A New Found Purpose

They say the food in Melbourne is the best in the world. While this claim is difficult to substantiate, it might very well be true. What makes it so excellent is the way the different cultures and influences have come together bringing the best of their cuisine and leaving behind everything else.

No one ever goes to England and comes back raving about the food, but Australia definitely has a strong British influence. Foods such as fish and chips, sausage roles, or meat pies can be found in abundance here and they are all very good. Of course, one could get fish and chips in the States, but somehow, they are flat out better here.

In Melbourne, there is the largest population of Greeks living outside of Athens and it is readily apparent in the local cuisine. Pitas, humus, Kalmato olives, and roast lamb can be easily found and the food has a strong Mediterranean influence. Walk down any street and it is easy to purchase a kebab, gyro, or stuffed grape leaves. All of it is fantastic.

The large number of Italians brought with them their recipes for pizza and pasta. The pizza here, like most things in Australia, are neither better nor worse than in the States - it is simply different. Although a pizza here may look like a pizza in the States; it is served on a thinner crust, has less sauce, and the ingredients may be radically different. It would not be unusual to have a pizza here that has salami or a hard boiled egg on it. Personally, I don’t go for salami and have held out for peperoni without much luck. However, I have had a pizza served with pumpkin, goat cheese, and rosemary that is the best non-pizza I have ever had. Maybe it’s because I have a pumpkin fetish, but I truly love some of these recipes. Trying to compare them to the pizza I knew back home is like comparing apples to oranges. Both have their own merits and I feel privileged to have had the opportunity to have tried both.

The Japanese, Thais, and Chinese have brought their food with them, but it seems like the immigration process weeded out the mediocre restauranters and only allowed the best ones in. Even a fast Teryaki restaurant in the mall will provide a much better quality of meal than I was used to back home.

Having lived in Redmond for so long, I assumed that I was getting excellent Indian food. I was wrong as the Indian food here is flat out better. The naan is slightly more delicious. The selection of chutneys is broader. The curries are tastier and the Tandoori is zestier.

With all of this excellent food, one would think that I would have nothing to whinge about, but I’m me and I can always find something to whinge about. I am not against drinking, I just don’t do it that often. It’s not because I get drunk and say stupid things that I shouldn’t say. I do. It’s not because when inebriated I do things I shouldn’t. That definitely happens. In fact, one memorable New Year’s Eve, pre-kids, Julie and I found ourselves in Tahiti. We were seated with another couple who had broken up before the trip but decided to go anyway since it was payed for. I’m sure it seemed like a good idea at the time. Anyhoo, the tension was thick and the champagne was free, so drink I did. I proceeded to offend the couple - horribly. I urinated off of a bridge. I went streaking. I have no regrets to this day, for these are the kind of things that I do when I’m inebriated.

The reason I don’t drink often is because it leads to horrible decisions about what I eat. When I have had a few cocktails, all of a sudden, it seems like a great idea to eat an entire pizza at 2:00AM. My appetite is insatiable and I will eat anything and everything. Back to my point, I had a fantastic evening with friends and went to my first “footy” in late May. Julie and I started to stumble back to our hotel room when we walked past Mr. Pie Face. I saw a giant piece of cheesecake in the display case and decided that I must have it.

Back in the room, I took a few bites and realized it was easily the single worst piece of cheesecake that I had ever tasted. It was so vile, that I wasn’t willing to eat it drunk which is about the worst insult I could ever give to food. Since then, I have had mediocre cheesecake, but nothing as good as what one could get at the Cheesecake Factory back in the States. I will continue to whinge until I find a place that can consistently beat the average chain restaurant in America.

With all of the great food around me (except cheesecake), I have a new found purpose in my life. Roughly ten years ago, Julie and I were both full time employees at Microsoft in Silicon Valley. We lived in Mountain View and would occasionally make the five mile drive to Cupertino to eat at the Outback Steakhouse. We would look at the Apple campus and feel sorry for the unfortunate people who worked there thinking Apple would go under any day. After a few meals at the Outback, our idea of Australian food was blooming onions, shrimp on the barbie, and Foster’s beer. Although the food there is pretty bad, it brings back good memories and makes me laugh at myself a little for believing it to be even mildly authentic. Knowing what I know now, I love to tease my Aussie mates about the Outback Steakhouse.

One night randomly reading nothing special on my iPad in bed, I decided to look up the Outback. I was shocked to discover that they have an international presence. Even better, there are Outback Steakhouses in Australia! I was disappointed to find that all eight of the restaurants are in New South Wales (Sydney) and none in Victoria. I vow to do everything in my power to lobby the good owners of the chain to bring their presence here in Victoria.

Back in the States, the Outback is a bunch of Americans pretending to be Australians. It makes me wonder if in Australia, it is filled with Australians pretending to be Americans pretending to be Australians. It gets very meta very quickly. Nothing would entertain me more than telling some of my Aussie mates that we should go out to dinner, offering to pick them up, locking the doors, and dragging them to the Outback. Maybe I am homesick if I want the Outback to come here, but maybe if this is my greatest burning desire, then my life is pretty good.

Dating

We sat in the small room as expectant parents for the first time. I tried to make small talk, but we were nervous. This was the day we were going to find out.

“What do you think the baby is?” Julie asked.

“I’m not going to guess. I mean there is a fifty-fifty chance either way and I have no way of knowing.”

“OK, Mr. Logical. I’m telling you, the baby is a girl.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m the mother and the baby is inside of me. Us moms know these kind of things.”

The technician could not have walked in at a better time. She was upbeat and cheerful.

“Are you guys ready?”

“Yes!”

Both Julie and I hate surprises. We knew we had to know the gender of the baby. I was getting annoyed with referring to my offspring as “it”. I would have much rather referred to the baby as he or she.

