Japan, Greece, Italy, Yugoslavia, China and Cambodia. England and France were on multiple itineraries, with Dad’s brother, Wilfred living in Paris, where he was following the Vietnam peace talks. That house provided a convenient base for extensive European touring and eating.
She was writing articles for the Gourmet Traveller, delighting in being an accredited columnist, complete with business cards that she told of leaving under the side of her plate, sometimes with a brief note scrawled, complementing a chef, or querying an ingredient. I surmise Dad might have been envious of those little fillips.
Changes were afoot. Soft smelly cheeses, garlic, olive oil, and a coffee dripolator were being incorporated into the household. Dad’s flathead catches could appear as rolled raw fillets of fish, served with side dishes of wasabi or soy, following an autumnal Japanese excursion. She took the occasional squid catches to a concrete block out the back, ink-stained, splattered, where she applied Mediterranean observations, bashing the squid into submission.
I could never identify the source of the Fairy Floss recipe, but my mind’s eye sees burnt, blackened saucepans soaking in the sink. They had been to Troy, to Ephesus, I figure maybe the Floss was a sugary substitution for Turkish Delight? I seem to remember an ochre-coloured sheepskin, also from that Turkish adventure. Maybe again, a souvenir of Jason’s epic quest for the Golden Fleece?
I have a copy of her first book – Through My Kitchen Door, a treasured possession. I also have a manuscript of a never published recipe collection, typed and over writ in red biro. Her fingers rarely aligned with her portable Olivetti’s keyboard!
I said goodbye at Darwin airport. I never thanked her for being Mum. She died at home the next morning.