Food Glorious Food
Have you ever marvelled at the wonderous facility we have as human beings to be instantly transported back to another time and or space at the mere ‘whiff of something?’ I have, it’s an uncanny sense.
Take for instance, Daphne (Daphne Odora) and Star Jasmine (Trachelospermum jasminoides). Their scents remind me of my father and the onset of summer. I’m intrigued by how we make our associations since my father was a man of the land.
Perhaps it’s like the stuck record. I recall a story once about how he threatened to dig out the jasmine vine that wrapped its pretty filigree fingers around the front verandah. My mother suffered from asthma and the scent of it triggered asthmatic attacks. She passed away after one of those attacks but even today the jasmine vine remains. There’s a story within a story in that one and my memories are soft.
The smell of biscuits cooking takes me back to our high-ceiling farm house kitchen where, loaves of wholemeal bread, Chelsea Buns, Bran Muffins, Ginger Gems, Pikelets, Scones, Anzac , Afghan, Belgium , Brandy Snaps, Easter, Ginger Crunch, Hokey Pokey, Peanut Brownies, Shortbread, Shrewsbury, and Yoyo biscuits were made and my father sacrificed himself to taste test each batch. With four daughters he must have had a cast iron stomach!
Then there were the cakes: Banana, Carrot, Chocolate, Cup, Queen, Date, Ginger, Madeira, Rock, Louise and the Slices and Squares like Apple Shortcake, Chocolate Brownies, Ginger Crunch, Meringues, Refrigerated Apricot and Lemon Slice, lamingtons Sponges, Sponge Drops, Black and Tan Square.
My all time favourites were Cheese Cakes, nothing at all like their more famous namesakes. They’re made in patty tins, with a flakey pastry base, a good dollop of your favourite jam (homemade raspberry) inside the pastry case topped with a light sponge mixture on top. The finishing touch is a simple celtic-like knot made from the flakey pastry. They’re delicious.
Those thoughts lead me to Hohepa, our little jersey house cow. You could call her from the top of the hill where the bale was and she’d walk right into the bale to be milked. She never needed tethering either. She gave milk like there was no tomorrow. We had a Friesian house cow too that never had a name (well not one that I knew) her milk was rich, creamy and best served with porridge. See how easy it is, this sensory imaginating thing.
I adore the smell of freshly brewed ground coffee, it has a way of making the taste buds sing, the smell of apricot soap reminds me of long, languid summers at Waimarama Beach … if they could bottle this thing, what, I wonder would they call it? Food for thought.
Blackey flitted by a moment ago, checking up on me I suspect. His sideways glance is somewhat imperious but it’s a ruse, a ruse to remind me just who the boss of the backyard is. I defer outwardly.
It’s a game we play with each other, keeps us both on our toes.
