Ready, Steady Go!

PocketDocs: Running With Scissors

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/155325

I was pissed off.

Why me?

Being the eldest kid sucked.

I had important stuff to do and going to the shops for my mother wasn’t one of them.

No bike, said mum, for some unknown reason, so I had to hoof it. And because I was so upset about having to go in the first place, I ran the whole way.

Getting to the shops meant crossing two very busy streets, with the help of traffic lights and pedestrian crossings.

Taking deep, gulping breaths I leant into the light pole, index finger jabbing at the black button non-stop until the little green man appeared.

Straight into the shop, got the couple of things needed back home, and right back out to the crossing.

There was a lot of traffic across the four-lane mini highway , everyone out and about driving off to do fun things, unlike me. I smouldered.

The lights were taking a terribly long time to turn. Was it just me or where they short-changing in favour of the cars?

With a face like thunder, I stood, with my finger on that little black button, for what seemed like ages.

I waited impatiently, my anger flaring. It wasn’t fair! I just wanted to get home.

And what the heck was going on with these lights? Why hadn’t they changed ?something must be wrong with them.

I could be here all day! Oh come on, come on!

My feet tapped the dirty grey footpath impatiently, my head swivelling from side to side – was there no end to the cars and buses and trucks driving past me?

I stood craning my neck, up the street and down, like an overly enthusiastic tennis spectator.

And then, unexpectedly, I saw a break in the traffic and impulsively, I left my common-sense on the footpath and ran for it.

I got half way across the road, came to a half-crazed stop in the middle, let a double-decker bus go past and then stepped out and into the path of an olive-green VW that had raced up out of nowhere.

The car swerved wildly, jerking away from me at the last minute to the screeching of tyres and the blasting of a horn. I was rooted to the spot whilst all the noise and colour registered in my brain in slow motion.

The driver was a young hippy-looking girl with a mane of long, brown curls flowing out the window. I could see the whites of her startled eyes and the flare of her nostrils as she yanked the steering wheel away from me. Like a wild horse she whinnied a scream. Her bearded passenger-seat boyfriend yelled foul obscenities at me non-stop, stabbing the air with a spindly finger presumably showing me where the crossing and the green man were and then making rude signs and signals.

In a blaze of swear words, gesticulation and glowering looks, the driver took off, kangarooing the Vdub away from me as I desperately tried to breathe.

Still clutching my shopping to my chest and with tears streaming down my face, I hobbled awkwardly across the road, to the footpath on the other side.

The traffic had increased and there was more tooting of horns and jeering.

It seemed as if all the other road-users were joining in the abusive banter at my expense. Expletives of the highest calibre rained down on me as I slunk away.

Not one vehicle stopped to see if I was okay.

As I dumped the shopping onto the kitchen table, my mother innocently asked what had taken me so long.

Lots of traffic, I muttered, not meeting her eye.

My date with the Tim Tam Genie

500 Words: Dear Unfinished Business

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/147870

As I raise my sleepy head off my pillow and shuffle my warm body up and out from under my covers, thoughts of unfinished business surface once again and I wonder whether I will ever have the courage to take this never-used path and see if the journey is all I’ve dreamt it might be.  

It’s cold, dark mornings like this that really make me wish I had the strength to “just do it.” My bare feet hit the carpeted floor and even the soft loop pile can’t distract me from thinking, once again, about this wish of mine.  

In the grand scheme of things, I really don’t think I’m asking too much. After all these years of getting educated, going to work, raising children and running a household, I try to convince myself that I have paid my dues. Decades of getting up and out, facing the day head on, jumping on the hamster wheel of life and running for all I’m worth really should entitle me to pursue this one little indulgence.

The “Do Something For Yourself” mantra could come in handy here, if I chose to use it. If I pursued this longing of mine and really pandered to this fantasy that I’ve been living with for all these years, I really would be doing something for me, for once.

