Photocopied between battered covers
my inheritance from my mother
thick hair, green thumbs and a photo
of us with my brother before

they left. This is the last copy of her
hand drawn zine, pages flecked
with food and dog eared. All of her
favourite recipes—Golden
Bay: in the best possible taste.

No one teaches you how to be an orphan.
Like most things, I learn from reading.

Keening into the void
my throat clumps.
I sift the pages.
Nothing is fine.

On Sunday mornings there is
a radio show that reminds me
of my beloved. I turn up the volume
open up cupboards, salvage half empty
boxes, measure their weight.

This is my mother’s cake.
I only make it for my friends.

• 1 1/2 cups wholemeal flour
• 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 1/2 teaspoons freshly ground nutmeg
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/2 cup oil
• 3 eggs
• 2 teaspoons vanilla essence
• 1/2 cup sunflower seeds
• 1/4 cup honey
• 1 1/2 cups finely grated zucchini

This is not the Zucchini Cake Recipe that won first prize at the 1988 Onekaka Auction, but it will do until the real thing comes along.

1. Sift flour, baking powder and nutmeg into a large bowl.
2. Stir in the sugar, add oil, eggs and vanilla and beat until smooth.
3. Squeeze the grated zucchini in a clean cloth until quite dry and then add to the mixture along with the sunflower seeds.
4. Beat until well blended and then pour into a well-greased 20-25cm diameter cake tin.
5. Bake in a moderate oven for 45 minutes, then remove cake from oven, spread with the honey, and bake for a further 5 minutes or until the cake pulls away from the side of the tin.
6. Serve with whipped cream and other delights.

brown fingers, like diggers, dig down into the dirt
scoop handfuls of soil
until I reach a layer of moist earth
and for a moment I let my bony scoops rest
like little time capsules
buried in coolness

eyes closed, I’m hit with a waft of manure
a sickly-sweet scent of fruit baked by sun
a peppery zing! and I sneeze my eyes open
to round leaves bobbing in the breeze
like dancing green umbrellas
orange flowers press against my nose
I pick at velvety petals, tear through rivers of veins
and piece by piece taste little bites
of gingery fibre

oo-woo-woof! Mischka arrives, his long black tail wagging
I stroke the white diamond on his chest
nuzzle into his soft neck
there you are, my new friend, I coo as he leans in for more
oh, you’re ok, let me tok stori with you!
let me tell you about my first home

I was born at the feet of sleeping volcanoes
Tavurvur and Mt Vulcan - their slumber so deep
their snoring moves the earth
every now and then they stir to drop ash on beaches
and I run bare feet, pressing down into their smoky film
alongside other skinny leg kids with blonde fro halos
ah-woo-woof, more cries, as fur presses against my cheek
Mischka, you sook, now listen!
my cousins and I scamper up coconut trees
crack open green kulau to drink its milk fresh
scoop mouthfuls of soft white creamy flesh

Mischka, my favourite mangoes are not sweet and ripe
but green and tart
like those growing in the garden of our old home
with the pink frangipani tree and a tyre swing
ah-woo-woomph, Mischka deflates like a balloon, lying down
but here Dad has an important job
Mum has a house with a hausmeri
my sister and I have a new TV
and I have you, you big sook!

here, in the highlands, the air is cloud thin
far away from lullabies of waves washing in
far from coconuts & mangoes & starfruit
left behind at sea level
replaced with markets brimming in coffee beans,
exotic cauliflower & broccoli
and unfamiliar faces, dark & tattooed

breathing in nasturtiums
I reach down into the damp earth
with my strong bony diggers I pull out a worm
and begin to learn how to leave behind a home
and start again

