fresh water spirit. she watched and brought cold depths to a wooden house in Eltham. Wurundjeri-willam. 2023.
Dear Distance TODAY
I'll often say at the start of any artist talk I do “I am about as far away as I can get without leaving the mainland”.
You, Distance, are a familiar feeling, it's an ache that I’ve grown used to carrying with me.
I felt you - when my family moved to and then away from Gulumerridjin Country (Darwin).
I felt you - when I left my parent's home in the Lockyer Vallery to study at University in Meanjin (Brisbane).
I felt you - when my partner and I packed up our lives to go on an adventure, living and working in London.
I felt you - when my parents and all my siblings moved to and were together in Ngunnawal Country (Canberra).
I felt you - when I moved to Naarm in June 2020 just before we went back into lockdown and couldn’t see the family and friends I have all over the nation.
I felt you - when I lived in Kyoto for 2 months away from my partner and poodle.
And I feel you now.
Distance, you are a pain I carry always.
But as for many aches and pains, I have found that there are cures.
I write to tell you, that I have gathered and documented these tried and tested cures for you.
These cures are most effective when immediately gathered, made and consumed at first ache.
These cures will fill the inflicted with a sense of closeness and comfort.
A cup of tea - drunk together.
A spicy laksa - slurped and savoured.
A bag of persimmons - cut and enjoyed.
Sincerely, The Homesick.
Cooking is not only for nourishment or survival. Cooking is also a way to connect with family, for celebration, ceremony, traditions and spirit.
Everyone says their mum is the best cook they know. Well, my mum is the best cook I know. The way she was able to feed us kids as an artist while trying to look after herself is a type of survival Aboriginal women know all too well. Mum learnt how to cook from her foster parent Aunty Tessie, a Bangladeshi woman. She wanted to give mum skills in looking after herself and cooking came naturally. I have fond memories of mums curry wafting into the loungeroom.
Bowls of rice and chicken.
Creamy tuna pasta.
Curried sausages and mash.
Orange cake.
Upside-down apple cake.
Salad and sausages.
Sometimes my brother and I used to search the house for coins so we could afford a bag of hot chips from the corner shop.
I remember we bought a watermelon from the Turkish family across the road. We loved buying fruit and vegetables from those old fullas. They grew their own produce and sold it from their carport. On our way home, us kids dropped it on the netball courts. It was the height of summer and the ants were onto us. So we ran home and got spoons and cracked the watermelon open and gobbled it all up.
Aunty Karen would cook for us all the time. I still remember her clear-glass plates and yellow-glass mugs. Us kids loved when she’d make Grandpa’s Chicken. Chicken with a rich gravy sauce over rice or mash (depending on who cooked it). We’d sit at the kitchen table ready for dinner, excited for our Grandpa’s Chicken. I think Aunty Karen still has the same kitchenware and that gives me comfort that some things still remain the same.
I’ve always loved baking. I’d bake with my mum and Nanna. My cousins don’t like cake - but one of my cousins love my mums orange cake. That’s the only cake she really liked to eat.
The Pizza Cafe in Mildura is where we used to spend everyone’s birthday dinner. They used to put down butchers paper on the tabletop and give us kids crayons to draw as we eat. By the end of the meal the paper was strewn with pizza toppings, glass rings from wine glasses and jumbled colourful messes of crayon creations. I would look forward to being surrounded by the buzz of going out with my family, the iconic Italian food scene of Mildura and the crayons without any creative bounds. No section of that table would be left blank by the time us kids were done with it.
Making the green chicken curry for my friends is something I don’t do very often but its one of the most loving things you can do.
I love the way cooking a meal brings people into my home and kitchen. Gives us sustenance, conversation, connection and warmth. That’s what cooking is all about. So I cook and I bake and this time in solitude allows me to remember old memories growing up in Mildura, about my family, my mum and how I can share a special moment over a piece of cake with my best friends.
Cooking is not only for nourishment or survival. Cooking is also a way to connect with family, for celebration, ceremony, traditions and spirit.
Everyone says their mum is the best cook they know. Well, my mum is the best cook I know. The way she was able to feed us kids as an artist while trying to look after herself is a type of survival Aboriginal women know all too well. Mum learnt how to cook from her foster parent Aunty Tessie, a Bangladeshi woman. She wanted to give mum skills in looking after herself and cooking came naturally. I have fond memories of mums curry wafting into the loungeroom.
Bowls of rice and chicken.
Creamy tuna pasta.
Curried sausages and mash.
Orange cake.
Upside-down apple cake.
Salad and sausages.
Sometimes my brother and I used to search the house for coins so we could afford a bag of hot chips from the corner shop.
I remember we bought a watermelon from the Turkish family across the road. We loved buying fruit and vegetables from those old fullas. They grew their own produce and sold it from their carport. On our way home, us kids dropped it on the netball courts. It was the height of summer and the ants were onto us. So we ran home and got spoons and cracked the watermelon open and gobbled it all up.
Aunty Karen would cook for us all the time. I still remember her clear-glass plates and yellow-glass mugs. Us kids loved when she’d make Grandpa’s Chicken. Chicken with a rich gravy sauce over rice or mash (depending on who cooked it). We’d sit at the kitchen table ready for dinner, excited for our Grandpa’s Chicken. I think Aunty Karen still has the same kitchenware and that gives me comfort that some things still remain the same.
I’ve always loved baking. I’d bake with my mum and Nanna. My cousins don’t like cake - but one of my cousins love my mums orange cake. That’s the only cake she really liked to eat.
The Pizza Cafe in Mildura is where we used to spend everyone’s birthday dinner. They used to put down butchers paper on the tabletop and give us kids crayons to draw as we eat. By the end of the meal the paper was strewn with pizza toppings, glass rings from wine glasses and jumbled colourful messes of crayon creations. I would look forward to being surrounded by the buzz of going out with my family, the iconic Italian food scene of Mildura and the crayons without any creative bounds. No section of that table would be left blank by the time us kids were done with it.
Making the green chicken curry for my friends is something I don’t do very often but its one of the most loving things you can do.
I love the way cooking a meal brings people into my home and kitchen. Gives us sustenance, conversation, connection and warmth. That’s what cooking is all about. So I cook and I bake and this time in solitude allows me to remember old memories growing up in Mildura, about my family, my mum and how I can share a special moment over a piece of cake with my best friends.