And what was that other saying that gets bandied about on advertisements involving gorgeous, young things and beauty products – something along the lines of me being “ worth it”…? Hmm…I wonder if it’s okay if I think I’m worth it or do I need the imprimatur of a family member or close friend before I can justify doing what I long to do ?

I think of what I need to get this business finished : coffee (cappuccino, piccolo latte, machiatto – I’m definitely not fussy); chocolate (but certainly not compound); and wonderful, wonderful books (just skip the Chic Lit, please). 

And the  setting for the resolution of my unfinished business? To do it properly, I really should go all out. Egyptian cotton sheets with the highest thread count?…. – of course, nothing but the best for this “dream-about-to-come-true”. After decades of wanting to go down this particular road, I don’t think scrimping on a few hundred threads is warranted.

The logistics of this whole thing is a little daunting, but perhaps I could strike up a deal with the TV Tim Tam genie, you know the one who grants the wish of a never-ending supply of chocolate biscuits. That guy in the puffy silk shirt, blowsy pants and curly-toed shoes looked like a reasonable sort of bloke – maybe if I offered to share my goodies with him, he’ll make regular appearances out of his lamp and keep the coffee hot and steamy, the chocolate box full and the book basket overflowing.

And so, as I stand shivering in the shower waiting for the hot water to flow, I dream of my warm bed, my coffee, and my chocolate, the latest best-sellers and my ridiculously high thread count sheets, knowing that I’m finally ready to give it a go.

Come some day soon, I’m going to see what it’s really like and finish off my unfinished business with the help of a whole lot of determination, a basket-full of goodies and 5 simple words : “I’m not getting up today!”

Confessions of a Driving Instructor

500 Words: What happens in Vegas…

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/143350

Lowering myself inside, I pull the door and sink into the comfort of velour plush.Buckling up, I use a different hand. It feels odd.Strapped in, I breathe, deep and slow. I will myself to stay in control.Staring straight ahead, I go through “the talk” – seatbelt, mirrors, proper driving position and so on and so forth. I’ve already given the “driving a car is like being armed with a loaded gun” talk three times this week, so I skip that one now.As the key is turned in the ignition, I feel my heart sinking into my stomach, or is it my stomach rising to take the place of my heart? Either way, something’s churning inside me and it doesn’t feel good. “Down boy! Down!” I chide my innards, mentally lumping them together into the form of a pesky canine of undisciplined nature. In response, I find myself wriggling around in my seat. “Control!”, I tell myself, “Control!”I will not allow my face to give anything away. I wear a mask of inscrutability. I will ooze confidence.In gear and moving off, I involuntarily grab at the seat belt. My fingers are clutching at the webbing as we properly indicate and make a safe left-hand turn.My bursting lungs force me to exhale and then gulp. To avoid detection, I turn to look out the window but my look doesn’t linger, I am on duty and I sharply turn back to get my eyes on the road ahead. I attempt to radiate calm.We progress smoothly and at a safe speed but why do we seem to be so close to the middle white line? I feel myself shift my whole body to the left, as if willing the car to follow me away from the centre. And then, suddenly, we are going around a fairly decent curve and it looks as though we are going to be hitting the next road marker at any minute! My upper body jerks back towards the right and my brake foot madly convulses downwards onto a nonexistent pedal. I can feel myself hyperventilating. My fingers are now cramped around the seatbelt, rigor mortis style. I try to breathe whilst at the same time peeling my digits off the belt. Silently, I mouth my mantra “control, control! “ We happily sail through a roundabout. I think “Hey, that was good” and then I panic – my brain overloaded with questions – did we indicate correctly?, Were there cars on the left? What about the right? Did I miss anything? I stop clenching my teeth and hunching in on myself. My son’s driving is going well – we are both still alive and we haven’t hit anything…yet.A friend sees my car parked at the playing fields and comments on the “L’” plates. Lots of people do. Over the last few years those ”L’s” have almost become a permanent fixture.“You must be an expert by now” they joke. I laugh, joining in the banter, not willing to confess the Vegas that has become part of my life.Teaching your kids to drive is gut-wrenchingly scary! There are tears and laughter, loud swearing and silent prayers, cold sweats and frayed tempers. Not every outing is mentally exhausting – some can actually be quite pleasurable. But when one of our driving adventures hasn’t gone quite to plan, and my teenager pushes all my buttons and the accelerator too far, I stumble out of the passenger door with legs like jelly and a head about to explode, vowing to keep all my angst to myself because what happens in the Vegas of our driving lesson stays in the Vegas of our driving lesson while I doggedly continue to breathe through my mantra of “control, control”…until the next time.

