Feast! Pure Slush Vol. 9

by Susan Tepper

I smile – well, my mouth turns up a little at both edges – as Eve reaches into the bowl and scrapes the last of the dough into a ball with her fingers.

  “Back in the Walkerville Methodist Cemetery,” she continues. “Lying next to Grandpa.”

  “She’s on top,” I say. “Grandma’s coffin’s on top of Grandpa’s.”

  Eve rolls the dough into a ball and pops it in the middle of the tray. There are seventeen dough balls on this tray, and sixteen on the other tray sitting on the draining board.

  “This last one’s for you, Carolyn,” she says. “If you dare. If you can stop thinking like a bank manager’s wife and live a little.”

  Eve is making Anzacs. Anzac biscuits have eight ingredients. I made them often enough with Grandma when I stayed at her house in the Hills when I was a kid, so I know.

  You start with plain flour (sifted), rolled oats, caster sugar and desiccated coconut, combined in a bowl. Then place golden syrup (or treacle, if you don’t know what golden syrup is) with butter in a saucepan, and melt them together. Then mix bicarb soda with a tablespoon of boiling water in a cup, and add to the melted butter mix. Watch it bubble up – kids really enjoy watching the bubbles reach the rim of the saucepan – then add the frothing mix to the dry ingredients. Combine all ingredients then roll into balls and place them on a greased or buttered oven tray, flattening slightly. Cook for about 12 minutes until golden.

  I make Anzacs for every Anzac Day, April 25th, which is tomorrow.

  It’s an Australian tradition.

  (Though you can make them any time, not just for Anzac Day. And you don’t even have to be in Australia.)

  Anzac Day is the day we remember all Australian and New Zealand servicemen and women who fought in wars. You can munch on the chewy goodness of an Anzac and think of all those who sacrificed their lives for us. People march in the streets and the really dedicated attend dawn services at their nearest war memorial, so it’s a big, big deal.

  And Anzac biscuits always have eight ingredients.

  Except Eve’s have a magic ninth ingredient.

  Hash.

  Eve is making hash Anzacs, which she doesn’t think is sacrilegious.

  Eve made the hash herself too, sifting the dried leaves and stems through a silkscreen then wrapping the powder in a freezer bag and then taping it up with sticky tape and then more and more and more sticky tape tighter and tighter and tighter so it’s 100% waterproof and then boiling the package in boiling water for 7 minutes.

  I guess that’s why she lives near Nimbin, hippy capital of Australia.

  My mobile pings but I don’t bother to reach into my handbag (it’s over on the coffee table, anyway) because I know it’s another When are you coming back? message from Peter. The kids are freaking out!

  And that’s why I’m staying with my cousin because after 20 years of marriage, I don’t know if I want to do it anymore.

  “This is not sacrilegious,” Eve says, as the oven door slaps shut on the two trays of hash Anzacs and she pushes her frizzy hair off her face with the back of her wrist. “It’s not, Carolyn, it’s just another way of celebrating our Australianness, that larrikin spirit, spitting in the eye of formality and all those pompous fuckers.”

  She smiles.

  “They’ll be just the thing at the poetry reading, too,” she says, “all the poets will love them. Do they even have those in sleepy old Adelaide, hey?”

  “Have what?” I ask.

  “Poetry readings.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, “I don’t even know if we have any poets.”

  Though with 1.3 million people, we probably do have a few poets. I just haven’t met them.

  You don’t really get to meet poets when you’re a bank manager’s wife.

  Now we’re making a nut mix aka Nimbin Nuts. It’s just a lot of nuts mixed together in a plastic bag – “Just a little sideline of mine,” Eve says – with a bit of curry powder sprinkled over them then shaken and shaken and shaken ’til the curry coats them all. Brazil nuts and peanuts and pistachios – “Not macadamia nuts, though,” says Eve, “they’re fuckin’ expensive, they’re the rich man’s nuts” – and cashews and pecans and walnuts.

  Then more peanuts and more peanuts and more peanuts.

  “They’re not so expensive, peanuts are the poor man’s nuts,” Eve says, “that’s why I’m happy to take them along for free. I always take Nimbin Nuts to the poetry readings, the Anzacs are just a special treat because it’s Anzac Day tomorrow.”

