Feasting into Autumn

Zesty fish curry, eaten by me with the right hints of sour, spicy, coconut milky and peppery. It takes me to warm tropical nights, refreshing after a stormy downpour, with the breezes coming in at twilight from the coast. Fish head cheeks or soft fillet, what melts in the mouth also brings to the imagination of tales from the spice trade, of okra fingers simmering in the heady mix of chilli and paste, of onion slices melting into the subtle flavours of kallipillay leaf aromas.

This was no pavement side stall dish on a tropical isle, but in the dining room of a cousin's house in north-west Sydney. It might have been coolish outside, but the warmth of such soul food and good company provided a totally different ambience inside on this weekend night. Taken with hot Chinese tea or hazelnut-flavoured white coffee, the stomach feels the sensations of food and drink which are the products of multi-culturalism, not just as relatively recent novelties in capital cities of the Australian continent, but as the consequence of hundreds of years of racial inter-mingling in South East Asia.

Such cuisine crossed racial and cultural lines long before human hearts did so. Before the advent of contemporary globalism, there have always existed pockets of the cultural melting pot along the great trade routes, whether by the oceans or inland. Food has always been the first beneficial recipient of such human inter-mixing, before customs, sport, learning and genes get enriched. For example, the increased number of Eurasian marriages in the Sydney or Melbourne basins, as we hurl ourselves into the 21st century, must mean Eurasian meals, kitchen ware and concepts, before the consequent chilren arrive.

There were no Indians present in this home-cooked dinner party in Carlingford, and yet we were partaking an essentially Indian dish. Or what is classified otherwise as a Straits Chinese dish. Immigrants take the best from their immediate neighbours, add dashes of love and ingredients from their homeland, resulting in something new, yet something old.

I have had the privilege of enjoying such dishes wherever I go. Whether back in my hometown of Penang, or in the suburbs of greater Sydney, I savour the different variations of a themed dish. The steamed Hainan chicken rice I have in Australia takes advantage of the quality of the chicken raised in a different way from China. The prawns from different seas make for variations in the quintessential richness of the prawn noodle soup. The bean sprouts from Australian shops are much sweeter than those in Vietnam or Singapore. It is not just the ingredients, but maybe the temperatures in the kitchen, practices borrowed from the dominant culture of towns and cities lived in and the personal touches of the cooks.

I live in an essentially Italian and Eastern European town, where I look for Chinese vegetables in a Mediterranean produce inspired market and add olive oil to my ethnic soul food. Sometimes the twain shall not meet, and one uses common sense in knowing the limits. However, when I look at my simmering pasta and my steamed dumplings, I cannot help but think of my childhood noodles and my Russian friend.

The Postbox

My postbox is back in operation. The box that is standing in front of my house. During the advent of the Lunar Year of the Pig, someone had pulled it out of its position and thrown the box on the street. And this is not even a Sydney suburb.

I had then just put a shiny new label sticker requesting for no advertising material - thank you. That was in January, and now after the Easter holidays, I was back at the local Bunnings hardware store to get a repalcement sticker. I used to read the colourful, well printed brochures but am now weary of them. Hey it all adds to the cost of a product or service. The printing is of high quality and so must be the costs of producing them. There must be a better way of marketing!

With the internet and email, what turns up in a snail mail postbox are mainly commercial stuff, like bills to pay, magazines (if one still reads the hand-held version) and advertising materials. Whatever happened to the written letter from home or faraway? Thankfully, I still receive the odd postcard from my wanderer traveller friends.

Now, instead of standing by a postbox and eagerly anticipating a message from a loved one, one relishes this experience in front of an electronic screen. What shall we do in an energy blackout or during a cyberspace virus attack?

It is already a common scene now for one to read mail, magazines and news in electronic form on one channel of the family room monitor, or kitchen screen, or in the privacy of a study room cyberspace window to the world. This interface not only provides entertainment, live chats face-to-face and storage media, but is an outlet to order food, clothes and services. Need we even get out to work? Maybe not for some.

