Diary of a Professional Overthinker — Entry 4.

You start to realise your family’s idea of priorities are skewed when an aunt returns from Germany with very little to say about the sights, and an alarming amount to say about strudel.

My family’s atypical relationship with food really depends on who you’re asking. In Greek households, it’s perfectly normal to begin discussing the dinner menu while still eating breakfast. Having grown up with that mindset, I often forget that certain food-related behaviours aren’t universal. The first time my son represent his school in the regional athletics carnival was one such moment. 

Leon was 10 years old when I accompanied him to the prestigious 200m track and field event. I packed his school bag with enough provisions to last the day, and we sat together in the grandstand among other kids and their parents. Most wore pro running spikes, and had mothers who could’ve been training for the Olympics too. 

At around lunchtime, an announcement came through the PA system. ‘We’re going to pause the events for a half hour break. So if you’ve brought lunch, please eat now. The canteen is also open for snacks. It’s advisable you only eat something small because we’ll be commencing races shortly… Just to reiterate, this is a half hour break… for a light lunch. 

The kids around us started pulling out square lunchboxes with white bread Vegemite sandwiches. Leon dug around in the bag I’d packed. Forks emerged, napkins, picnic-ware plates, a spatula, a large bottle of diluted OJ with extra cups (in case he made a friend who he wanted to share the provisions with). He frowned at me. ‘You’ve packed way too much food. No wonder the bag was so heavy.’ 

He was probably right. I gave him a forced smile. He hadn’t found the container at the bottom yet. It held leftovers from the night before which I’d reheated that morning. He unpacked it and cracked open the lid. Steam poured out. People around us started to stare. The contents revealed themselves — a cinderblock slab of moussaka. 

Leon’s face reddened. I had to do something. ‘Sorry Leon, here,’ I cut a piece from one end, ‘just eat a small amount, I’m sure that’ll be the equivalent of a light lunch.’

This food obsession has almost gotten my family in trouble a few times. My great grandmother, Yiayia Venetsiana made her first plane trip to Australia with us when she was in her eighties. There were many firsts for her on that trip — her first experience with non-openable aeroplane windows almost sent her into a panic attack (it didn’t help when my mother explained that if she were to open a window, we would all be sucked out to our very painful deaths). The airline meal, however, was what really captured her attention. 

She became speechless the moment she began unpacking it. The miniature cutlery was spun and examined, the crinkle-cut carrots poked, the solid piece of perfect oval crumbed fish questioned. She eventually ate… some of it. Any survivor of WWII would act the same way toward leftover portions of an unfinished meal. The problem was that none of us noticed what she did with them until it was too late.  

She was pulled aside as soon as she attempted the Sydney airport scanners. She had no idea what they were saying to her in English. My mother interpreted, frustratingly re-explaining to Yiayia that no food could enter into the country. But quarantine and customs were foreign concepts to her. They started arguing in Greek. This involved a lot of exaggerated hand movements, accusations, pointed fingers and general hysterics with expressive body language. All in all, a highly entertaining scene for those watching. For my brother and I, we wanted to climb into the x-ray machine and ask it to eat us. 

One of the guards interrupted the arguing. ‘The scanner shows she’s carrying a knife. We need to see the contents of her pockets.’ 

My mother translated this to Yiayia who insisted there was nothing in her pockets. My mother lied to her, ‘You’re going to be arrested!’ That didn’t work — this was a woman who had duped the Italian army’s wartime food requisitions by stashing supplies in hidden underground pits. My mother tried a different angle. ‘They’re going to lock all of us up… and they’re going to starve us.’ 

Out came the airline embossed cutlery. She threw it into the tray and tried to leave. The guard halted her. ‘What about that pocket?’ 

With all eyes on her, she finally relented. A napkin-wrapped corn cob splattered onto the tray. She shrugged at the guard and chuckled (sound and actions like Muttley). He responded by pointing to her other pockets. Out came a small pod of milk, a knob of butter, a jam sachet, a half-eaten wedge of cheese, two mangled beans and a crumpled up tart. My mother asked, ‘Is that everything?’ She held her gaze for a moment before giving in. With a sigh, she opened her coat. From the inside breast pocket where one would keep the contents of their most prized possession came the fish.  

We eventually made it out of customs without being strip-searched which was a small miracle. I’m no longer embarrassed by my family’s food obsession. If anything, I find it reassuring. Some families measure success through careers, investments or status. Mine measure it by how many people ask for seconds.

For us, it’s not heirlooms that get passed down but recipes, oversized portions, the inability to let perfectly good food go to waste… And where to stash an emergency fish.