December 2019 Joint Winner - Bev Jones

Worlds Collide

Written by: Bev Jones

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‘Phewee what’s that smell?’ The kids sitting either side of me screwed up their noses then ran off leaving me to eat my stinky lunch alone. They had no desire to trade their vegemite, honey or peanut butter sandwiches for a pongy one.

At least twice a week I missed the end of a dazzling dream when I awoke to the smells and sounds of Mummy making my lunch. I remember each step: the aroma of onions sizzling in globs of browning butter, the tap-tap-tap of eggs being beaten, then poured, splattering and blistering, into the hot frying pan. When the Malaysian-style omelette was almost ready, Mummy sprinkled salty black dots of soya sauce and fine slices of green chilli over the top, for flavour and a hint of spice. The rustle of wax paper signalled she was sandwiching it between two slices of buttered, milky-white bread. That’s when I knew it was time for me to get out of bed.

The teachers forced us to eat lunch under the skies, which seemed at odds with the weather out there in the flat, fibro-filled wastelands that sprawled across the Cumberland Plain. We lived in the dusty, dry Western Suburbs of Sydney. City folk called it the sticks. It was the only place immigrants with large families could afford to buy a new home.

The Mediterranean children also ate weird stuff. One day, a boy brought a lunch box full of spaghetti in a yucky red sauce with an egg on top. How could a kid eat something like that at school? Most chucked their smelly lunches in the bin without ever opening the bag. When my Scottish friend Heather brought some purple figs from a tree in her back yard, no-one went near her for the whole of play-lunch. She offered me one and we ate them together. Mine tasted like a pot of heavenly honey rolled into a ball. The syrupy juice dripped out the corners of my mouth and stuck my fingers together.

After the kids took off, the low-slung benches helped me plant my feet firmly on the dusty soil where the mottled shadows from the lone gum danced. Right on cue, the westerly picked up. It swirled around my legs, through my hair. Made my parched sandwiches taste gritty.

But that day, something tasted different, sweeter, yummier.

‘Hey,’ I yelled out to my retreating friends. ‘I’ve got tomato sauce on them today.’

But they kept running, laughing and joking, all the way to the end of the playground. Leaving me to ponder, how long it would be before my mummy learnt to make swap-worthy sandwiches, like theirs.