  And that’s when I remember, like a ping going off in my head. I remember how Eve has this thing for poets.

  She’s knotting the ends of a green and yellow sarong together, the knot flopping down her cleavage, her shoulders bare and brown above the bright new green and yellow material, and shining in the midday sun streaming through her open bedroom window. And I’m standing in the doorway. One arm folded across me, holding onto the other elbow.

  “Did I ever tell you how I came to live in Nimbin?” Eve says. She fluffs her frizzy red hair out behind her shoulders and pulls the strapless sarong up under her arms, not five seconds after she’s tied it up. She’s gonna be in for a lot of sarong hitching the rest of the day, I can feel it.

  “He was a poet, of course,” she says, “Richard Stringfellow Longmuir de Cordé. He wrote the most exquisite rhyming couplets. Those couplets could make even the driest old maid wet. And I mean, dripping. Right there on the chair. A big old maid puddle in the middle of the rattan and velour.”

  Yes, in the family, I remember, Eve’s nickname is the poet-fucker.

  “And I know what you’re thinking,” Eve adds, “I know you’re remembering my nickname is the poet-fucker in our wretched family. It’s the only time they ever let themselves say fuck.”

  She slides the screen on her bedroom window across and reaching through the gap, picks a beautiful white flower from the bush growing outside in the garden. She pulls her frizzy hair back and sticks the flower behind her ear. Reaching up, she fluffs her hair again, then slides the window screen shut. She stands, looking me in the eye.

  “And it’s true, I am a poet-fucker, but I’ve only ever fucked the really talented ones, not the also-rans. I bet you don’t have those in sleepy old Adelaide either, hey, any poet-fuckers? Because if you don’t have poetry readings, how can the poets get to meet the poet-fuckers?”

  I scratch my elbow and stare at the white flower bobbing behind her ear. I’m not quite getting her point.

  I’m carrying the Anzacs and the Nimbin Nuts, following Eve as she walks out to her car. I’m wearing a green and yellow sarong too, but I’ve tied it around my neck, like a halter top, so I don’t have to hitch the dress up under my arms every five seconds. I’m balancing the plate of Anzacs in my right hand and the dish of Nimbin Nuts in my left hand and I figured the balancing and the hitching wouldn’t work.

  (“And you don’t really have the shoulders for strapless,” Eve said. “Funny how you’re seven years younger but your shoulders are definitely much crépier than mine.” Then she sniffed the sarong as she handed it to me. “That used to be my lucky sarong,” she said. “There’s a lot of juice in that fabric.”

  The sarong rolled out from my hands, exactly like the green and yellow Eve is wearing except older and faded and a bit frayed and holey around the edges. My skin is too pale and freckled for green and yellow, even faded and holey green and yellow, but I’m sort of at her mercy. I don’t have any real money of my own and my aunt – Eve’s mother – said she’d pay for my airfare here so I could get time away to think about not being a bank manager’s wife any more.)

  My bare feet scuff on the worn grass as we walk. I’ve become Eve’s little project.

  “One of the poets coming along today is really hot,” she says. The door of her old Holden scrapes like a metal ratchet as she pulls it open. “He’s talented but I reckon you’d suit him.”

  She slides in behind the steering wheel and reaching across the bench seat, the bangles on
her arm fall past her elbow and jingle as she winds the window down then pulls the button up to unlock the passenger door. The car must be from the 50’s or 60’s and it’s built like a tank, with big heavy doors, and through the window I can see red vinyl seats and a brown dashboard made of wood veneer and glass.

  “I mean, he’s not a brilliant enough poet for me but he’d probably be a good holiday fuck for you,” Eve says through the open window. “Get in.”

  Eve turns the key and the engine coughs to life.

  I’m standing by the passenger door with the plate of Anzacs in one hand and the dish of Nimbin Nuts in the other and I can’t open the door. And the knotted ends of the faded green and yellow sarong are digging into the back of my neck.

