I could tell you some love stories. I have a knack for
falling in love, wether it be for five minutes on the sidewalk with a perfectly
formed rose, for a summer with a glorious Riesling or for five years with my
first boyfriend. I have a deep affinity and belief, in living for love.
But the minute I read miss
Mummy Daze’s post all I could
think about was the first time I remember having a strong feeling of what I
liked and loved about my life. I was
just starting to get to know me as an adult, my life was begining to bud. I
fell in love with my city.
Through the last eight years (as with all of us I’m sure)
I’ve had a few challenges. There have been great loves and small loves, heartaches
and breaks, death and loss, and of course above all, joy. I moved to Adelaide with an ex boyfriend but
have always been and had to be, very independent. Through out these events
sometimes there has been no one here to hold me, no one to warm me, and no-one
to keep me company. But I have always had the broad tree lined streets to hold
me, a lonely coffee in a familiar café to warm me and a wander through the
bustle of the central market has been enough calamity (and cheese) to help any
girl forget herself.
A series of small constant relationships, like stars in the
night sky. So I guess it is no wonder that when I have visitors I cant but help
indulge myself by showing off my love, like a new beau or sometimes (the true
treasures) a gorgeous faithful friend.
Here are four little loves, like little meals that have sustained
me. Pick me up when blue, act as escapes for my heart and my senses. I could
share these affairs for pages with you, but a girl has to keep a little
something tucked away in her heart for next time xx
Morning Glory
Nothing wakes me up quite like the promise of a hot organic
bacon and egg roll on a winters morning. It’s so cold your breath snaps at the
air and you’re nervous to buy a coffee before you’ve warmed your hands. “Bacon
and egg roll” doesn’t really do it justice, the bread is a heavy soft sour
dough, home made almond pesto, add the chutney, twice smoked bacon and a googy
egg. Wrap it up in paper and set off for a stroll around the market. There are
cheese wrights, a French patisserie, the most succulent orange juice (my nephew
has the gent trained to give him a mandarin icy pole in exchange for a chat and
a giggle, well done all round! even if your lips are blue little one). Home made breads abound, scattered with ancient grains and seeds. I can
never help but stop at the old French lady selling rillette, aioli and pate.
She’s chatting of her ducks and geese like they are her children and then she
offers up their innards – perhaps more akin to a Hansel and Gretel tale – but
delicious all the while. Next to her grins the lavendar man, i'll have a glass of lavendar cordial before my coffee and perhaps a choc-lavendar brownie for later...
There is Barry that makes his own spices, a marvel and
a treat. He has tiny shovels he uses to share and encourages you to lick it
from the palm of your hand, great carbon neutral dinning I say. Two older women
sell the sweetest lettuces and hottest chilli’s, quite a pairing. I think my
favourite though is a gent who’s name I can never quite catch, he mumbles and
has no front teeth. He isn’t always there, he’s grows organically and picks the
morning of the market. Sometimes he has goods to sell and other times he can be
found sitting watching the crowd with a coffee.
He grows the most beautiful
veg, mounds of broad beans, pumpkins, snake beans, tomato’s and eggplants.
Never all at once, its famine or feast, true seasonal growing. It’s the most
delicious surprise to see what he’s plucked that morning. I collect my prizes,
shoulder aching with the haul and retreat up the hill to my favourite café. Its
lined with books (mostly cooking books) I sip a long black, check the daily
soup (the braised lentil and spinach is supreme) sketch out possible meals with
my freshly bought treasure. Now who could want for better love, company or
adventure with all that at your door step?
An Afternoon dalliance
In all the world, there is no where I would prefer to be than
in the afternoon sun in my brother’s back yard. On his lawn and with his family
and I can see us there; three short one’s, a bub and his lovely wife. She’s
probably produced a jug of home made lemonade or some chevre on rye with garden
tomato’s and basil. The kids would have picked them from the garden four
minutes before and it’s lazily and loving passed around. In the dappled
sunshine the baby would be on a rug on the grass, the boys have constructed
medieval weapons and hats, and my precious niece sitting with the ladies,
loving being that touch older. Its not just the family though – and I know it
will come as no shock or disappointment to my family when I write this, but
it’s that the dappled shade is cast by the most glorious fig tree.
