Feeding the heart and soul in Rome with my parents.
Children are too busy experiencing everything for the first time to realise the joy that can be found in the little things.
But as we journey past childhood and into the trivialness of our teen years and adulthood, it seems we must seek the smaller things in order to spark that childhood fantasia. In a constant search for new excitement amidst routine and repetition.
I didn’t know any of this until I finished school and left home. I think up until that point I had been desperate to grow up and when I finally became an ‘adult’ I realised how much of my childhood I had sacrificed in my desperation.
Suddenly my life was filled with full time work, early mornings, and late nights the majority of which I spent alone.
Amidst all the changes I experienced from moving from school to adult life the absence of one particular daily practise became painfully clearer than the rest; breakfast, lunch and dinner.
My parents are big foodies and so inherently and unconsciously, I became the same.
I was lucky enough to have parents who really new how to cook, a fact that only became apparent to me after I was served some very interesting spaghetti Bolognese when I was sleeping over at a friend’s house.
Mealtime has always been (and will always be) a sacred tradition within the Sipeki household.
Especially at dinner time, my Mum, Dad, Brother, and I sit in our respective seats at the dining table to eat out meals while we dissect our days (mum does most of the dissecting).
Neither my brother nor I live at home, but we will always have ‘our seats’ around the table.
While mealtime sacredness is mostly applied to dinners, I still have fond memories of my dad waking me up for school and us each sitting at the kitchen bench with a bowl of cereal. I would then pack my lunchbox with another envy worthy sandwich my mum had made which would almost undoubtedly be the best part of school day.
So, when I was sitting on the floor at 5:00am scoffing a tub of overnight oats before my breakfast shift, I was thinking about those slow Sunday mornings when the table was full of fresh pancakes, ice cream and the special berry syrup my mum would make.
And when I walked through the staff lunchroom and surveyed the mountains of soggy fried foods in their bain-marie bath, I craved the excitement of a piece of perfectly roasted lamb with the best crust and the pops of deliciously sweet roasted cherry tomatoes, just like my dad makes it.
What I realised in the midst of my homesickness, was that these moments, the ones that had occurred almost every day of my childhood, were some of the best times I ever had.
And that being at home, surrounded by the people I love, sharing a meal, is my ultimate act of love.
I didn’t even know it until I had left that part of my life behind.
Those family meals are rare now.
Right now, my family are on the other side of the country, but still through pictures and text messages, food still seems to be a way for us to connect.
I have also found that food makes it into many of the conversations I have when I am trying to get to know someone.
To me, discovering a person’s favourite food provides more insight than most other personal information.
This is because food means more than a meal.
Food is a memory, a place, a person, a feeling. It’s made up of cultural, historical, spiritual, political, religious, and social influences. It can be completely personal, and it can be completely communal.
It is ultimately utterly human.
We couldn’t live without it. Gosh do I feel eternally grateful that I don’t have to.
So, here’s to many more Mother’s Day brekkies, brunches on Sunday, summer lunch BBQ’s, afternoon teas at Nanna’s house, and dinners around the dining table.
And for those far from the people they love; take yourself to a restaurant – a nice one. Pick a meal off the menu, maybe a drink too. And enjoy it. You can show yourself a little bit of love too.