There were some basic tests to be done before we could get to the moment we were waiting for. We heard the baby’s heart beat. We looked at it. I pretended that I could tell that the image in front of me was actually my child and not some Rorshack test.

“Do you want to know the baby’s gender?” the tech asked.

“Yes!”

“It’s a boy.”

Silence. Julie broke it with, “Are you sure?”

The tech said, “Oh yes, he is sitting criss cross apple sauce and I can see it quite clearly. Definitely a boy.”

My baby was going to be a boy and he was well endowed. I could not have been prouder!

I’m not proud of what I said next, but when the shock and novelty wore off a little, my first words were, “In your face, Julie!”

Then I danced the Cabbage Patch.

“It” became Carson. Carson was born and we loved him. Almost exactly one year later, Julie was pregnant. Again.

We were not in the same room when the news was delivered. Julie had a CVS test done and she received a call from the doctor. When she called me, I knew what it was about.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

She sounded upbeat, I was pretty sure I already knew the result.

“The new baby is a girl!”

Relief, happiness, and contentment flowed through my body. My emotions ranged from the pure - Julie would have the joy of a mother-daughter relationship, it would be easier to see Carson as an individual with his new sibling being of the opposite gender, and I would be able to have a little girl.

My emotions then swung to the not-so-pure as I already started to plan on how to weasel out of a vasectomy. As the news started to settle in, I was suddenly hit with a new thought - at some point my little girl would start dating. I had no idea why this thought terrified me, but it did.

Now, a few years later, I can rationalize my fear a bit. Part of me doesn’t want my little girl to grow up.

I will always remember her as the pretty little girl with the curly hair who would talk to anyone and everyone about anything. She could seemingly talk for five minutes straight in one continuous, run-on sentence. Apparently, she had mastered the art of simultaneously talking AND breathing in at the same time as she never took a break in her stream of conscience monologues. Her voice will always be squeaky and sing-songy to me even when she is all grown up and sounds nothing like that little girl. I am going to miss that little girl even though I am sure she will become an amazing woman.

I will remember the way she emotionally messed with me. One day, she will loudly declare, “No kisses for daddy! I’m a grumbly little bear. Grrrr!” As she throws a stiff arm that would be the rival of an NFL running back. The next day, I sneak a kiss on her face and she looks at me in disgust and pretends to wipe the kiss off. “Daddy’s kisses are too sticky,” she says. But the next day, I go to pick her up and she sees me out of the corner of her eye. She drops everything and does three twirls followed by five quick hops and yells, “Hi, Mr. Daddy!” Her enthusiasm is obvious and she hugs me and smothers me with kisses.

I remember when she was an infant, she slept with a solitary stuffed rabbit. She called it “bubby”, unable to pronounce “bunny” correctly. We were aware that bubby had become a sleep aid and were terrified that if bubby were misplaced or anything ever happened to her, that our little daughter would never sleep again. We bought a spare bubby. Somehow, Zoe found the spare and insisted on sleeping with both bubbies. The new bubby was aptly named “other bubby”. She then got a giant bubby for Christmas. Along the way, she acquired a small, baby bubby. I think I’m going to miss the little girl with the ever growing family of bubbies.

I will miss all the little things that little girls do that make them so delightful. That and teenage boys are disgusting. I should know. I was one of them.

Zoe had never been to daycare before and we were worried about how she would adjust. Zoe, being Zoe, talked to everyone in her class. She knew everyone’s name and told me all about the things she did all day. Before long, she started talking about twin boys named Carson (ironically) and Fletcher. When discussing Carson and Fletcher, she always pronounced their names with an Australian accent.

“Cah-son and Fletch-uh were at school today,” it started innocently enough.

It moved towards, “I love Cah-son and Fletch-uh.”

Then she announced, “I’m going to marry Cah-son and Fletch-uh and have one hundred babies!”

Uh oh. Well, there was still plenty of time and she could change her mind. Julie had the chance to meet Carson and Fletcher’s parents and said they were very nice. She set up a playdate, but it was two weeks away. Zoe couldn’t wait. The first weekend came and she asked, “Are we going to the park to meet Cah-son and Fletch-uh on Sunday?”

“No, honey. That’s next weekend.”

Zoe frowned. The next weekend came and I let her know we would be meeting her friends the next day. Zoe was giddy with anticipation.

The little girl who could not stand to be woken up in the morning came bouncing into our room at 6:30 in the morning, happy as can be.

“Daddy! Wake up! I want to eat brekky!”

I smiled and got out of bed. It didn’t occur to me why she was up so early, but I went downstairs and made her some pancakes.

Immediately upon finishing, she asked, “Can we go the park now and meet Cah-son and Fletch-uh?”

Well, at least that explained it! I told her we would go in a few hours. Finally, we were ready to go and she rode her tricycle over a mile to the park to see her friends. I didn’t know what to expect, but I guess all I wanted was to know that Carson and Fletcher liked her as much as she liked them.

With this realization, I knew what I wanted for my adolescent and adult daughter, who would be dating sooner than I would like to admit. I want her to be with someone that loves her and cares for her and I guess that’s all that matters.

I don’t really think that three year olds have the capacity for love. However, Carson and Fletcher sure liked Zoe and were nice to her. I enjoyed watching them play. Their parents were great and we laughed as our Carson and their Carson played together. We began to refer to them as “the Carsons”.

All in all, Zoe’s first date went well, at least for me. She picked boys that liked her and treated her like the princess that she is. I won’t always be there chaperoning her interactions with the worser sex, but I know that she is off to a great start. All I can do is raise her to be confident and to choose wisely, if I can accomplish that, I can sleep soundly as she enters into adulthood.