You have no idea what a tease she is, she is statuesque
dominating a corner of the yard. The huge fat leaves shade the trampoline and
create hide and seek for her gem like fruit. She fruits twice a year in
February and then again just before winter … but it seems an age as I watch her
little bosom’s swell in to jam like fruit. They are un-like any fig I’ve had
before. At the lightest pressure the thin green skin splits in to deep red
jelly.
Don’t you see? She’s worth the wait.
At some point before the chill descends, the crusade that
has occupied the boys will end and the six of us will wander a few blocks to
the beach, mutt in tow. Sand will be kicked, races held, bargaining a plenty.
Wander home, pants soggy, tired faces and promises of bedtime stories.
And then, once the short ones are heavy in their beds, we’ll
break open a local bottle of Grenache and retrieve the figs we picked earlier.
Perhaps we’ll wrap them in salty prosciutto from the markets, caramelise them
in a pan and splay them on crackers with cheese, or throw them, as is, in a
salad. Logs are thrown on the fire and we settle in.
So there it is, she’s my afternoon love (most probably
unrequited). She embodies to me the essence of being South Australian. Perhaps
it’s her who taught me how to love my new home. The produce purchased locally
or grown, kept simple and shared. The wine collected from a small vintner down
the road, all a stroll from the beach. She may be a flirt, but thank god she’s consistent.
NO, I didn’t tell my friends about you…
I have rituals. Little rituals like putting my nose in the
hot water of the shower before the rest of me, and larger ones like lighting a
candle and drinking sweet wine on the birthday of a friend who passed away. I
guess the one I’m going to share with you now really only happens once a year.
Once a year…on my birthday. I work in hospitality and the thing about working
in hospitality is that when you want to go out …so does every body else.. but
its your job to serve them, not necessarily join them.
So my December birthday tends not to be celebrated, sure
perhaps I can get the night off but my friends work hospitality too… cake for
one? I think not. So instead I have my little ritual. Somewhere in the
afternoon I go missing, dressed up, feeling chic. I return to my favourite
cocktail bar, the thing I like best about it is that the entrance is through a
mall, at the back of a very grotty pub. Its almost hidden like platform 9 ¾. It’s
a huge lonely empty loft, filled with random furniture. Morrocan lounges, bali
huts, pods, cushions, vast wooden tables, chandeliers, provocative art, floor
lamps. Through the curtains that hang like veils between furniture arrangements,
I find myself at the bar and I order a dirty martini. In the past I’ve had the
place fairly well to myself, till the office crowd rolls in after five. In
their Christmas drinks out fits I don’t look so out of place. I don’t much care
anyway; I’ve got my annual diary, an entry for each birthday, while drinking a
martini for the last few years. I sit and write like a madman, and perhaps look
a little like one. Once I have had my fill – as if I had waited all year just
to put the words out, I leave. I walk through the park, through the central
markets and I collect a honey joy (well it IS my birthday) to an alley of
vintage and retro wares. Where I buy myself a birthday present, blow the price.
After all a girls got to be her own best friend.
The one night stand...
It’s a shonky pub, all angles and leans. In truth until
recently I had no idea where it actually was in the city. I just used to give
the taxi driver its name. It speaks volumes really about this lost island of a pub,
that it can be found only when you’ve had too many pale ales. In the front are
flannel shirts and beards, beanies and knitted skirts. No one I know, but in
the back is a sea of familiarity. Billy Bob stands at the BBQ selling snags in
bread for a dollar, such a treat after a long night at work and the clocks
after midnight! A crowded courtyard of old and new friends brings warmth. Get your snack (hope there’s onions left),
here there are only two things to drink, straight Jacks or dark ale. I never
drink this elsewhere but it’s the done thing and it fits here, its familiar. Its
like having Russian caravan tea at your granny’s, its gross but you’d be sad if
you didn’t.
There’s a push inside as Billy Bob takes the stage with his
musicians, they jam in between sets from local artists, who turn up guitars in
hand to sign the sheet. Local live music, framed with professional talent,
sausages and dark ale. What’s not to love. It’s a guilty pleasure, a
reoccurring late night faux pas. Well its only a faux pas the morning after..
So there they are, my little loves, my dalliances, faux pas' and affairs. It is enough to make any grey day melt away with a deep breath, a brave step and an open heart. A city that is my companion, my lover, my friend.
Thank you Adelaide, you're a doll.
Your Girl,
Grace xx
