Remembering the greats

Why am I always talking about food? And if I’m not talking about it, I’m thinking about it. What will I have for lunch? What can I make for dinner? Where can I find some fresh basil to make pesto? And, of course, chocolate. Mmm chocolate.

I’ve been this way since I was a kid. It started with the Woman’s Weekly Birthday Cake book. Due to years of adoration, the book’s spine was cracked and pages were stuffed back into place, but it didn’t stop me from reading it day after day. I would spend 364 days a year agonising over my cake of choice – the train, no the swimming pool filled with jelly, no the duck covered in crisps. (Thankfully, Mum always said no to that last one… who the hell thought it was okay to put crisps onto a cake?)

Since living in the UK, my passion for food has merely intensified. The only explanation I have for this phenomenon is that, in general, food over here sucks. Vegetables don’t taste like vegetables and meat doesn’t taste like meat and, if it mildly resembles the flavour it claims to possess, then it is obscenely, unattainably expensive.

And, so, all of the great meals (and animals) I’ve ever eaten have been elevated to a nostalgic, almost erotic status. The thought of a good steak makes me tingle, memories of my sister’s fried rice make my heart flutter (is that counted as incest) and don’t even get me started on Tasmanian oysters. Take cover Australia, I’m coming home soon.