06/05/2026
I taught a class yesterday. It was about writing memoir, and how food can function in this genre. I asked my lovely students – and they really are lovely this year – what’s a recipe or food-related experience that means something to you?
I thought I would help by giving them an example (cos that’s how I roll as a teacher, always talking about myself. I sometimes imagine the students all just want to curl up in a ball and die, every time words like “when I worked at…” or “I used to…” fall out of my ever-moving mouth. Luckily, my students are much too polite. But I digress, which would not surprise them either…).
Now, there are no shortage of meaningful recipes or food-related experiences in my life, but the first that came to mind was roasting chestnuts, a ritual handed down to me and driven primarily by my dad.
I thought I was going to tell them about those winter nights in my parents’ Spotswood kitchen, with all of us round the table, peeling chestnuts that my dad had carefully pierced and tended to under the grill.
I thought I would tell them how dad spent so much energy coming up with “better” ways to cook those chestnuts – from a perforated pan to placing a wet tea towel over them to first boiling, then grilling to using a bingo-like contraption with a handle that now sits, totally rusted, in my shed.
I thought I would tell them how dad would shop for those chestnuts, always trying to come up with the quinella – good price, excellent quality - and how, more often than not, that winning combination eluded him.
I thought I would tell them how many times, when I couldn’t be bothered peeling them for myself, he would do it for me. Or if I wasn’t there, he would make sure he put some aside for me, pre-peeled of course…
That’s what I thought I was going to tell them. Instead, I started crying.
That shut me up. For once.
Painting of dad’s wine: The very talented