Water baby

500 Words: Shaped by childhood

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/126195

Fingers of ice dig into my skin, dragging up the length of my body. The panicked heat of my head and face the antithesis of the chill of the rest of me.

I cling anxiously to the side, fingers cramped into position. Unmoving. Numb. 

I have trouble feeling my feet. My teeth chatter in time with those of the rest of the kids in the line. No solar heating consolation here. Anguished cries can be heard, sometimes outright sobs.

The lapping of water becomes the white-noise backdrop to the palpable fear.

Mothers with attendant younger siblings in strollers congregate on the other side of the Olympic pool, a long, long way away. There is no one to comfort us now. The pungent odour of chlorine rises from the water, filling my nostrils, swirling around my shoulders, engulfing my headspace. I struggle to keep alert.

Staring straight ahead, my bobbing face is only a few inches away from the broken tiles that are adorned with furred streaks of mould. I follow the crack-lines with my eyes, a game of concentration as I wait for the scariness to begin. Again.

And so it does, the instruction to stick faces into the water and blow bubbles. Breathe in…blow out. Breathe in…blow out. In…out. In…out. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Next, breathing practice. All to the count of three, shouted at us with a military-like precision. Faces in and then we blow bubbles out, turn heads to the right, left ear still in the water, faces back in. Other side. And on and on and on.

Our class is whittled down, day by day, as the cold, the barked instructions, the sniffles and nervous tummy aches take their toll. But for those of us that remain, we move on to letting go of the side, kicking our legs, using foam boards, perfecting arm strokes, dog paddling, diving in and safety jumps. Our progress is steady and sure. We are a child army drilled in the ways of water and we will obey instructions and achieve.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

At the end of two weeks, when I graduate to “swimming” freestyle and earn my certificate, I feel total exhilaration. A whole new, wonderful, watery world has been opened up to me and it feels so exciting! So amazing!

As scary and difficult as it had been, the outcome of being able to make my way through the water at my own speed (and survive) was truly incredible.

And the fantastic thing is that that incredible, exhilarating, liberating feeling remains with me today, numerous decades later. 

Whenever I wade out into the surf, dive into a swimming pool or float down a river, I experience the blissful joy of my childhood. I remember those sixty minute swimming lessons at the local council pool – and how one hour there felt like three. I remember how terrified I was to begin with and I remember the journey of learning.

And as I dive under then float, go dog-paddling, enjoy a lazy backstroke or just muck around in the water, I remember and appreciate the wonder and thrill of learning to swim all those years ago.