• 2 cups packed nasturtium leaves
• 1 cup olive oil
• 1 cup walnuts / almonds / cashews
• 3 cloves garlic
• nasturtium flowers to garnish

blend all ingredients until smooth
add to a slice of mango
garnish with nasturtium flowers

remember to stop! breathe in
the (nasturtium) flowers

Cumin, cardamom and lentils cooking in a pot,
other contents unknown.
Pumpkin maybe.
Everything Dahl allegedly said to be better
than Mamaji’s.
Starry-eyed lies entranced by the excitement
of a new lover.
As I breathe in the spiced lentil soup
and sip,
(trying not to think about possible ingredients)
I breathe in an old home.
There’s always onion first in the pot,
that you can be sure of.
Acrid, acidic onion melting into pleasant aromas,
routine.
Then garlic boldly biting into the oil-onion mix.
It combines like music.
Then, what goes in next is beyond me,
I’m just the chopping-boy.
Crushed capsicum, mushy kumara, maybe
mouldy mushrooms.
I gag.
He obviously forgot I was coming.
He wanders off to socialise, flip the record, pour a drink.
I stir the pot.
Too anxious just to sit and laugh, lingering in the kitchen.
Maybe make a side.
Maybe someone’ll come in and chat, while I watch the pot.
Depends on the day.
I call him in and he declares it finished,
dishing up and digging in.
We sit on the ramshackle lounge space, never really set up to eat.
We do it anyway, sitting comfortably on the strange
step down into the sunken lounge.
I pick at my food, nostalgia enhancing my hunger.
I avoid the mushrooms.
We once fought about it, but now I just pick around
and sneakily slide them onto his plate.
Scrape our plates and some poor sod volunteers to
do the dishes.
Couldn’t be me, and we fought about that too,
but not anymore.
Now we sigh with satisfaction as our bellies bulge
and our old home fills with murmuring content
once more.

• Red lentils
• Ghee/oil
• Whatever vegetables are in the fridge, bonus points if they’re about to go off
• Onion and garlic (easily replaceable if you can’t eat that, use leeks and garlic chives)
• Ginger
• Spices: whatever you have, if you’re stuck suggestions can be found in the directions
• Serve with something creamy if you want (yoghurt or other dairy/non-dairy alternatives), and maybe some pappadams. This recipe is really whatever you want it to be, so customise it as much as you want

Chop up all veggies to whatever size you like them, if you want it to cook quicker, chop them smaller.

Add oil to the pot, chuck in onion and fry till almost translucent.

Add garlic, ginger and spices to your onion oil mix.

^For authentic petal dahl put in whatever spices you have at home; but if you need a guide, turmeric, cumin, star anus (anise) and cardamom are good.

Add a “F*ckton”.

When that’s fried and smelling pretty good, add in the rest of your vegetables and give them a good fry, we want them to be a bit softened.

Add lentils and cover with water, then simmer, stirring occasionally.

It’s done when you think it is but give it a taste beforehand, so you don’t serve people raw lentils.

Serve with a creamy something if you want to, but it’s also good as is.

We like to eat it with the packet pappadams from the shop, so you can get those if you want to.

Enjoy

So,
here’s to the pasta -
pasta galore
Where one wine, two wines, three wines four
And all the pasta went falling to the floor -
and that part of the memory
I don’t want anymore

In a bowl Tomato Pasta
delivered by mum parmesan in thumb
and a 2-dollar garlic bread starter

Tomata passata
The richest of red
onion tasty from the flower bed.
Sauce in the freezer was stored -
and in batches heated or thawed

Spaghetti, penne, shells - whatever
Latina fresh pasta,
on special forever
Ravioli was the goalie
‘Twas comfort food
of my childhood, oh so good

If only we could all sit and eat
except for this memory
for in the shadows we meet

So,
Here’s to the pasta
pasta galore
Where one wine, two wines, three wines four
And all the pasta went falling to the floor -
and that’s part of the memory
I don’t want anymore

I’d sit on the old, faded couch
always in front of the telly
6pm, 7, 8, 9
Lotto numbers at the ready

This, with my bowl of tomato pasta
‘Twas a warming staple
To fill me up
Pour the cordial into the cup
And fetch a pail of water -
to wash the dishes
my only son and daughter

Well really, the dinner never saw it coming.
This memory it’s… oh so cunning
so cunning

I ate every bowl of tomato pasta
‘Twas never wasted
‘Twas Yummy
I loved the way it tasted

And still do…

So,
Here’s to the pasta
pasta galore
Where one wine, two wines, three wines four
And all the pasta went falling to the floor -
and that’s part of the memory
I won’t keep anymore

Now days I rarely explore these pasta memoirs
When I do, I’ll buy a couple tins of tomato or jars -
and garlic with a pack of pasta

it’s so affordable – how laudable!

