Chapter 96 : Winter Feast

Mona has bestowed on us the Winter Feast. The entrance is balls of flames erupting from pyramidal structures and infiltrating the dark, shadowy, gloomy and obscure sky.  The ambiance of the Winter Feast is both light and dark. The gloomy, dark, bleak, areas contrast with the cheerful, sunny, optimistic, enthusiastic, light areas. The light emanates from red and white lights, red crosses and light bulb trees in the buildings or the trees.

We meet my grandson. He is exploding with good news.

Bruce: “I am wearing my invisible hat.”

I say, “I can’t see it.”

He replies, “That’s what invisible means. You can’t see it.”

I ask him, “Is it keeping you warm?”

Bruce, “Yes it is.”

The middle of winter is often cold, cloudy and dark.  The darkness forces us to appreciate and celebrate the sun.  The sun brings light and brightness. The sun disinfects and cleans our dark, sleepy lives. The sun causes evil and darkness to cower and hide.

Nobody wants to be a person who complains about the weather. Everybody is inclined to say, “You have to expect this sort of weather in winter. It’s an outdoor event. It’s adding to the atmosphere.”

The food stalls try and temp us. We meander around the stalls looking for the wow factor. Some food to excite us. Some food to say, “I am new and different. I am celebrating the middle of winter. I am warm. I am scrumptious. I am proud to be Tasmanian. I am tasty.”

We have always enjoyed food and drinks on the docks from vans served on paper plates. We have always celebrated local street food. Now most of Hobart is enjoying it with us.

The air contains smells of food. Coming from open fires and food stalls.

I brows the stalls and become confused. Too many choices. A political statement or a morsel to eat. Cooked on glowing coals or in an oven. Traditional or modern.  Organic, vegetarian, vegan, gluten-free, seasonal or artisanal?  Food with influences from Vietnam, Argentina, Middle East, Persian, Japan, Spain or India? I choose the stall with the shortest queue. Holding paper plates and hot food we wander around searching for a place to sit and eat. 

We eat and lean towards the open fires. The open fires add ever-changing lights, flickering shadows and smoke to the vista.  They are a part of the ephemeral atmosphere.   We are never close enough to say they add heat.

We can now think about drinks.  We can choose from traditional, small batch and hand crafted beer, apple cider, wine or ginger beer made from local ingredients. All served in paper cups.

My grandchildren eat. One grandchild is creatively sucking a chip and says, “That’s my best food.”

I say, “What are chips made from?”

Kay smiles and replies, “Yellow.”

I continue, “Okay what is tomato sauce made from?”

She says, “Red,” but I am distracted by a noise.  The noise is music created by a performer who I can spy between the dark jackets. The mumbled hum infiltrates our group but doesn’t overpower our talk.

Which is all about food. I can hear words like, “I like that. They have used... That’s a strange combination. I would never have come up with that combination. It works well. I think I’ll add when I make it. I’ll try that. I love the way they have fried it. It’s delicious.”

The food is creative and inspire us to different ways of cooking or different ingredients or different combinations.  The food inspires us to be creative in the kitchen.  One daughter says she is going to make pancakes with berries and salted caramel.  Another is inspired by the wood fired pizza with the thin sour dough base. 

Perhaps this just says something about my family.  We are more interested in cooking and eating than the creative arts.  Except one daughter (and you know who I’m talking about), who speaks like a politician and says, “Dark Mofo brings a lot of tourists to the state.”

And listening to my grandchildren while sipping and nibbling I relax. Talk turns to swimming in the nude.   I am grateful and happy that other people are doing it.  It’s one way of saying, “I do whatever I want. Whenever and wherever I want. The weather doesn’t control me. The darkness doesn’t tell me what to do.”

I see Bruce eating with gusto a piece of chicken.

I say, “Are you eating a drumstick?”

He laughs.

I say, “What is funny.”

He groans because it’s obvious.  “It’s chicken, not an ice-cream.”

I’m not sure who is learning more about food. Me or my grandchildren. 

We make our way along the docks to Dark Park.  Where I see something strange. An enormously large, compliant, passive, well behaved crowd of puffer jackets, beanies and cameras trying to decipher a few installations of light, shadows and sounds amidst buildings and passageways we previously didn’t know existed.

We look at an installation and luckily Bruce doesn’t say, “What does that mean?”

I am lucky because I have absolutely no idea what it means or what it is trying to prove.

What is Dark Mofo telling me about traditional winter solstice rituals?   What is it saying about ancient myths and legends of light and dark, birth and death? What is it saying about imprisonment, freedom and early Tasmania? What is it saying about religion? I ate and drank and don’t care.  I enjoyed the food, the fellowship, the entertainment and the crowds of happy people. That’s enough.