Beware the rebel with paws

500 Words: My other life

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/120631

I try to remember to take my green shopping bags with me to the supermarket each week and I generally obey the road rules. My lovely neighbours know they can count on me to feed their pets and collect their mail while they are away and my children get sick of me telling them to wear their bike helmets, cricket helmets, mouth guards, shin pads, boxes, sunscreen and anything else that is considered necessary for their activities.I grew up with my mother’s words ringing in my ears, “It’s not what you want to do, it’s what you have to do,” so you can imagine that me being a risk taker, law breaker or being in any way wild or spontaneous is probably highly unlikely. More than likely is that others know me as a controlled and conforming person.So, despite the fact that I leave my home and walk up my driveway with every good intention and my furry, four-legged friend on his lead, its not too long before my alter ego emerges and I break the rules. I guiltily look around to see if any of my neighbours are watching and then I nonchalantly drop the lead.He’s off, bum up head down, sniffing everything and anything on our path down the road.Before you ask, I will tell you – yes, I have watched the Dog Whisperer and tuned in to Dr Harry, I’ve looked up the internet and spoken to our vet. I have taken on board the advice of neighbours and friends who have experience. But seriously, for me, nothing works!Is it because my friend can sense what a soft touch I am, not to mention my secret fear of canines, which I have tried to keep under control since my family and I became pet owners many years ago.Or is it because my highly intelligent friend is just that – far too clever to be reined in by a flimsy piece of leather when a wonderful world of smells and scents is waiting for him to nose into, unhindered by a leash and a tottering woman on the other end.I know that Caesar Milan advises that we humans are the “leader of the pack” and that to begin with, we must keep our companion on a short leash in order to convey dominance and security.I have tried, truly I have. And I must admit my friend does respond very well, until his nostrils flare tantalisingly at the smell of newly deposited wombat scat or lusciously enticing freshly-dropped manure.Every few metres, when I’ve managed to get to him while he’s head down in roadkill or something just as appealing, I do pick the lead up again, and off we go, repeating our performance – my dog charging ahead, me hanging on for dear life – until once again, I quit and let it go.Why do I persist in this ridiculous charade of me-being-in-control-and-him-being-under-control? Probably because no one else in the family had the time or inclination to indulge in the dog walking tussle. Clever them!I have been tempted to tie my dog up while I take a walk, but he knows what I have planned and makes himself scarce, only to reappear when I’m halfway down the hill and without his leash.I must admit, while he’s off the leash, I feel deliciously relieved. My guilt is outweighed by a sense of freedom. Just as my mind is free to wander, my senses are free to experience my wondrous surroundings – the scent of freshly spread silage in the paddocks, the chirrups and caws of the crows, the taste of the season on my lips, the warmth of the sun on my skin and the sight of the land meeting sky and trees touching clouds. When I finally trudge through my front gate, with our dog puffing along beside me, it’s satisfying to know that I’ve accomplished yet another walk and that no other animals or humans have been hurt in the process.

My domestic armour

500 words: What I was wearing

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/109199

I take up my apron like a matador takes up his cape.With a flourish and a swirl, I whip it around and let it float over me.I secure the ties. I adjust the neckline. I straighten the length.My apron. My armour.I am ready for action!Are there many aprons around nowadays? Rarely are they worn on the melting pot of cooking shows that abound on television.And the celebrity chefs don’t often deign to don a pinnie or summon a smock to protect against spills or stains.Instead, the chefs and cooks and makers and creators go to it in their designer outfits and in-your-face bling, sometimes not even condescending to roll up their sleeves or take off their diamond geegaws and cubic zirconia trinketry!When I’m in the kitchen, whether it be at the sink or the stove, I don’t feel right to even begin the task at hand if I am not wearing my apron. Where did this obsession with protective clothing begin? Probably somewhere in my childhood. Perhaps I can blame my mother (again) – she usually doesn’t mind (thanks mum!)And then, of course, to persist with it through to adulthood and fully embrace it when there was a chance I could cast it aside…well, I feel comfortable in my apron. My clothes are protected and so what if I happen to splatter, smear or splash something messy? My apron is there to sop up the spills and save the day!My apron sends out my message visually – “’I’ve got an apron and I’m not afraid to use it!” Or, “I am here to do a job and I don’t care if I get my hands, face or any other bits dirty!”Sure, I’ve been through a few aprons in my time, that’s to be expected in my line of work.And yes, I have a few different aprons on the go at any one time. Not your frilly, girly, dont-get-me-dirty type aprons. More your cotton, absorbent, put-me-to-work types.My current favourite has been with me for a couple of years. My uni student daughter and I were out op-shopping when a terrific find was unearthed.”Mum, I’m going to buy this for you!” she bubbled, excitedly.She held up a purple tie-dyed apron with a pocket at the front made out of a crocheted doily doubled over. This hand-made beauty was definitely unique.”It’s so you,” she cooed.It cost my daughter fifty cents – the op shop was having a half price sale that day.My hippy apron gets a good work out in my kitchen. It’s with me as I feed my family and as I clean up after them. It’s with me on birthdays, Christmases and Easters and it’s with me on the ordinary days as well. Me and my apron, memories bound together by housework…and love.