And don’t forget to grab a parmesan bag filler
Just grated sitting on the chiller
Not the fancy block of Parmigiano
But the quick one - ready to go

and

I’ll cook me up an epic tomato pasta.

So,
Thanks for the pasta
pasta galore
Where one wine, two wines, three wines, four
Then all the pasta came crashing to the floor
And that part of the memory
I’ll keep forever more

So good riddance -
maybe next time I’ll just pass on the past
and avoid the whole disaster

Honestly who’d’ve thought we’d find all this
in a bowl of Tomato Pasta.

• Pack of ravioli
• Pack of pasta sauce
• Bag of grated parmesan
• Garlic bread (the foil one)

Note: Best result when all ingredients are purchased on special/discount

Follow instructions on the pasta, sauce and garlic bread and proceed accordingly

She’ll be right

Enjoy the comfort and warmth. Best served on a winters night in front of the telly with the heater on high.

Some recipes arrive

like injunctions

salted with the sweat

of the unburied

oil-slick,

carrying the grit

of inheritance

The pot is an archive;

its soot
a verdict of flame

each scorch a precedent,

each fracture

a clause the earth

agreed to witness

signed in pollen,

in ash,

in the breath-held clauses

of obsidian law

Empire tallies us

in kilojoules

siphoned from stolen soil

in protein stripped

from the backs of women

bent over fields

We count

in the muscle-ache of grinding

metate, molcajete

stone alphabet

teaching the wrist the phonics of authority

calibrated to the air’s own damp weight

and the council of seeds

that refused extinction

I keep an archive

in scent,

in weight,

in the pitch of boiling

that carries

both my grandmother’s breath

and my daughter’s shadow

sometimes the same shadow

her hands working

across two centuries

at once

the ladle a small planet turning,

the broth its slow eclipse edged in copper

Every migration

is a split in the record

lines of law

scattered and rewoven

carried in shawls

and calluses

through the trade routes

of dead suns

arteries pulsing

with red grit

mouths of time breathing into kitchens

where smoke tastes of languages

buried in clay

Things ripen differently now:

fruit clenched tight under curfew

skins bred for cold-vaults

not mouths

They arrive disoriented

like children returned from far-off schools

with a syntax

that stumbles

over their own names

I press mineral

back into their mitochondria

remind them

of the trade winds

where shadow yields

to blaze

and every agreement

is sealed

with a single

held glance

This is reckoning

in ember and smoke

hands blistered,

skin clocked in minutes of heat

The protocol spoken

in fracture

in the hush

between splinter and settling

in the iron howl

when heat breaks its skin

a residue

that settles

on the tongue

like rust

The elders call on a broken line

words lose molars in the static

vowels falling out before they reach me

like a witness who knows

the truth will not survive

the transcript

The smell of crushed coriander

rides the gap

a seal no registry can forge

green blade

suturing the breach shut

binding harder

than any archive

My daughter takes this record

into her blood

chews each clause

until it’s tender

The spoon clicks against her teeth

like a gavel

She asks for sweetness;

the recipe demands memory

I decide

(limited authority,
bound by the season)

to soften the edge

without breaking the code

The air tilts,

oxygen empties;

I feel the shadow of her law

beyond mine

a time I will not stand inside

The body is a page

fire can blister and erase

and yet

we write

again

We amend together:

what must never shift

what can,

under duress,

bend

She is drafting a future

I may not live to witness

my grandmother’s wrist

turning a small planet

my daughter

drinking an eclipse

on a world

whose skies glow copper at dusk

where the wind carries

syllables

no empire can pronounce

Steam rises,

binding itself into covenant

ratified in flame

entered into the ledger of breath

She will wake speaking its heat,

its iron,

its clauses unbroken

and somewhere beyond

the mapped constellations

they will gather in the circle,

call the record,

and know the law

by its taste

Soak black beans for four hours, then drain. In a large pot, cover beans with chicken broth or water and add onion, garlic, cumin, coriander, and a dried pasilla chilli, to taste. Simmer, topping up liquid as needed, until tender. Salt in stages, tasting as you go.

