Love of food
I am sitting by a saltwater river in Eden, NSW; camped on a stretch of land that sits between it and a long white beach that I am overdue to walk. Tomorrow before I head off.
The taste of steak is still on my lips. Thin strips of beef cooked over my gas stove with onions and an egg. All thrown together into a fresh roll with my homemade chutney and fresh real butter. Mmmmm. Yum. The task of eating this delicacy required a teatowel; tucked into the top of my jumper and covering my favourite jumper.
One hand grasping the roll and the other occasionally reaching for the small vegemite glass of red wine as I overlook the water and try to see the many fish that are jumping. I think it’s this time of the evening when the insects begin to hover over the water and the fish lay in wait. Launching their bodies out and slapping back down onto the glasslike dark water.
I had cooked the meat and onions perfectly and as the melted butter dripped down my chin I was somewhere else and much younger.
It was a meal that made me blush, tingle and almost catatonic with expectation. He met me in the caravan when there was a park in Sandy Bay. I had arrived early, gone straight to the location and sat waiting for him; wondering if my clothes were okay, if he would want me there, if he would turn up at all. I had bought some food to cook; pasta, ham, mushrooms and cheese. I sat and waited on a cold evening in an empty caravan for a man who I would have given my life for. I was 17 after all.
Finally he arrived and within minutes he decided he would cook. He sliced ham and mushrooms, pulled a garlic bulb and a pocket knife out of his jacket and cranked up the heat to boil the water for pasta. I sat nearby and we chatted about how he was finding university, what I was doing ‘back home’ and what everyone else was up to. He was at home in this tiny kitchenette; slicing, stirring, frying and tasting. I think he even had salt and pepper with him. At some point he decided that wine was needed and without further discussion he fled out the door and into the darkness. I could hear knocks on doors and muffled conversation and a few minutes later he returned with a large glass of white wine; perfect. He had asked one of our neighbours who was too happy to contribute to our meal. He sploshed the wine into the pan and it bubbled and sizzled as the caravan filled with the delicious aroma and steam of stewing wine and garlic. A little more stirring and tasting and the dish was served.
I don’t know if it was the company, the expectation, the aroma, the excitement of the trip or the pasta but I can still remember the salty, savoury flavours and recall the scent of the food and the man.
The taste of steak is still on my lips. Thin strips of beef cooked over my gas stove with onions and an egg. All thrown together into a fresh roll with my homemade chutney and fresh real butter. Mmmmm. Yum. The task of eating this delicacy required a teatowel; tucked into the top of my jumper and covering my favourite jumper.
One hand grasping the roll and the other occasionally reaching for the small vegemite glass of red wine as I overlook the water and try to see the many fish that are jumping. I think it’s this time of the evening when the insects begin to hover over the water and the fish lay in wait. Launching their bodies out and slapping back down onto the glasslike dark water.
I had cooked the meat and onions perfectly and as the melted butter dripped down my chin I was somewhere else and much younger.
It was a meal that made me blush, tingle and almost catatonic with expectation. He met me in the caravan when there was a park in Sandy Bay. I had arrived early, gone straight to the location and sat waiting for him; wondering if my clothes were okay, if he would want me there, if he would turn up at all. I had bought some food to cook; pasta, ham, mushrooms and cheese. I sat and waited on a cold evening in an empty caravan for a man who I would have given my life for. I was 17 after all.
Finally he arrived and within minutes he decided he would cook. He sliced ham and mushrooms, pulled a garlic bulb and a pocket knife out of his jacket and cranked up the heat to boil the water for pasta. I sat nearby and we chatted about how he was finding university, what I was doing ‘back home’ and what everyone else was up to. He was at home in this tiny kitchenette; slicing, stirring, frying and tasting. I think he even had salt and pepper with him. At some point he decided that wine was needed and without further discussion he fled out the door and into the darkness. I could hear knocks on doors and muffled conversation and a few minutes later he returned with a large glass of white wine; perfect. He had asked one of our neighbours who was too happy to contribute to our meal. He sploshed the wine into the pan and it bubbled and sizzled as the caravan filled with the delicious aroma and steam of stewing wine and garlic. A little more stirring and tasting and the dish was served.
I don’t know if it was the company, the expectation, the aroma, the excitement of the trip or the pasta but I can still remember the salty, savoury flavours and recall the scent of the food and the man.
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