What do wedgetail eagles and sharks have in common?

Open Drum

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/106202

When I hear the words “shark cull” slathered across the media, I feel sick. Memories of wedge-tail eagle culls fast-forward through my brain, depressing me.And when I hear of a shark attack and the death or disfigurement of a fellow human being, I also feel sick and saddened and shocked for those who have been hurt.I love the ocean. My family and my friends love the ocean. We swim, surf and boogie-board as often as we can and in the past, I haven’t really thought much about sharks. I suppose we had adopted the attitude of “’it would never happen to me”. But in my geographical area alone, there have been fatal shark attacks and attacks that have left people permanently injured. So we do need to think twice about entering the water and the domain of this apex predator.When calls are made for the killing of sharks, I do feel outraged. Aren’t sharks under enough pressure already? Aren’t sharks confronting immense threat for their very existence on a daily basis?Perhaps we should be asking the question of why sharks appear to be more prevalent in swimming areas than before, if this is actually the case?Could it be that shark finning is causing sharks to move out of the deeper oceans toward shore in order to survive? Why aren’t we doing more to stop this horrendous practice?It is because global warming is affecting shark territories?Are sharks following bait fish into shallower waters because their usual food sources are being decimated by human over-fishing etc.?Could it be that sharks are being lured into surf beaches by chumming or outfall nutrients?Are humans not taking enough care to actually avoid sharks? – are we listening to the messages of not swimming at dawn or dusk, not swimming in murky water, reducing splashing and excessive movement as much as possible, avoiding wearing bright clothing, not swimming if bleeding, avoiding areas where sharks may be hunting prey? – this list goes on.Should humans be doing more to make themselves completely unappealing to sharks, for example, not wearing black wetsuits and looking like penguins, covering themselves in some kind of cream or lotion that is distasteful to sharks, wearing some sort of device that emits a sound or pulse that repels sharks?Some of these ideas might make you laugh and I am not a scientist or a shark expert, but perhaps it’s time to think outside the square so that lives, both human and animal, might be saved.Culling sharks seems to me to be like cracking open a walnut with a sledgehammer – complete overkill, if you will excuse the pun. And, as I said before, this whole debate reminds me of the hatred directed toward the wedge-tail eagle not so many years ago. A hatred that was generally unfounded and which led to the decimation of another apex predator.In an age where much research is being done into animals and habitats and the environment in general etc., why can’t we harness some of this insight and use it to protect both ourselves and this incredible apex predator?Let’s do something positive, before it’s too late for sharks.

Does my bum look big on this?