While making it an all efficient one stop of interfacing with the world, the resulting lack of human contact can cause problems - or opportunities. There may be a backlash against this cosy, cocooned world where physical touch, sensory social encounters and visual immediacy become rare and eventually treasured so much they command a hefty price. Think about it. The old adage " smell the roses" becomes not just nostalgic, but in actual demand.

A Drive Away

The McKeoghs at Bald Hill Lookout

Last Sunday I discovered the enclave of Burrill Lake, South Coast, New South Wales, when I drove across the bridged road that is on the same level of its still waters. What caught my eye were the mounds of hills that lay beside the lake, all trimmed an even green and that reminded me of mysterious islands lying low amidst the clouds.

A drive away in my neighbourhood opens up vistas of discovery and impressions of delight. They may come around a bend after cruising through a country road, or surprise me after negotiating a steep incline. They may be man-made, like quaint building facades or unusual signs, but more often than not, they are part of the landscape and topography.

Bald Hill Lookout, near Stanwell Park and where a tremor hit only last week, offers stunning views of the Tasman Sea and the series of rolling hilly coast south of the greater Sydney area. Driving home at night always makes me look out at the fairy night lights of the Wollongong metropolitan area when I am still on the escarpment top freeway. A hint of China veers above the treetops along part of the southern distributor leading to Dapto, in the form of sweeping saffron coloured roof tiles of the Nan Tien Temple.

What is best enjoyed on a care free weekend morning is swinging through the curves of the road leading to Kiamia Beach. Heading further south towards Nowra and Ulladalla, there are pastoral grazing grounds with dairy cattle and grazing sheep, vineyards and several opportunities to turn into side roads that lead to delightful beach hideaways like Gerringong, Huskisson and Mollymook. Molly offers pristine stretches of open wave coast line which you can claim all to yourself. In contrast, the town of Berry is inundated by Sydney visitors every weekend, but you can still capture a bit of countryside quiet from an early breakfast or a late dinner in one of its homely cafes.

The small enclave of Milton offers everything in miniature along its main strip - a town hall, a war memorial and so forth, but with lots of history. The opening to the Tasman Sea from the small harbour of Ulladalla is best viewed with a seafood lunch. It is comforting to know that the town's MacDonalds only opened in October 2006, and with leather seats, Heart Foundation approved menus and a sleek modern setting. Its only disturbing thing is that, approaching from the north, the Mackers sign enticing customers is labelled "Over the hill".

Away from the ocean, I can wander to the best pies "in the world" from a cottage in Kangaroo Valley, if I venture along a winding and mountainous road inland from Nowra, or cut through orchard laden paths to the Southern Highlands. The highland towns of Bowral, Berrima, Mittagong and Suttons Forest offer autumn mists, Anglo-Celtic souvenirs and cosy hideaways.

I can get to Australia's first modern inland settlement, Goulburn, if I proceed further south inland via the Hume Highway on the way to the nation's capital, Canberra, and come back home to a sumptous Italian dinner in Wollongong.

April Transitions

I am told that it is the best time of the year. I was convinced it is. Autumn in this southern climatory zone.
I live too near the tropics and too far from the true temperate altitudes. There are no brown falling leaves, and it still feels like summer. Bed quilts are only required in the middle of the night but no wardrobe changes are in the air.
Mid-April, and there has been a host of cultural occasions marked. Easter, Ching Ming, Songkran, the stop of daylight savings time, Anzac Day and the end of the Australian fringe benefits tax year.
Originally from the northern hemisphere, I have intinctively done "spring" cleaning. Not just at home, but also in the office and in virtual cyberspace. It feels good, and the cobwebs of the mind go along into the "delete" click and good-riddance bin. The Maz 6 is to go, so I have been visiting car yards in Wollongong - I like the convenience of having all the vehicle brands represented wihtin ten minutes drive from home.