  12.50pm

  Jan Juc, Victoria, Australia

  Adam Gets Humble Pie

  by Mandy Nicol

  They lie on their backs beneath the cliff, heads almost touching, blond curls against brown spikes. One is tanned, one pale. T-shirts, jeans, bare feet. Their bodies form a vee, arrowing the rock wall.

  “It’s a long way up,” says Jen.

  Adam’s eyes snap open. He squints at the cliff top.

  “How high would it be?”

  Adam has no idea but says, “A hundred metres, maybe more.”

  “As tall as the Eiffel Tower?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “As tall as the Leaning Tower of Pisa?”

  “I don’t think that’s very tall … not as tall as it should be, anyway.”

  Jen laughs, sits up, crosses her long legs, shimmies around to face him. Adam turns on to his side to watch her. She has a long face and a long nose, matching her long limbs and long hair. Adam thinks it all fits together perfectly. His phone buzzes. He looks at the screen, taps it a couple of times and slides it back into his pocket. Jen tilts her head at him.

  “Just my mum,” he says.

  “So why didn’t you answer?” The silence stretches. Jen watches.

  Adam finally says, “Whaaat? She only just saw me at breakfast. And she made me drink a bloody beetroot.”

  “Drink a beetroot?”

  “Well, beetroot juice.” Adam screws up his face. “It was revolting.”

  “Really? I’ve never tried it.” Jen looks out to sea for a moment, then says, “Wouldn’t she have added apples or something, to make it taste better?”

  “I don’t know about apples but I’m sure she jammed some of her favourites in there, like wheatgerm and cider vinegar and seaweed and, oh, maybe the turds of some obscure bat or something.”

  Adam laughs, so does Jen, but as soon as she stops she says, “You should have talked to her, she’ll worry.”

  Adam sighs. “Yeah, I suppose.”

  Jen jumps to her feet, wriggles into her sandals, brushes the sand off her bum. Adam pulls out his phone and punches in a few letters, sends a short text to his mother.

  Jen returns from the cliff with a picnic basket and cooler bag. “I hope you’ve still got an appetite,” she says.

  “As long as it’s not beetroot salad.”

  “No, there’s no beetroot and no salad. I’ve got egg and bacon pie, crusty rolls, and a surprise. Here, spread this out.” She tosses a green tartan rug to him.

  Jen butters the rolls and Adam slices pie. “This smells delicious,” he says. “And it’s a real pie! I thought you meant a quiche.”

  “No it’s a pie pie.”

  “Where did you buy it?”

  “I didn’t buy it, I made it.” Jen glares at him.

  Adam doesn’t notice because he’s shoving forkfuls of pie into his mouth. “Wow,” he says between mouthfuls, “I knew you were clever, but I didn’t know you were this clever.”

  Jen grins, appeased. “Well it wasn’t very hard,” she admits. “Frozen pastry, eggs, bacon, oven. And that’s about it!”

  “You know what?” Adam smiles. “I don’t remember the last time I had a meal without fruit or vegetables.”

  Jen laughs, reaches into the picnic basket, throws a mandarine at him, then another and another. Adam catches them, tries to juggle them, spills them on the rug. “So these are the surprise then, eh?”

  “Oh no.” Jen pulls a bottle of champagne and two plastic wine glasses out of the cooler bag. “This is the surprise. Happy three-month anniversary.” She beams at him but Adam glances away, picks up the mandarines.

  “Adam?”

  “It’s a lovely thought,” he says.

  “But?”

  “I’m not supposed to drink.”

  Jen claps her hand against her mouth. “Oh God, I didn’t think.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Adam, I’m so sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter Jen, it’s no big deal.”

  “Of course it’s a big deal.” Jen shakes her head, whispers, “How could I forget?”

  “You know what?” Adam picks up her hand, squeezes it, says, “I love that you forget. I absolutely love it. Nobody else ever forgets.”

  6.00am

  Cyclades Islands, Greece

  Before Sunrise

  by Lyn Fowler

  It is before sunrise and we are dressed and up on deck. I taste the salty air. I am hungry and I have not even had a cup of tea yet. Our skipper is already at the wheel; the 40-foot yacht is ready. We are ready.