500 words: A test of courage

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/103198

I hear the ccrrackkkk… and I know instinctively that I’m in deep doo doo. Literally.I don’t dare look down – I’m too scared.Oh, come on. Really? It couldn’t be that bad.Maybe just a small crack? A hairline fracture? Like those ones that are so hard to see on an xray.I raise myself up, very very gingerly.I still won’t look down.My mind is racing. How did this happen? Okay, I’m no lightweight, but I don’t consider myself morbidly obese either.And I was being so gentle, so careful, so…so….ladylike.I am perched mid-air as I gently run my fingertips around the plastic rim, tentatively searching for an indication of the damage I have caused. But feeling for it doesn’t work. I really do have to use my eyes to make a proper inspection. Under my breath, I am speed-praying that the damage isn’t as bad as I think it might be. Please, please, please let it be okay.But, it’s not.The plastic toilet seat has cracked all the way down the left side and bits of the right side are crumbling before my eyes.I feel numb. This really cannot be happening.I am on a trip to Malta, visiting my parents’ birthplace and catching up with some relatives I have never met before. One of those relatives is my cousin. Her husband is a car collector and after a wonderful family dinner at their home he has taken us to see some of his lovingly looked-after cars.On an island nation as small as Malta, where space is a premium and car garages are a bit of a luxury, people who want a garage can buy them separately – just as you would a unit or an apartment. My cousin’s husband has a few of these garages in which he stores his cars. We are currently in the second garage, a few kilometres from his home, and he is showing us not only his vehicular beauties but also the huge amount of work he and his grown sons have done on renovating the garage.We’re talking marble tiles, under-floor heating, air-conditioning and all manner of shelves and storage .At the back of each garage, he has added a full bathroom with more marble tiles, luxurious shower heads and tapware and expensive accessories.Unfortunately for me, I need to use the toilet.Everything in this renovated bathroom, it seems, is state of the art – except for the cheap, thin, plastic toilet seat.I survey the damage…again, and wonder what the hell I am going to do.I feel like a total idiot. I have broken a toilet seat! My cousin and her husband have been so kind and welcoming and here I am breaking their toilet seat!I have a fraught deliberation in my mind. Should I tell them…or not?Maybe they won’t notice? Like, how often do they actually use this bathroom?Or, maybe they won’t find out what’s happened until after I’ve left the country and then someone else can take the blame?I have been locked within the scene of the crime for some time now and I really need to leave this loo and stop drawing more attention to myself.I feel physically sick. I exit the toilet in slow mo – I turn slowly and face the family.I know deep down what I have to do.I summon up every ounce of courage I can and tell my cousin’s husband what has happened. His adult son is there with us as I explain the breakage.They chuckle – not in a laughing-at-you kind of way but in a Maltese-shrug-your-shoulders kind of way, saying “So what? Don’t worry, no problem, it’s okay, we fix later, it was cheap rubbish anyway.”I feel only a teensy bit better as we move on to the next garage, the next lot of immaculate cars and the next marble bathroom. My humiliated face is as red as a baboon’s bottom and my head is pounding with embarrassment. But we carry on with our car and garage inspections, enjoying eachother’s company and not mentioning my disaster again. My relatives are exceedingly kind.Of course honesty is the best policy but when it comes to rear ends and toilet seats it really does take a lot of courage to own up to dethroning someone else’s throne with your own fat arse.Perhaps a little white omission mightn’t have been so bad after all?

