I recently made bottoms everywhere clench when, like a primary school newsletter, I sent out the reminder that we’re all going to turn into our parents. This week I realized that while I’m showing signs of both my folks, my food-shopping habits suggest I’m growing more and more like Dad (thank God it’s not just my moustache giving that away.)
I’ve started shopping at theVictoria market. And loving it. So much so that it has almost become my version of the ‘Lemon Detox’ – I take any opportunity to overzealously mention it, how wonderful it is and how welcome whoever I’m talking to is to join me.
love you long time...and up yours, krispy kreme.
My dad has been a market-shopper forever and I remember getting up at the crack of dawn every Saturday to go with him to the Oakleigh market when I was somewhere under-ten. Dad was there thanks to his commitment to fresh ingredients for our family meals and I was there thanks to my commitment to the hot jam donut van parked outside the market every week. Even though Dad didn’t think they were very healthy, if I was ‘good’ (ie. if I refrained from wandering off, soiling myself unexpetedly, or both) I got a whole bag of donuts to myself. Six soft, sugary pillows filled with jam so hot I was rendered speechless if I tucked in too quickly. It was third-degree burns versus strawberry-flavoured joy and more than once my manic sweet tooth made me err on the side of not being able to talk properly until at least Red Faces (or if it was really bad, the Sunday night Disney movie.)
There’s a hot jam donut parked outside the Vic market every week and the smell of it instantly transports me back to a height of about four feet: my small hand is engulfed by my Dad’s giant, calloused one and I’m fascinated by the sight of whole fish, their shiny eyes staring lifelessly back at me from behind the glass display case at the fish-monger’s, and entire lamb carcasses hanging garishly from huge meat hooks at the butcher’s. Dad knew the meat guys (almost everyone at the Oakleigh market was Greek) and I remember hearing one call out the specials in English then give Dad the skinny on what to avoid buying in the same sing-song seller’s tone but in Greek. Shonky, yes, but also a good example of how it can pay to have a second language.
The fresh produce section of the market is what fascinates me now (purple cauliflower, anyone?) and I buy the veggies The Sprout rejects from a stall-holder named Elaine because that’s what Dad does. He defected from the Oakleigh market to the Vic about 20 years ago, but he doesn’t get there as anywhere near as early as he used to. Every week I tell Elaine to tell Dad I came by at the crack of dawn – even though I never do – and because she enjoys stirring Dad as much as I do, she obliges.
The truth is that I get there around 7 and the first thing I do is hit the hot donut van. The donuts are wonderful and I overzealously invite you to join me. Just don’t tell Dad.
As published by The Melbourne City Weekly.
And check out: http://www.theage.com.au/articles/2004/02/04/1075853915910.html
psiakisterri 