  My husband, daughter, son-in-law and I met together with our skipper last night at the taverna and he showed us maps with the tide and weather forecasts. He had postponed our departure from the harbour because of the bad weather. The north-easterly wind across the Mediterranean, the Meltemi, had caused high winds and seas for three days. Our first instruction for this morning is to not eat or drink anything. Kostas was adamant. We were not to eat anything in the morning. Just get up on deck to be ready to leave with the tide. He repeated, “Nothing. Not biscuits. No, not tea or coffee. No, no, not water. Nothing!”

  “Quickly, be ready!” Kostas now shouts over the rattle of the engine. We are motoring out of the harbour with no further delay and with nothing in our stomachs. Nothing to eat, Kostas had said, no water either. He was right of course and thankfully, our empty stomachs stay settled. The drawers in the galley slide open and closed as we cruise up and down with each crashing wave. It is exciting but I am not frightened. I look up at Kostas as he looks out on the sea and his boat. It is as though he knows each wave. With travel, you develop a sense of trust and the sharing of a meal reinforces that trust. I am glad that we shared our meal last night. The deal with the yacht charter means that you have to feed your skipper but for us it also means that we can get to know one another and we can together discuss the next few days. We were anxious to get going to enjoy our holiday but we are in the hands of a qualified seaman and he has to make any decision.

  After half an hour of pounding waves, we round the point and anchor in a sheltered cove. It is calm here and the water inviting. Why not have a quick dip before breakfast. However, we are very hungry and the galley beckons. I climb down and find that all the fruit I had wrapped in tea towels is undamaged from the rough ride. The contents of the fridge are all still intact, even the eggs. The bottles of wine are secure. Our drinking water is sensibly stored in plastic containers.

  “Anyone for poached eggs?” I call out from the galley.

  “I thought we would be having scrambled eggs this morning,” I hear my husband’s voice from the deck.

  “Well you can make the coffee, smarty.”

  Then I remember. Last night we dined at the harbour taverna and due to the bad weather, we were the only customers. We ate so much and went home back to our yacht with the leftovers. So this morning on deck into the bright sunlight I bring out the carefully wrapped and boxed food. There are delicious crispy tomato fritters that will be perfectly good cold, creamy fava bean dip and baked white eggplant, a sweeter cousin to the usual purple one, stuffed with tomato, onion, garlic and oregano. I will try to make my version of the fritters later. The ingredients are just finely diced
tomato mixed with spring onions, parsley and mint and added to flour with baking powder. Spoonfuls of this batter are then deep-fried in olive oil. The favas are small dried yellow split peas boiled until a soft puree and then finished with lemon juice and olive oil and topped with capers. These vegetables do not require much water to grow and they must thrive in the less fertile soils of the islands. The result is concentrated taste. This is a feast of all breakfasts. Forget about bacon, eggs and toast. First, we must have coffee.

  The coffee is brewing at last and the aroma is delicious. John pours the coffee for everyone into mugs.

  Our skipper smiles at us. “What do you like to eat for breakfast, Kostas?” I ask.

  “On the boat I only need orange juice and biscuits.” He is very young with soft eyes and long eyelashes but he is the person you can trust to sail you around the world. He is content that he has safely skippered the yacht. The blustery wind is behind us now. Here in our cove the sun is shining, and the sea is calm. We are content sitting on the deck, enjoying our Greek island breakfast.

  2.00pm

  Nimbin, New South Wales, Australia

  Poetry for Dummies

  by Matt Potter

  “The vagina wants what the vagina wants,” Eve says. And then, smiling at the young guy with dreadlocks tied into a ponytail stretching halfway down his back, she points both her index fingers towards her lap and mouths, It has a life of its own.

  Eve throws her head back and hoiks up a gut-busting laugh. The white flower behind her ear bobs and her red frizz flies out the full 360°. I lean back off my barstool as her laugh blasts me in the face. Dreadlock guy titters. Then both swig from their drinks, something green-looking that smells like crème de menthe and tastes like weedkiller. (I had a sip of Eve’s, though only one.)

  We’re sitting in a triangle, on barstools in the Gloriana Room, waiting for the poetry to start. Except there’s some time to kill and the poetry is being written while we wait.