The Tribal Tomato

Mum's 'tselemente' story in SBS Voices...

Thanking SBS Voices for supporting diverse voices and stories.

Here is a piece they published about my Mum's tselemente, the cookbook she bought to Australia in the 1970's...

Mum's tselemente...

My mother

My mother is a bit of a legend.

She’s generous.

She’s funny.

She laughs a lot.

She makes you feel as if you are the only one who is important in her life, though you know she makes everyone in her orbit feel this way. You know this because your childhood home was always filled with people, relatives and friends and random strangers too. You know this because when she had her stroke five years ago, people spilled out of her hospital room waiting to see her each day. Her phone still rings constantly, and people check in on her all the time.

Mum has inspired me to write a few stories of late. I’m aware that she is getting older, that her body and her mind are not what they used to be. While I know this is how nature works, and that time spares no one, it fills me with sadness. And sadness makes me write.

I know Mum feels sad about getting older too, especially since her stroke robbed her of her words. It’s meant that she is unable to say what she wants to say in the same way that she once could. For such a social being as Mum, words are the gold with which she makes her everyday transactions, connecting with people, reassuring them, offering earthy wisdom. She talks about the stroke often, this terrible thing that happened to her.

But most of the time, she is stoic, philosophical. She doesn’t avoid the topic of death. She explains she is not really worried about it. What pre-occupies her is becoming dependant as she ages, and about her loved ones having to care for her, but she doesn’t worry about dying. As usual, her concerns are for others, not herself.

‘I’ve lived a good life,’ she often says. ‘Now, let me show you the dress I want you to bury me in…’

And despite ourselves, we laugh. My mother, who is a bit of legend, always makes me laugh.

Some recent articles about Mum on SBS Voices

Going through my parent’s possessions reminded me of the sacrifices they made

Cooking for my mother now that she can no longer do it for herself

Mission impossible

The shop is filled with oversized wine barrels and old fashioned wicker baskets; strange-looking sausage casings and sharp-bladed slicers; and all manner of equipment to make and bottle your own sauce. My husband chanced on this place on the dusty outskirts of suburbia a few weeks back. I’m out here to sus out the tomato situation. We're going to make passata.

This place would have once been rocking at this time of year as older Italians and Greeks stocked up on its wares to preserve their late summer produce. An elderly shopkeeper is chatting in Greek with a bloke at the front of the shop, but otherwise, the shop is empty. She gives me a cursory glance, doesn’t bother asking if I need help. I’m sure she's sized me up as a tourist to the art of mass home preserving. I’m about 30 years too young.

When the gent leaves, I approach her.

'How much are your sauce tomatoes out the front?' I ask in Greek.

She raises an eyebrow. Maybe she might make a sale after all. 

'$22 a box.'

Too much, I think. I’m becoming my mother.

'Will you still have some in a few weeks?'

'I can’t promise. If we do, they’ll be more expensive. It hasn’t been a good season for tomatoes.'

I nod. I don’t believe her. She wants to offload several boxes right now. I’m not quite ready, haven’t yet mobilised the family to sit over the ruby red orbs for a whole day making sauce. And I can probably get them cheaper if I wait.

A few weeks later, a date is set, the family booked in to make sauce. It’s Friday, and the long weekend looms seductively ahead. I make my way to Oakleigh, where I know there are several greengrocers. I’m there by 8 in the morning. Apart from a few groups of old men playing cards and smoking, the cafes are quiet on the main drag. I turn into one of the smaller streets to try my regular greengrocer.

'I’m after sauce tomatoes. Do you have any?' I ask an older bloke who's making a tower of eggplants.

'We ran out early this morning. The phone has been ringing hot and I’ve stopped answering it. It’s a long weekend. Everyone wants them.' He shrugs. 'You could come back next week...'

'Oh. Will I find some anywhere else?'

'I don't think so but you could try down the road. But make sure they don’t sell you romas, which growers cut off the vine too early and are green in the middle. Useless. You want the rounder, small sauce tomatoes that are red all the way through. And make sure you run the skins two or three times through the press. That makes the thickest sauce...''

I don't dare tell him we process the tomatoes through a food processor that we bought at the school fete a few years back, and that it always splutters to a stop about halfway through the day. It's not exactly the most professional of methods.

‘’Do you make sauce?' I ask him.

'Nah. My Italian friends used to make it. But they’re all dead now.' He laughs. 'That’s what happens when you have grappa with coffee in the morning, wine with lunch, and beer and scotch with dinner.'

We talk some more, but in the end stories aren’t going to get me my tomatoes. I had better get a move on.

