By Liane Arno

I SHOULD have been a little suspicious when Matt told me he wanted to go to Canada and “rediscover my roots.”  “But you weren’t born there,” I said.  “Ah but I was there as a teenager!”  Get it??

Matt lived in Canada on a couple of occasions as his father was a diplomat and was posted there.  At the time he only had to speak with his Australian accent to have the girls swoon – and the blokes to admire him as he was able to play gridiron really well with his Aussie Rules skills.   His oldest brother had enjoyed the people so much that he had to marry a girl (if you get my meaning) and stayed there.  They are still together after all these years and it was to visit them that we travelled to Vancouver. ​

By Liane Arno

MATT laughs at me when I find an exotic but half-dead seedling in a nursery bargain bin. I, through sheer will, want it to immediately bear fruit.  Matt resigns himself to once again researching the plant, finding a suitable spot in our garden, preparing the ground, mulching, watering and pruning.  Meanwhile I just keep my fingers crossed – and the seedlings usually survive and bear fruit.  Must be my wishful thinking?  Nothing to do with Matt’s endeavours.
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And that is how today I made a Tamarillo Tart.  The Tamarillo has only been with us for three years and even last year was bountiful.  This year it has excelled itself.

By Liane Arno

MY PARENTS used to dock us 20 cents of our pocket money any time we swore.  In our household that meant “Flip!” or “Damn!”.  Somehow “pook” was okay even though it was a “swear” word used by Mrs Meers in Thoroughly Modern Millie.[1] 

Another demonstration of Dad’s eccentricity was that we never celebrated Christmas but –despite being £10 Poms – we did celebrate Chinese New Year.  It was a tradition to head out to the local Asian restaurant and this particular year we were joined by the fiancée of a friend.  My Dad greeted her with the Cantonese saying of great happiness and prosperity: “Gung hay fat choy.”  “Well F#$% you too!”  came the reply. ​

By Liane Arno

WHEN I first met Matt I was quite a naïve (in lots of ways – but that’s another story).  Matt asked me if I had ever eaten a ripe olive off a tree.  I told him I hadn’t even tried one in a jar.  He told me I didn’t know what I was missing out on as he plucked a plump purple kalamata olive off the tree above us and handed it to me like he was seducing me with a peeled grape.

As I spat out the vile and bitter fruit (much to Matt’s delight) I vowed I would never try another.  Well at least – not a fresh one. ​

By Jan Cheshire

IT WILL soon be time for Halloween.  When I lived in southern Ireland many years ago, October 31 (All Hallows Eve) was very popular with all the children in the village where we lived. ​

After school was over, the local children would dress up as ghosts or monsters and go around knocking on doors and offering “trick or treat”.  

Of course I would have laid by a few bags of lollies, and when they ran out I would offer apples to the would-be scary creatures.  It was a great deal of fun all round.  ​