Do pots and pans determine what we eat?

January blues, grey sky’s, no money, deadlines pending – that’s my life right now. So Friday night, the six Canada girls had a come dine with me night in celebration of a ritual we used to have every Friday night in Canada last year. 

We called it family dinner. As we stuffed ourselves with nachos, couscous and pasta salad, chicken, brownies and pavolva inevitably the conversation led to last year dinner menus and we remembered the one pot we shared between the six of us – god love you if you wanted to cook something which required two!

When we arrived in Canada we each bought, at great cost, a pot, sharp knife and fork and a plastic bowl. These we carried to and from our bedrooms religiously three times a day because if we didn’t they would end up in a cardboard box full of dirty dishes and pots where the cleaning people deposited all unwashed items.  By the time we left, we had one pot between the six of us which was shared between us because each person clamed it was their pot and nobody wanted to search through the fermenting cardboard box.

I also had a yellow one-egg frying pan, which also served as a one pork chop frying pan. Our fermenting George-Forman Grill (which was secretly used by the other 30 people on the floor) was in quarantine, embedded with charred and sterilized food, which had collected there for months. The small child’s plastic dish, which acted as a bowl for cereal, plate for chili and cooking pot for scrambled eggs was a very strange colour and had furry texture towards the end which couldn’t be washed away.

Our weekly shop became an obstacle course, we religiously avoided the junk food isles. Eyes closed we choose the same items every week automatically and had a competition to see who could spend the least – needless to say I never won that competition. Pork chops, pork chops and more pork chops. We hated the two seasoned in a pack for $2.69 pork chops but, my god, if they were gone we cried in the aisle – seriously that was two meals for $2.69 but I haven’t eaten a pork chop since. ‘Chilli’ was the other stable item on the menu.  Minced meat cooked with a can of tomato sauce -with Franks hot sauce and rice it was called chilli  - minus the hot sauce with pasta it was called spaghetti bolognaise. These two meals and the pork chops were dinners for 4 nights. On shopping day we cooked ‘chicken fajitas’ but without the chicken, who can win the lowest shopping bill if you buy chicken? So pepper, onion and sweet corn chicken-less fajitas – mmmmmm delicious…. Not. 

You can imagine what a grand occasion of the week it was to be invited out to someone’s house for dinner?  Describing the food afterwards caused spiteful comment as the others, mouths watering, ate their pork chops and looked forward to their Frank’s chili. 

While sitting at the table last Friday night, we realized we had enough food to last a whole week for the six of us in Canada, grateful for an abundance of pots and pans, knifes and forks and a fridge full of food every time we open it. 

We all remembered the night we bought the cupcakes - it was such an important occasion we actually photographed it

As we laughed, remembering our frugal, pot-less existence, we wondered did other people have the same experience living away from home? 

A life or death decision?

Why does the exam time-table always make me think of Ios? Every year I pour over the details, note the day the exams start, work out how long between them and mark the finishing date with a big red X on the calendar. Then there’s those blank boxes that scream “fill me”… which I have done with the word Ios for the last three years.

 The first year was such an adventure, going to the little island in the sun. Driving through Ios town you’d think, “what’s all the fuss about?” but then delving into the side streets you find a world of fun and excitement that is there for the taking- meeting new people, turning night into day, cheep booze, it’s got it all. Lying with 20 friends on the beach I watched the island workers, mostly bronzed Aussies and Scandos, sharing their stories and creating a world I knew I’d really enjoy – next year. First year ended with a stay in a hospital in Athens – a severe ear infection.

What did I learn?

Never swim in dirty swimming pools.

The second year I was an old hand.  Blonde, bronzed and boozed was this years motto and a job… yes…… a bar job was a necessary accessory to gain entry to that privileged staff club I envied so much from last year. Enter Danny, bar manager of Circus Bar and friend for life, and we hit the ground running.  Who cared that the money was 30 euros for a 12-hour shift? It was exactly were we wanted to be and I learned a lot about running a bar, my first taste of real commerce!!!!!! I came home after two months because I had to go to college in Canada in August but I wasn’t done with Ios yet…..not by a long shot.

What did I learn?

Avoiding dirty swimming pools works.

Catching a nap whenever possible in the hammocks in Harmony restaurant is essential to survive a working summer in Ios.

Third year comes round and after a winter of -35 degrees, Ios was the only place I wanted to be, that warm blue sea calling…job sorted in circus with Danny..…….I couldn’t say no!!

What did I learn?

Avoiding dirty swimming pools still works.

Do not replace essential naps in the hammocks in harmony with Red Bull – not unless you want to be permanently awake.

A helpful friend pointed out that 6 cans of Red Bull is the equivalent of drinking a coffee field in Kenya per night and sleep became, night or day, almost impossible not to mention the severe body spasms and the involuntary twitching.  I had to make a life or death decision and came home to a job that involved normal hours, better pay, less fun but with a guarantee that I’d reach my next birthday.

So it’s that time of year again but even thinking about Ios makes my heart race.

Is it Ios excitement or a warning to stay away?

Am I too old for Santa?

As a kid you write letters to Santa – how great is that guy - he can supply anything you want, no cost involved. You are greedily thinking of all the things that you don’t need but Santa is Mr. Big. He can get you whatever you want.

Well… thats until you realize he’s not real. At 8 years old I stood at the foot of my parents bed and asked, “Is Santa real?” my dad blearily asleep said, “No”.

My mum freaked.

“Why didn’t you just ask, “What do you think?” she asked my dad angrily.

“What else are you lying to me about?” I asked sensing a moment of weakness. “There’s no God” my dad answered as my mum pulled the clothes over her head groaning.

So from then on we had Christmas without Santa. I had to pretend to believe to my best friend and her brother, my classmates, my cousins, and even my grandparents. Pretending is not fun when there is a price limit placed on fake Santa and you know your parents are paying. For years my mum blamed my dad, “Santa could still be coming to this house you know” she still said for five more years until one Christmas we decided that everyone we knew realized that Santa wasn’t real.  

Every Christmas I feel disappointed – all the hype, the food and the drink. Enjoying Christmas after Santa was determined by how many presents I got and how much they cost. Your friends expected you to list as extravagant list as they did – it was a matter of honor. Christmas was not about spending time with your family and friends; it was about material things – phones, laptops and jewelry. But this year, for the first time, I appreciated the things that didn’t cost much, things like time spent with my old grandfathers, with my brother, and other people that I value. Its about coming home, getting together and enjoying others company… and its all for free.  

This year, Santa or no Santa I just enjoyed it.