At the next greengrocer, I can’t see any on the shop floor. I ask the guy in charge if they have any out the back. He tells me there should be a shipment in an hour. $25 a box he says. Yes, they’re expensive. Don’t I know it’s been 50 degrees in Echuca and Shepparton this year, burning the vines? Horrible year for tomatoes. I tell him I might be back later. It's going to be a long morning.

I try greengrocer number three, where I paw through a box of overripe romas. They’re cheap, but rotten on the outside, and green on the inside. A middle-aged woman stands beside me, looking the way I feel. Forlorn.

'Mmm, they’re not very good…' I say.

'No.' She sighs. 'I should have done this a few weeks ago. I might try the place down the road…' We walk together, two strangers on a shared mission.

'I don’t know why I make passata. It's so much work. Every year, I threaten to stop, but my kids won’t let me. They love it, the ritual of it. As it happens, now they've got other things to do and it looks like I’m on my own with it…' I make sympathetic sounds.

When we get to our last resort greengrocer, it's the same story. No tomatoes. They ran out last week.  I suggest we go back to the greengrocer who is expecting a delivery but we both know it’s not looking good. She says she might try Dandenong Market. I wonder if it's not too late to trek across town to Preston Market. As we walk, I take out my phone and we google an out of the way place she knows. It’s just a shed at the back of a house in an outer suburb I’ve never heard of. An Italian bloke. She can’t remember his name. He’s been selling tomatoes and wine grapes for decades. When we enter the scant details she knows, a boutique winery comes up but no Italian bloke in a shed. I hope he's not dead.

Back at greengrocer number two, we’re in luck. A shipment is being unloaded downstairs. A few sample boxes have been bought up. My fellow searcher thinks she’ll be able to find cheaper – she’s going to drive out to her Italian bloke. I’m not taking the risk. The shop owner assures me I'll be happy - he gives these very same tomatoes to his family. I pay at the till and am told to take my car down to a dark loading bay where men in high vis vests are doing secret fruit business. A beefy bloke loads my car with several boxes of tomatoes. I keep my distance. It feels like the set of The Sopranos, where dead bodies may well be kept in cold storage. When he’s done, I furtively snap a pic and send it to my husband with the heady words of success: Mission accomplished!

'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images George Mifsud

Rizogalo for the soul

It’s been a month since the launch of my new memoir My Ikaria. The celebrations started with the book’s Melbourne launch, closely followed by the Sydney launch. There’s been some fabulous media interest, which is terribly affirming when you’ve been working on a bookish project for some years and have absolutely no idea what the reception will be when you release your little baby into the world.

Even more encouraging has been the wonderful response from readers. I’m loving the enlightening discussions the book has sparked about what it means to live well – these have affirmed for me yet again how small lifestyle changes can reap big rewards. Top points for enthusiasm goes to 60-year-old grandmother Mrs Poulos from Sydney. She wrote to me to say that My Ikaria inspired her to clear out her pantry post-Easter, helping her avoid eating all those leftover chocolate eggs. It also made her realise that her crazy, people-filled life was totally normal (and actually good for her). When she finished the book, she wrote:

Spiri, thank you for your beautiful book. Experiencing Ikaria through your words felt very real to me. You managed to capture the true heart of the Greek spirit and have given me many things think about to have a fulfilling life, to live and not to just exist.

 

Of course, life doesn't stop just because I’ve released a book, with family activities going at top speed as per usual, and my writing and teaching projects becoming even more plentiful. Despite the quickening pace, I have managed to keep up my Ikarian-inspired lessons: I’ve kept my task lists focused on the important stuff; I’ve still been connecting meaningfully with those close to me; I’ve managed to keep moving lots as part of my daily routines; and I’ve tried not to sacrifice sleep. Thus, I have been successfully juggling the balls. But this girl needs more than just to juggle balls. She needs to cook. And not just cobble-together-cook. I mean large-and-in-charge-comfort-for-the-soul-cook.

For some weeks now, my kids have been asking for rizogalo (rice pudding). Perhaps it’s the onset of the cooler weather at nights. Or the smell of lemon peel and vanilla that wafts through the kitchen when I cook it. Or perhaps the comforting starchiness of the rice, the creaminess of the milk. Whatever it is, they wanted it. Years ago, I discovered (and have since adapted) a recipe from a delightful book called Mamma’s Kitchen. And so, I made a big batch for our family, and another for my mother and brother. Judging by the fact that neither lasted more than a few hours in either household, I'd say it was a hit yet again.