Top with roasted squash cubes, a corn chip, fresh coriander, lemon juice, and a little chilli. Corn, beans, and squash: the Three Sisters.

As the tide moves in quietly
a seamless reflection of sun glistens
pinks, purples and orange
lighting up, that beauty of a blackbird

A powerful grace
many dreamed they could bottle up
A sin they could sip,
pour into their hands
exhale with a certain intoxication,
that only a black woman
of the times could reward

I look to her, she cares not
the suffering they think they’ve imposed
rather, sublimely
watches the waters rise
tangle themselves to the mangroves
in a gnarly haunting vigour
knowing time, neither waits, nor rushes.. just is

As the darkness draws in
and the earth slowly turns
intensely she gathers
contemplating her escape

That iridescent blackbird
is not one to be perched,
nor forever enslaved

My body reminds me
of all our nanas told us
of our blackbirds
the darkness and depth
dealt to them by the likes of
unspeakable men

On and in, our waters, so so
our blackbird goes
a breath that could retreat, such
to a peaceful unknown
cleansed and enveloped
by the warm salt baths

Surrounded by ancestors and song lines
secret strings of pearls

The perfect act of resistance that only a woman knows

• Jasmine rice
• Turmeric
• Spring onion
• chives
• Slivered Almonds
• Butter
• Garlic
• Coriander

Steam rice (how you desire) with turmeric.

Cut up spring onion, chives & coriander.

Fry almonds in butter w/garlic.

Place fresh veggies on warm bed of rice and top w/ warm almonds - add dollop of mango chutney & uu-mah-mia to taste and warm the senses!

condiment - (Uu-mah-mia (fire lips crunchy) **plug for local foodie Raelene Beale)

Mango Chutney

• KP mangoes
• fresh garlic
• fresh ginger
• birds eye chilis
• finely chopped
• white vinegar
• sugar or palm sugar
• cinnamon
• turmeric
• nutmeg
• salt & pepper
• water
• olive oil

Slice and dice mango.

On low heat fry grated garlic, ginger.

Add mango and chilli.

Add other dry ingredients with vinegar and water.

On medium heat bring to slow boil, the. simmer on low to boil vinegar down for approx 20 mins.

Mash or blend to desired consistency.

Let sit til cooled and chill in an airtight jar til ready to serve.

When I taste it I just can’t stop!
It takes me back to a place when my relationship was fresh and hip
Exploring each other
and our cultures through foods;
the sharing of who we really are as individuals
from different cultural lives,
but
somehow having cultural ties
that changed both of our lives.

I’ve been taught to make so many different delights,
from Gatapema to Vindaye and Asgard!
And the steps and processes that are not my own
but have adopted so the love of my life didn’t miss home.

Cooking, you see, in many cultures,
is the sharing and caring in the kitchen.
It’s the prep and the peeling and the slicing and dicing,
and then the bringing of everything together to eat,
laugh,
share
and revel.

Asgard is a complex dish
if you don’t get the portions right,
the oil, the spice
and the mixed vegetables blanched just right,
crisp to bite and fresh to eat
covered in turmeric, mustard and a few other spices,
I can’t reveal!

When roasting and cooking the spices together,
this is a crucial time cause you don’t want them to burn,
you need to cook it gently
and when the smell
and colour combines
it reveals itself at the perfect time
to the trained expert eye.

The deep yellow of the turmeric
and the oils golden sheen,
the tanginess of the vinegar and the chilies bringing the heat!
The mustard seed pungent and sharp,
popping in the pan,
combining this all together the taste is a Mauritian wonderland.

