e·piph·a·ny (ĭ-pĭf'ə-nē) Pronunciation Key
Epiphany
A Christian feast celebrating the manifestation of the divine nature of Jesus to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi.
January 6, on which this feast is traditionally observed.
A sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something.
A comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization: "I experienced an epiphany, a spiritual flash that would change the way I viewed myself" (Frank Maier).
A revelatory manifestation of a divine being.
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A sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something.
A comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization: "I experienced an epiphany, a spiritual flash that would change the way I viewed myself" (Frank Maier).
[Middle English epiphanie, from Old French, from Late Latin epiphania, from Greek epiphaneia, manifestation, from epiphainesthai, to appear : epi-, forth; see epi- + phainein, phan-, to show; see bhā-1 in Indo-European roots.]
The tomato felt slippery as I lifted it from the water. As I shed its skin the flesh felt as warm and soft as a child’s. I dug my fingers into the fruit, squeezing out the seeds and tossing it into a pot with the others, landing atop diced apples and onions.
I thought of my maternal grandmother - Nana. In the time I knew her she had a sharp, nasty tongue. She never failed to slice me to the quick with her mean contempt. Grandpa and I had spent our days hiding from her in the garden and the shed.
Of Scottish descent, she was raised first in Robinvale in the north west of Victoria, then in Australia's Wimmera district. She referred to it as ‘Da Wim-RA!’. A head strong and recalcitrant child surrounded by doting brothers, her father had tired of her wilfulness and sent her to work on his brother’s farm. Her mother was - according to my mum - a big, buxom, scary brute of a woman with a light cool hand for pastry making. I heard nothing of my great grandfather.
In her lifetime Nana had worked in a factory, on a farm, been a Baker, a Hairdresser and a Podiatrist. She was a hard working and enterprising woman with a harshness, brought on by God knows what. I wondered how we could be related.
Her cooking was atrocious and she had an eating disorder that exacerbated her cantankerousness. But she could bake. Her traditional Australian cakes and biscuits that were trundled out with pride at the local Bowling Club, moved people to massage her ego, until eventually her relentless incivility had her black listed.
For me however, it was her tomato chutney that I loved best.
In her bulimic moments she would gorge herself on pastries and cakes and when she finally lost her marbles and was confined to a high care nursing home, I would bring her French pastries and sweets, watching her smear cream on her face as she devoured them. One day when I arrived on a visit, she was dressing her hair with candy as though they were jewels.
I never learnt the chutney recipe. When it came time for her to make it I was always scuttled from the house to harvest and deliver the tomatoes to the kitchen. Then herded out again from under her feet.
She never shared her secrets. Whenever anyone asked for a recipe for a cake, a biscuit or her chutney, she would cheerfully oblige, deliberately leaving things out. No one was ever going to steal her thunder.
Her recipe for Chutney died with her. At her funeral I cried my heart out with relief and for the sadness welling in her younger brother, who gently stroked her casket. He was the last of his generation. Now, all his siblings had gone to God.
We ate cakes at her wake and tiny sandwiches. Juggling a cup of tea and finger food, my pockets stuffed with wet tissues, I could just hear her besmirching the quality of the catering as not being up to her exacting standards.
Sugar, dry mustard, curry powder, mixed spice, allspice. A generous slosh of Jerez Sherry vinegar follows. Some plain white vinegar too. I throw in cardamom seeds, cloves and some ground coriander. On a roll I add fresh Bay leaves to the chutney in progress.
The lid of the pressure cooker locks into place and I leave it alone to do its work. My head is full of bees. I want to scratch my eyes out. I have no sense of smell or taste. An upper respiratory infection clouds my mind and I curl up on the couch under an Alpaca blanket. The hiss of the valve on the saucepan is like my endlessly streaming nose and crackling ears. In my dreams Nana mocks me.
Later, when I release the pressure valve on the pot and remove the lid, my face fills with dewy moisture. The chutney is shaping up. After a stir, I leave it to cook away on a gentle flame while I return to the comfort of my fluffy blanket.
Disturbing me from my reverie Mr Stickyfingers asks what spice is it that he can smell? I rattle off ingredients, read from various recipes in books and gleaned online. I tell him that I am trying to recreate a flavour but then stop dead in my tracks. If he could smell it, then I must have over seasoned it. Shit! Unconsciously Nana had got her way again.
To Nana, nothing I ever did was right. I was useless. The laziest person she’d ever met. Fat, ugly and just plain useless. She was a racist and eventually renounced me one Christmas, saying that I ‘wasn’t her grandchild’ on the grounds that I wasn't white. We weren’t to see my maternal grandparents again for years. Skinned and squeezed dry, I too was cast to my fate.
The scar she left on my psyche helped forge a path to my becoming an over achiever. I always go too hard. I put myself on the line for my convictions and stoically face the resentment it brings from others. I am tenacious to the point of ridiculousness and I put unnecessary pressure on myself. Then I burn out.
As I left the house to get more tomatoes to correct the flavour of the chutney, the planets must have changed position. Enroute to the market, my own valve suddenly released. A dial turned in my head and I abruptly stopped myself.
The chutney could wait until I was over the bug and my palate was back to normal. If I couldn't fix it, that was ok too. No problem, I could try again. The pressure was off and it would stay that way from now on.
Sweet. Sour. Spicy. But not bitter.
It looks like nothing from the exterior - just one of a group of down at the heel, cheap eighties style single storey shops, festooned with a bright sign of a funky Asian caricature - and yet when you step in through the door it is as though you have entered the Tardis. Suddenly you are in a big modern style café with funky down lights, some banquettes and a communal table. The vibe is warm and busy. The clientele is predominantly Asian.
The fare is simple but sustaining, cheap and delicious. At lunchtime, worker bees descend from their open plan offices and dive in for a quick plate of rice, a deep bowl of noodles or some takeaway. At night the local apartment dwellers hit.
The food here is a fusion of Taiwanese and Japanese. The entrees range from Wasabi Mayo Prawns and Taiwanese sausages to crispy chicken wings. Deep wide Noodle bowls have fried pork, beef, curry and dumplings amongst the offerings, and the soup and noodles have a great slurp factor. You find fried noodles and fried rice amongst the light meals $8-$9.50.
The Peko Boxes are great value. You get a good wodge of sticky short grain rice, a serve of vegetable, sometimes cabbage or snake beans or whatever’s handy, plus a deep fried wedge of tofu and whichever main you choose. Names like Pop Chicken, Pork Addiction roll off the tongue along with Ma Po Tofu and Hot Chicken Dance. We’ve sampled quite a few now and all come straight from the wok, scorching hot and bursting with delicious flavours. The meat is melt in the mouth and the fish always fresh.
You can finish with coffee and hot chocolates, I can’t recall any desserts as we are usually too stuffed to put another thing in anyway. By the way, this is fast turnover dining. Don’t linger – they need to turn the tables, and by the time they don’t, the staff are busting to get home.