Lately, I've been hankering for another Greek comfort recipe – Gigandes (baked lima beans). Thankfully I had a packet of these little dried white beauties in the pantry. I promptly boiled them and mixed the cooked and strained beans in with a cobbled-together sauce of vegetables, some herbs from the garden, a few cans of chopped tomatoes and a generous glug of olive oil – straight into the oven it all went. Teamed with crusty homemade bread, it’s the ultimate vegan feast. A glass of wine and I couldn’t wish for more.

Hubby George hasn’t been idle in the big batch cooking caper either – he’s been picking, baking and freezing quinces for a few weeks, making great big meat and vegetable stews for us and his parents, and bringing out the last of his homemade bread (he made 16 loaves for the book launch!) from the freezer.

All I can say is that while it’s been fun being on a bookish high this past month, it’s even more fun coming back down to Earth.

Download Marias-rizogalo (rice pudding) recipe adapted from Mama’s Kitchen: Recipes and Stories.

Read a Better Reading excerpt or buy My Ikaria.

My Ikaria is now available

‘My Ikaria is a kindly wake-up call to live a more mindful, meaningful and generous life – a joy to read.’ —Alice Pung

 

I'm delighted that my latest book, My Ikaria, is now available for purchase.

Thanking all who have helped it come to fruition, from my publishers at Black Inc./ Nero, to my agent Jacinta di Mase, to those in my writers' networks, and to the many supporters who have come to help launch the book and given me such wonderful feedback on my Facebook page - with special thanks to the many passionate Ikarians I met on my journey.

Here's the lowdown on how to find out more about the book and where to get a copy:

• Find out more, read endorsements or make media enquiries
• Read an excerpt
• Buy it in Australia (free delivery - gotta love that!)
• Buy it overseas
• Read an interview in Greek

I hope you enjoy it and very much look forward to your comments via my Facebook page, through my blog or via email.

Wishing you good health and happiness. 

Spiri

 

The primal belly

The last time I took belly dancing classes was in the back room of an inner-city pub more than twenty years ago. I remember rushing from work every Tuesday so as not to be late. Many times I would be peeved because the instructor would be very late; at other times she was a little stoned. But that didn’t matter when the music started. As she took us through the moves – diaphragm pops, full body undulations and shoulder shimmies – the day’s stresses fell away. I would feel my thoughts still, the drum beats pulse through my bare feet, my body move of its own accord in a sensual, natural way. It was as if I was returning to myself somehow – a more primal, universal self.

Fast forward and today I’ve taken myself to a morning belly dancing class at my local suburban gym. I’m still rushing; this time to get a load of washing on, shooing my teens out the door so that they get to school on time, thinking all the while about the work tasks I need to tick off when I get back to my home office. Belly dancing is an indulgence. But I know it will make me feel good. And feeling good means being more productive. A ‘win-win’ in business parlance.

 

When I walk into the class, I note the fit-looking instructor. The pile of colourful hip scarves on the stage. And the forty or so people of various ages, shapes and nationalities. Most people in the room are chatting, laughing and already swaying their hips. They’re all barefoot. I make a beeline for a red scarf and once it’s on, and my shoes are off, I’m transported back to the pub. I feel confident. Younger. And a little bit sexy.

As the music starts and the instructor takes us through our paces, I quickly realise that I can’t hold a shimmy as long as I used to. That my diaphragm doesn’t pop as strongly as it once did. And that my joints creak a little when I try a full body undulation.

I look around me at everyone shaking and shimmying, popping and undulating. Several people are laughing. Many are encouraging each other through the unfamiliar moves. I lock eyes with an elderly gent who’s giving it everything he’s got. We smile at each other. Soon, I close my eyes. It’s not long before my head stills and I feel the music beat up through my feet. My body starts to move without thought, without consideration of its limitations, doing its primal, joyful thing. And I can’t help but think that this is the perfect place for me to be. 

Why can't I live my fantasy?

At this time, of year, I fantasise about lying on a hammock with a glass of wine. There's some crusty, just-baked bread dipped in olive oil on a table beside me. I have a great book in my hand, and more waiting where that one came from. I’ve just finished hanging a sign on the washing machine that says, ‘On holidays. Back in three weeks.’ No one is wanting anything from me. In fact, every now and then, someone (my dear husband perhaps) asks me if there's anything I'd like. I respond by saying that I need a foot massage. Of course, he quickly obliges.

I lie. It’s not just at this time of year that I have such a fantasy – this is my #1 Year-round Stock Standard Fantasy. The last time I spent a whole day reading was in the summer of 1984. If I could bottle that feeling, I would.

Part of being a responsible adult generally means that your weeks (months, years) are spent working hard to get a whole bunch of things done. Most of the reading I do these days is done late at night. Instead of a glass of wine, I have a mug of chamomile (winter) or a glass of water (summer) beside me. I’m usually quite tired, and I’m lucky if I get through a few chapters.