• carrot, sliced thinly
• cauliflower, cut into small florets
• green beans, trimmed and sliced lengthwise
• cabbage, thinly sliced
• Green chillies sliced into strips
• garlic cloves, crushed or sliced
• onions, sliced
• mustard seeds
• turmeric powder
• fenugreek seeds
• white vinegar
• vegetable oil
• Salt, to taste

1. Sterilise jars
   You submerge jars in boiling water for ~10 minutes to sterilise.
2. Blanch the vegetables
   Bring a large pot of water to a boil, add some salt.
   Add carrot, cauliflower, green beans, and cabbage, and turn off the heat. Let them blanch for about 30 seconds.
   Drain immediately, and spread them out on a tea towel or clean cloth.
3. Prepare the spice paste / tempering
   In a small bowl crush a few mustard seeds and mix with turmeric (and fenugreek if using). Add a little vinegar to form a paste.
   In a saucepan over medium heat, put the oil, add garlic, shallots (or small onions), and sliced chillies. Sauté briefly (~30 seconds to 1 minute), careful not to let them brown too much.
   Add the mustard-turmeric paste into the hot oil and stir for ~30 seconds (just to infuse). Then remove from heat.
4. Combine vegetables + spices
   While the oil-spice mixture is still warm, add the drained/dried vegetables. Toss gently but thoroughly so the vegetables are coated in the spiced oil.
   Add vinegar and salt to taste. Stir well to distribute.
5. Jar & marinate
   Pack the mixture into the sterilised jars, pressing down so there’s minimal air space.
   Drizzle a little extra oil on top if you wish, to help seal.
   Seal and let it marinate for at least 1 to 2 days in the refrigerator so that flavors meld.
6. Serving & storage
   Achard is usually eaten cold or at room temperature.
   Serve as a side dish alongside curries, rice, or in a baguette or roti sandwich.

How to shell a lobster
(loosely adapted from Recipe Tin Eats)

Insert a sharp knife between head and tail—scraping the inside of the shell of the head

Twist off the tail—a good chunk of the meat from the head should be attached

Flip the tail upside down so the soft shell faces up—cut down either side of the tail and peel the soft shell down

Use your fingers to loosen the meat from the body—it should dissociate easily and neatly

Carefully remove and discard the black vein.

In the chaos of the clam shells

lies the hull of a lobster
beached, broken and battered
snapped limbs and cracked skull
sweet flesh trapped in the carapace
—a coral scream carnage of confusion
crimson with mortification
ball-bearing eyes
swimming in a slick of
sweet sauterne

How to Honey Toast

Go to The Bakery on Todd Street and buy a fresh spelt loaf

Ask your bee-keeping neighbour for a jar of their local honey

Buy the best butter you can find

While the coffee is percolating on the stove top, slice the loaf into thick slices and place them under the griller until golden brown

Spread thickly with slightly salty butter and drizzle with sufficient honey to drip from each slice in long golden tears

In the tumble of the toast crumbs

and buttered, honeyed sheets
comes the climax of the coffee pot
(gurgling, sighing, hyperventilating)
the clatter of cups, the slam of the fridge door
—a hot palm presses against cold pane
frosted with condensation
melting a portal to a world
where grasses sigh and sway with
dewy desire

from that high stool
i listen closely to their stories
while they chop and stir and fold flavours
until pressed into my palm
the blunt butter knife
a quiet ceremony
telling me this is how it continues

i lean into that big pot
the cabbage leaves unfurl

from that high mountain
i walk on red dirt
scratched by spinifex grass
until i’m welcoming them home
with my uncles, cousins, aunties, elders
gathering food, grog, music, fire
telling stories we already know

at Nanna’s table before leaving home
at celebrations and sorry business
every hand every pot
holds our names
remembers yesterday
the reunions are long enough
for the stew to simmer slow

