Currawalli Street by Christopher Morgan Page B

mixing bowl from the cupboard and Kathleen grabs a wooden spoon from a drawer.
    Janet draws the unfolded newspaper clipping close to her and starts to read aloud: ‘A Coronation Cake to celebrate the Coronation of George the Fifth, 22 June 1911, created by Sir Stephen Bolton, Master Chef to our Royal Family.’
    The women begin measuring out the ingredients, and Janet reads the recipe’s explanatory paragraph with a flourish: ‘Drambuie from Scotland to bring a flavour of the Highlands, oats from Wales to give a blood-warming body to the cake. East African dates, Australian sultanas, Canadian maple syrup, Rhodesian sugar to add a rich sweetness. Cardamom seeds from the jungles of India to give a hint of spice, Palestinian nuts to give a taste of the Northern African climate, coconutfrom the Solomon Islands to add some tropical sunshine, Irish butter to smooth everything, the flour of New Zealand to offer a firm base, chemicals from Hong Kong to embrace the evolving twentieth century, and finally the eggs of England to bind everything together. The cake is covered all over with Royal Icing.
    â€˜Firstly, the dates, cardamom seeds and sultanas are soaked overnight in the Drambuie . . .’
    â€˜We don’t have Drambuie so we have to make do with Eric’s apple brandy. Eric is Scottish so it’s pretty close,’ Rose says.
    â€˜The butter is melted, blended with the maple syrup then added to the dates,’ Janet continues. ‘The dates should be soft enough to break up into the butter mixture . . .’
    Kathleen brings over a saucepan from the stove. The melted butter turns golden brown as it mixes with the dates and the maple syrup. The bowl is passed around the table as they take turns with the wooden spoon and mix the ingredients vigorously to break up the dates. As she mixes, Maria is talking about the benefits of folk dancing as an aid to childbirth. She had learned an Arabian dance in the third month of her second pregnancy and is all for it. Kathleen listens with some interest, Janet with none at all.
    â€˜In another bowl, place the walnuts, almonds and coconut and pound into a powder. Add the sifted flours and sugar to the butter mixture . . .’
    Nancy is keen to see New Zealand because she met someone from her corner of Scotland who said that parts of it are very similar to where she comes from. She is interested to see what it might look like. Not at all because she is homesick, she adds a little too stridently. She shakesher head when asked about family still in Scotland. All surviving family members have gone to South Africa.
    Maria would like to return to Italy because she misses something she calls ‘the babble’ and wants her children to have the experience of it. She describes it as a mixture of every noise from every street, from every room, from every voice in Italy. Something so overpowering that even the white cockatoos in the trees around Currawalli Street would not be able to hear themselves screech over it.
    â€˜Add the baking powder and the walnut, almond, coconut powder . . .’
    Maria smiles when she talks of the babble. It is a cacophony, she says, that gets in the blood, the muscles, in every thought, every dream, every conversation.
    Janet interrupts. ‘How is this Arabian dancing done?’
    Maria, who didn’t think Janet had been listening, stands and lifts her dress above her knees. She begins to hum a discordant tune and repeatedly bends and straightens her knees, which makes her hips sway. Before too long, Kathleen and Nancy are trying it. Maria’s humming grows louder. Janet has put down the spoon and joins in, moving with the others.
    â€˜Back to the bowl!’ Rose orders and the women sit down, laughing.
    Janel continues. ‘Beat the eggs and add to the mixture which should then be mixed thoroughly . . .’
    It takes forty minutes for the bowl to go around the table