When I lie in bed at night, I wonder who reads my stories. Outside my circle of friends, who text and email and call to heap too-generous praise, I wonder who reads until the end. I wonder how the stories make them feel. Maybe hungry, maybe happy, maybe a little bit sad; I hope they feel something. I wonder about my grammar, unchecked by subs, if it is (was?! were?!) correct. I wonder if they’d tell a friend or come back next week to read again.
My parents met in Greece in the early 70s, two longhaired travellers escaping the static hum of middle class Canada and the hot grind of working class Australia. Both free spirits, one was the resolute black sheep, the other a dimpled and adored daughter. Greece was the start of a journey that took them round and round the world together, then to a quiet corner of New South Wales where they fed their two babies Greek yogurt with honey. The story of my parents’ first meeting is entwined with my mum’s memories of the cool white, drizzled with sticky amber; it’s a fable that binds food, love and romance.