we all lean into that big pot
the cabbage leaves unfurl

from that mango tree
its branches low and wet
the air humid with laughter and longing
and smoke from cigarettes and mosquito coils
drift in like extra seasoning
siblings clattering and clashing
loud as cutlery inside a drawer

the mango tree leans into that big pot
the cabbage leaves unfurl

from that high stool
i was just a small boy
listening closely to their stories
leaning into that big pot
our mouths our bones lathered
with hot smells of home
and the warm liquid pulse

endlessly simmering
for this family broth

• cabbage – finely sliced (1/2)
• capsicums - diced into cubes (2 green)
• onion – diced (1)
• carrots - diced (2)
• garlic – use to your taste (3-5 cloves)
• ginger - use to your taste - diced (thumb size)
• kangaroo steak – cut in 1cm cubes or thin strips (personally, kangaroo more flavoursome and tender than other cuts) (500g – 1kg)
• holbrooks worcestershire (black) sauce – to taste – I don’t generally measure, maybe at least (2-4 tablespoons)
• light soy sauce (3-5 tablespoons)
• vegetable stock (500mL)
• chilli flakes
• salt and pepper
• rice to serve

Start by putting your rice on to cook.

In a medium-sized pot over medium heat, fry the diced onion and garlic until they start to soften and smell sweet.

Toss in the kangaroo pieces and sear them until they turn a rich brown. Don’t overcook, you want them tender.

Pour in some soy sauce and let it bubble for a minute, then add the diced ginger, capsicum, and carrots. Give it a stir, cover with a lid, and let it cook slowly, watching so nothing sticks. The meat will release its juices, filling the pot with flavor.

When the carrots start to soften, pour in the vegetable stock, then add the cabbage and cook until it just starts to wilt.

Splash in Worcestershire sauce, season with salt and pepper, and cover again for a few minutes.

Give it a final stir, add chilli flakes to your liking, and if it needs more liquid, a little soy sauce and water will do.

Cabbage Stew is gentle, soothing, and a big hug in a bowl, perfect for winter or when you’re sick. Serve it with rice, and feel the warmth spread through you. Leftovers taste even better the next day.

I can hear your voice
instructions arriving from the couch
ricocheting across timelines
as I follow a recipe, against all odds.

I don’t measure anything
because I don’t do what
taste dot com tells me to

defying recipes is my way
of moving through intergenerational
blessings and burdens with humour,
but I want to reach back and recall
something that’s not mine.

I want it to taste like a memory;

I’m mixing earnestly
I’m cracking eggs
I’m forgetting the ingredients
multiple times in twenty minutes
but muscle memory finds
nutmeg in the pantry;
I’ve never made this dish before.

I wash rice thrice

as my contribution to a recipe

that is extremely white.

The rice is washed by my ancestors
every single grain is damp
the rainwater tank overflows again
and I always have too much to say
so I try to mince words like garlic.

I hear your voice
in the car mostly,
it reminds me of the water

in the oven
and I keep driving.
These Days is playing on the radio and
it’s slipping right through my hands.

I see your text the next morning
amazing rice custard x thank u
the texture is just like you remember.
I don’t ask many questions
in the final weeks
when it feels like
releasing steam from the pressure cooker

my ammamma cooks idlis for breakfast,
rock hard with too much love to stomach
weighed down by the act of cooking
as a daily dance of duty

You’re laughing, I’m curled up on the couch this time.
You’re driving, I’m holding onto your humour.
It’s the fastest way to my heart when I’m feeling sad.

We are family
I see you twice a year.
Except the year you came to town twice,

we sat down with bakery treats
and bad news

I didn’t digest either for days.

Now I’m desperately searching for the recipe,
that I never even followed the first time,
in case it’s not the same as my memory.
The kitchen is silent when I try to recall
mixing together milk and rice.