Why can’t I live my fantasy?

Reason #1: Parenting duties

Anyone who is a parent or knows a parent understands that parenting duties never stop. They start first thing in the morning (often with negotiations to get the teen out of bed in our case), and they don’t end until late at night (GET OFF YOUR PHONE AND INTO BED - NOW!). And there’s all the stuff in between (see ‘domestic duties’ below).

Reason #2: Domestic duties

I think if I crunched the numbers on how many loads of washing needed to be done, how many times the floors needed to be cleaned or how many meals needed to be cooked in a lifetime, I would want to lay down and never get up again. Enough said.

Reason #3: Paid work

Paid work is what I do to help pay off the mortgage, have enough money to outsource occasional foot massages, and hopefully, fill my life with some sort of purpose in addition to that which includes the words 'chores' and ‘Mum’. My paid work involves teaching and writing. My work is enjoyable and fulfilling most days. Part of me wants to say that I’m lucky – but I’ve worked hard to get to such a good place. Work is great, but it still takes up time. Lots of it.

While all of the above is happening, I am also trying to keep both myself and my family healthy – for me, this means eating well, being as active as we can, connecting meaningfully with each other and those in our circle, and getting enough time out to do the things that we love.

I often fantasise about having more time out, but I’ve come to the realise that I actually like working hard. The things I expend the most energy on also seem to reap the most rewards - if the family, home and creative space are in good order, I'm a happy woman.

The good thing is that working hard means I get to really enjoy the respite when it comes.

So, for the record, here’s what’s going to happen on Boxing Day.

I am going to spend a full day on the hammock, even it hurts my back.

I’m going to drink as much wine as I feel like, even if I regret it the next day.

I’m going to get through the first of the books in my summer reading pile. One. Delicious. Word. At. A. Time.

And maybe, just maybe, I'm going to ask for a foot massage. Honey, if you’re reading this, what are my chances?

Here’s to a very fulsome, fruitful and restive 2017

 

 

 

The secret to a long and happy life – Stand straight, keep active and have lots of sex

Lately, I’ve been very preoccupied with old age. Firstly, about how I might get there without falling prematurely off this mortal coil. About how I might do it without my heart limping along, my bladder packing it in, or my memory finally going completely AWOL. And, once I have the basics down pat, how I might keep doing the things that give me joy and be with the people I love, well into my old age.

I’m not sure where my preoccupation comes from. It started with the Ikarians, those rambunctious Greek islanders who seem to party their way to longevity. If anyone knows how to do ageing well, they do. But they’re not the only ones. There are five such long-lived peoples around the world, dubbed the Blue Zones communities. They don’t mean to live a long time – they just do. The things they do that help them keep well are surprisingly simple. Best of all, there’s not a single miracle pill or fancy piece of gym equipment in sight.

 

Perhaps my interest in ageing well might do with the fact that I have now reached middle age. And with it, the knowledge that half my life is already behind me – and I mean pretty much exactly half my life. According to a Blue Zones longevity test, I could live to 97 years old. The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying.

However long I live, I want to keep being happy and healthy most days. And so, I find myself harassing old people. On trains, at parties, even at seminars. And I mean not just any old people, but about-to-crack-a-century old people. And I ask outright, ‘What’s the secret to a long and happy life?’

The first time I asked the question, I was on a train heading home. I sat next to an an impeccably dressed older man wearing a scarlet silk tie. In his hand, he held a brochure about The Ghan. I had a choice. I could surf the internet on my phone, or start a conversation. I started a conversation.

‘Are you thinking of taking a trip?’

‘Yes, I think my wife might like it.’

We talked about all the trips he had made in his life through his work, and about the ones he would like to take with his wife. Now that he had more time, he wanted to make the most of it.

On his lap rested a thick tome. He said he was going to teach himself Latin from scratch. When my mobile rang (‘Mum, can you please pick up something yummy to eat?’), he confessed afterwards that he didn’t own a mobile phone. His wife badgered him to get one, but he wouldn’t give in. Whatever happened to him while he was out, happened. So be it. The secret to a long and happy life? Keep learning, walk every day and enjoy each moment. He got off the train and trotted off at a brisk pace.

Soon after, I had a long chat with a 91-year-old man at a party. He still mowed his own lawn and kept his mind active by regularly visiting the ‘elderly’ in a Jesuit nursing home. There he had existential conversations about the meaning of life. The secret to a long and happy life? Keep your mind and body active, be social, and make sure to marry a good woman. He took his wife by the arm and they climbed down the steps of my friend’s house, steady as you please.