Double shuffle doo dah

500 words: Car Stories

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/98484

“It’s your new car!”Yes, no and no.Yes, it was my new car. But no, it wasn’t a brand new car. And no, those words weren’t being uttered by a suave television host complete with svelte showgirl.My father stood in the driveway, gesturing with outstretched arms at a tiny white hunk of vehicular appearance parked patiently, awaiting my approval. My mother and siblings hovered nervously in the background.My dad had gone to the car auctions armed with instructions to buy whatever my few hundred dollars of hard-earned cash from my checkout chick Thursday-night-Saturday-morning job was able to secure.To say that my first glimpse of the car was a shock is somewhat of an understatement.And no, it wasn’t love at first sight.It was so ugly that it was exceedingly cute and, of course, I was soon won over by its “unusual” charm and beamed at my family, giving them the thumbs up on dad’s purchase and a nod of welcome to my new acquisition.I was 17, almost finished school, and when I pressed that car key into my hot little palm, I felt freedom, independence and the beginning of “me” – even if me and my newfound friend could only get a rattle up of not that many miles per hour.I was now the proud owner of an Aphrodite white 1969 Toyota Corolla – it was mine, all mine and I was overjoyed. Sure, the four on the floor gear stick was about 2 feet long and getting into reverse required a bit of a double-shuffle-do-dah, but I didn’t care. I could park it anywhere, it was so small, and washing it took less time than soaping up the family dog. My younger brother and his friends even managed to pick it up and turn it around after I’d left it parked at Canterbury station one day. I came back to it, sure that I had parked it in a different position that morning.So many adventures were had – day trips on twistingly scary roads to Jenolan Caves and out to the Royal National Park. Hotfooting it into the city on Saturday nights with stops at the Rocks and visits to family in Surry Hills. Early Sunday morning take-offs to the Central Coast before heading back late and getting stuck in weekend traffic around Mt White.We were even involved in a scene from “Duel” when my dad was driving and “whizzed” out onto the highway from a merging lane and right into the path of an oncoming three storey high monster truck, the driver of which let his hand collapse on the air horns and kept it there as we looked through the rear vision mirror, only to see the silver bumper about a centimetre from the back window. Dad swore in two languages, I girly screamed in one and we both threw our bodies forward into the jockey position whipping the black vinyl dashboard with open palms and urging my little car to go faster! faster! Thankfully, the three of us did live to drive another day – just.My little car became a loyal and steadfast friend that always got me where I wanted to go and back and never once let me down.And yes, on numerous occasions unkind individuals thought it funny to proclaim that my beautiful little white car was something only driven by old lady bowlers in their starched whites and Henselite accessories. Our response? to take to the road again, tootling defiantly off into the distance and enjoying every minute of it!

Message in a bottle

500 words: Lost and found

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/96265

I like to think that it was lost somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea, plunged into that majestic body of water as my parents began their migration to a country over 24,000 times bigger than their homeland; to another island nation which lay so many miles away, nestled in the waters of a different hemisphere.I believe it was lost in the sense of being misplaced, removed from my parents’ possession temporarily, snuggled for safekeeping in the salty sea, and buoyed by the waves that licked the shores of the two diverse countries that have now formed my own heritage.It was lost, just for a while, because, like a message in a bottle thrown out in anticipation and hope and courage, that lost thing has now been found and reunited.With me.The vessel uncorked.The sentiment inside the glass confines released like a fragrant kitchen aroma, sucked in greedily by my own culturally-starved nostrils.And so, as I delicately froth my egg whites and measuredly trickle in my almond essence, my mind wanders back to the Mediterranean and the country of my parents’ birth.As I weigh out my creamy almond meal and sift my stark white confectioner’s sugar, I make a note to myself to research the age of this recipe and how it came to be made and nurtured as a bakery speciality on the island.I gently fold the ingredients together and mentally revisit the amazing little shops in the villages and how we ate these almond biscuits in Valletta at a bustling outdoor cafe with bitter coffee and sweet hot chocolate as we watched the world go by.Forming my dough into small balls, I press blanched almonds and neatly trimmed sections of red and green glacé cherries onto the tops, and wonder how my parents felt when they arrived here in the 1950s, in a land so far away from everything they had ever known, a land of pale pink devon and tasteless cheese, where tomato paste was unknown and delicatessens almost non-existent.I’d love to say that the recipe I am using has been in my family for generations, passed down from grandmother, to mother, to daughter. But I can’t.I got mine off the internet, from a site dedicated to the sharing of the food of my parents. My mother reckons my offerings are the best she’s ever tasted, even better than my paternal aunt’s, who used to pride herself on her biskuttini.I peak through the glass door of my oven, checking the colour of my creations, and I mentally add up the new recipes my lost thing has helped me rediscover: ottijiet, kwarezimal, biskuttini tal lewz morr, to name a few.And that thing that was lost and now is found is alive and well and flourishing within me, my family and my friends.It is renewing the sharing of foods that my mother remembers from her childhood.It is spurring on new culinary adventures in my humble country kitchen.It is encouraging the discussion of ingredients, the understanding of culture and the making of memories.It is responsible for the rebuilding of faith and the consolidation of love.