There is no end date to grief so
we might as well be eating while we are
swimming in its current,
cracking through a layer of creamy egg,
letting the texture take me someplace,
while I’m submerged in silence

in the womb of the car

It releases this memory:

we eat together,

we drink coffee

on the front porches of our futures

i’m washing rice thrice with tears

you’re summoning recipes from couches

we are eating to forget this moment

but also to hold onto this

searching, stirring

rinsing, wringing,

ruminating, retelling

in the spaces left for our tears,

caught in the kitchen sinks

The next time I cook this

It will be for someone else.

• 75g rice (suggested but not followed)
• 750ml milk
• 70g sugar
• 4 eggs
• vanilla extract
• ground nutmeg

Turn the oven on and set to 180°C with anticipation.

Measure out rice (as much as you are feeling today) and wash rice thrice in the sink. Let the washing warp your sense of time and place.

Cook the rice in a saucepan until the rice is ready (you will know)

While you are absent-mindedly standing in the kitchen - mix together milk, eggs, sugar and vanilla and beat lightly (measure if you can and are willing).

Strain the egg mixture using a fine sieve and then fold in the cooked rice gently.

Now pay attention: get a large oven-proof dish and place another smaller dish inside of it to create a water bath.

In the larger dish pour boiling water until it reaches halfway up the side of the dish. Pour the rice custard mixture into the small, inner dish and sprinkle with ground nutmeg generously.

Place in the oven for 40-45minutes or until the knife comes out clean.

Cool for an hour and serve with something close to your heart.

September winds whip through streets,
whisking away dust, debris, empty pie packets.
An ice-cream wrapper gets blown over the fence,
twists twice in the air
and lands in my freshly turned garden bed -
as though the land itself longs to purge
the flotsam and jetsam

of what doesn’t belong.

Plastic packaging against fresh seedlings,
bright green, tender, new -
they practice vernal magic,
facing the morning sun,
awakening dormant energies.

I pour water on last night’s fire.
Smoke remnants dance on equinox winds:
one foot in day, one in night.
Air mass shifts,
as the world prepares to lurch forward.

But not yet -
not right at this moment.
This moment is still,
is equal,
is waiting for Godot,
is arretherre,
is bad wind,
is arrhythmic air,
is change.

I lean on knowledge that’s not mine
to guide me
to prepare for what comes next.
I cannot read the winds innately.
I fumble each year - predicting:
today will be the day.

We will sweep the floors,
wash the bedding,
plant capsicums and chillies -
mix dates with sugar, butter, and oats,
grind wattleseeds in.

I take a long red pepper dried in the sun,
a vestige of last summer,
crack it open, scatter seeds on ground,
stir the skin into hot chocolate,
hands stained with soil and spice -

This is what chilli is for:
to awaken broth
to arouse tongue -
not to sharpen into weapon
this will not keep you safe.

We continue to plant seeds,
and free ourselves from things we no longer need
invite in the warmth -
welcome the coming heat,
leaving room for what it will grow into
leaving room to breathe in the margins
where others dwell.

There is defiance
in empathy.

• 250 grams locally sourced dates
• ½ cup brown sugar
• 130 grams butter or Nuttelex or coconut oil
• 1 ½ cups gluten free flour
• 1 cup gf oats
• 1 tsp baking powder
• ¼ tsp xanthan gum (you can leave this out if preferred)
• 1 tbs ground wattleseeds
• 1 egg
• 1 tsp vanilla paste/essence or less

Chuck the pitted dates in the chopper then put in a saucepan - you could chop by hand if you have the wrists for it - I do not. Put the butter in and gently simmer until the dates are gooey and it comes together - add the baking powder and stir like you are stirring up family drama. Then let it cool off - turn the oven on and take a break to read some poetry.

Once it’s cooled down, beat in an egg and the vanilla.

Mix flour, oats and wattleseed together in a large bowl.

Add the date mix to the flour and bring it all together like a post family feud diner - the mixture, like the dinner, will be a bit sticky but it will roll into balls in your hands.

Put the balls on a baking paper lined tray and flatten them slightly so it don’t stick.

Bake for 15 mins, let cool slightly and eat them with a chilli hot chocolate made by simmering milk, grated dark chocolate, sugar and last summer’s chillies together.