Today I met a 95-year-old woman at a writer’s event. And so, I reeled out the question again, even before we had been introduced.

She didn’t hesitate before answering.

‘A good posture,’ she said. She gave me a piercing look, as if to say, ‘are you listening to me?’ I was listening, and held my shoulders back as far as they would go. She was standing ramrod straight.

‘Have fun. Lots of it. I ate, drank, smoked, had sex. Have lots of sex if you can get it...’

Her eyes twinkled.

‘And be sure to let go of anger. Don’t waste time being angry. Sometimes it’s hard. You can’t help it. But anger isn’t worth it.’

With that, she went off to get herself a second cup of coffee and, no doubt, to impart more wise words to someone else.

I stood taller still. If I’m going to live to 97, I need to be ready.

 

Image by George Mifsud.

My mother's table

My mother has a number of tables at her house, and they are always ready for action.

There’s the table in the garden bungalow, where many of Mum’s neighbours gather each day for coffee and sweets. There’s the table in the kitchen, where day-to-day meals are had. And there’s the table in the lounge room, where we gather to have more formal meals, such as at Easter or on New Year’s Day. On these occasions, the crystal vase filled with bright plastic flowers is put to one side, the lace tablecloth is whipped off, and a crisp linen one laid out. On it might go platters boasting a few roast chooks, Mum’s delectable handmade chips, a Greek salad, an oversized spanakopita, plates of feta cheese and olives, and some crusty homemade bread. Then, three generations of family sit around the table, talking too loudly and eating too much. Invariably, someone will spill something on the white tablecloth.

Be it at my mother’s table, or at our own at home, we take it for granted we will have enough food to put on the table each day. It’s sobering to know that for some people, food is a discretionary item – and sometimes they go without if an unexpectedaly big bill comes along for example.

Last year, I was invited to 'donate' a story to an anthology honouring a beloved domestic icon, the kitchen table. Comedian Denise Scott, novelist Helen Garner and restauranteur Stefano di Pieri also donated their stories, so I was in good company. The idea was that a portion of the royalties from the sale of the book were to go to Foodbank. This is an organisation that rescues surplus food and groceries from the country’s farmers, manufacturers and retailers, and redistributes it to feed on average of 88,000 people a day. Last year, Foodbank provided 24 million kilograms of food and groceries to over 2,500 charities and 640 schools across Australia.

The result of editor Nick Richardson’s vision, with production by ABC Books, is the gorgeous-looking Kitchen Table Memoirs. It's an anthology of 21 poignant, funny and heartfelt stories that make for delicious reading. If you buy the book, you will no doubt be enveloped by that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you know you are helping a great organisation put food on the table. Dare I say it, but I think it might be perfect gift for Mum!

Find out more and buy Kitchen Table Memoirs.

 

 

Good Friday versus gyrating teenagers

I thought there would be drama when my daughter discovered that the 'Service of Lamentation' on Good Friday coincided with the finals of Young Talent Time. Thankfully, she had the good grace to realise that gyrating teenagers were unlikely to lose out to the most spectacular church service in the Greek Orthodox calendar.

During this service, the bier, decorated lavishly with flowers and bearing the image of Christ, is carried on in a procession through the streets. Traditionally in Greece, this would be carried through each village. In our suburb, it skirts our local shopping centre.

The service begins inside the church, where exquisite chanting rises above the haze of incense and candle smoke. Everything is slow and mournful. For me, the time seemed right to ponder the Two Big Ones: ‘What is the meaning of life?’; and ‘Is there life after death?’ I don’t expect a voice to reach out and give me the answers, but it's as good a space as any to reflect on these questions. It’s also a fitting time to think about my lovely friend who died recently, and where she might be now. I can only hope that she is all around those of us who love her.

Inside the church, it's all about the spiritual. Outside, on the street, it's about all the social—a time to catch up with people you haven’t seen for a while, or even to flex your flirting muscles. I overhear someone say suggestively, ‘Didn’t I see you here last year?’

The crowd swells to many thousands and the bier is finally carried out of the church. We follow it along the street.

We walk past pyjama-clad kids and teenagers, who have their iPods and iPads out, recording the spectacle. We smile at onlookers. They smile back, who look a little bewildered at the sheer number of people walking past. It’s been over 50 years since the bulk of Greeks migrated to Australia and yet, here we are, three or four generations, walking sticks and strollers and all. What a spectacle - beats watching YTT.

Check out the links for more photos by George Mifsud, dying eggs, making tsoureki and what to do with all the blasted chocolate Easter eggs (please, more suggestions welcome!).