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. 

‘What’s the craziest thing you have ever done?’

That’s the question I was asked on the spot today and going solo to Australia came immediately to mind. I’ve always had this fantasy about Australia, I think I got it from watching Home and Away religiously for 10 years. It was a faraway paradise filled with teenagers like me who surfed all day, drank milkshakes served up by Irene, and had exciting adventures in the sun.  With this picture in my head I headed off last summer, last minute, to represent the Irish family at my cousins wedding in Newcastle, three hours north of Sydney.

I scraped all the money I had earned over the summer together and kissed my Mum for paying my air fare (it was her nephew’s wedding). Standing on Sydney bridge I had to pinch myself. I couldn’t believe that after 24 hours in the air I was standing in front of one of the iconic buildings in the world. Boy, I had really done it.

My friend Aoife not only shared her bed (tops and tails) but also took time out from her busy college timetable to show me around and I enjoyed the time I spent with her as never before. We had a terrific time catching up my Australian friends that I met in Greece but I also got to know her friends.

There were 3 ‘must do’ things for me in Australia, stand on the steps of the Opera House, see a kangaroo hopping along and say ‘good day’ to Mr. Stuart on the set of Home and Away.

Well so much for fantasies.   The Opera House is certainly real but kangaroos didn’t leap about the bush as our plane came into land in Sydney (as I hoped they would…really?) In fact I had to pay $25 to pet an old, barely moving specimen at a reptile park to satisfy this fantasy.

But the greatest disappointment of all was Summer Bay.  There was no surf club, no Alf Stuart…not even one house or a shop or a restaurant…not even a garden chair.  Summer Bay does not exist……surprise…… surprise!

Now, like all fantasies that are subjected to scrutiny, mine of Australia are more realistic.   Australia is great and the people are wonderful but its just another place to be happy or sad.  That’s what travel does I think.  It teaches you that people are important not places……and that you shouldn’t believe all you see on television.

……….and I’ve stopped watching Home and Away.

When is Cinderella too old to go to the ball?

The Comm ball, the Comm ball, the Comm ball, we’ve been talking about it for weeks. The talk was all about vintage, short or long gowns, whether to rent or to buy, but I, like Cinderella, didn’t feel like I was going to the ball at all. Last minute my fairy godmother (my Mum) waved her magic wand (the sewing machine) and made a few minor adjustments to my old debs dress.  Before I knew it I was all glammed up and ready to go.

My mood was excited…..bordering on hysterical by the time I cowered under an umbrella trying not to get soaked getting to my friends house for pre-drinks. An air of expectation diffused through the group as we drank wine and rekindled our Canadian friendships.  Stories of our exploits were retold hilariously and we attempted to take photographs posing as we had done for nights out in Canada.

The theme of the ball was circus, the food delish and we enjoyed the banter as we passed around the bread rolls and refilled our glasses many times. The part of the ball I usually really enjoy the most, the dancing and the chatter, lay ahead but this year by twelve o clock I realized that the best part of the night was over. Looking at the first years excitement at being at their first ball made me think back to my own first ball days and I realized that this was going to be my last. I called my chariot (my Mum) at one o’ clock and gratefully kicked my shoes off in the car, my feet numb with pain.

No wonder Cinderella left her ball at twelve and kicked off her slippers even before she reached her carriage….they were made of glass for God’d sake….she must have been in agony.