In my mind’s eye, I can still see the milk bar, our milk bar, which my parents bought because my mother dreamt the milk bar would make us moderately wealthy. But she died too soon for her dream to come true. There were three rooms above the milk bar. My mother, who was illiterate and could hardly speak any English, ran the shop—that’s what she called the milk bar— with what I now understand to have been a ferocious determination to succeed. In the rooms above the shop, lived my spinster aunt in one room, my older sister in another and my parents and I in the corner room which had two large wooden windows under one of which stood my bed.
Thanks Michael, we lived above my father’s deli in Glen Eira Road Ripponlea from 1960 to 1966 in a veritable luxury 4 room dwelling!!
We too had the pickle barrel in the lounge room and the sour milk bottles on the window sill. My parents ambition for ‘wealth’ were an unrealised dream, but their daily reflections on the freedom we had from tyranny and the trauma of the holocaust they survived were a powerful narrative in our lives and of my earliest memories.
I think the world would be a better place if there was more writing about pickling cucumbers. I remember all the jars in summer in Odessa by my great grandmother. These have now been replaced by the Eskal pickles - hopefully BDS doesn’t come for them - although there’s none at the Woolies in South Yarra (not surprised).
What a beautiful piece. You always move me. It reminds me somehow of the first episode of Shtisel (which was on Netflix) because of food and the son/mother relationship.
Such a wonderful piece! It made my mouth, and eyes, water. In my family Polish pickled cucumbers go with just about anything.Watching USC Shoah interviews a while back I stumbled across a chestnut from Karl Diamond. He spoke of his late father , Fatel Diamant, from Tarnow, Poland, who was called 'the pickle man'. He said, “In Summer horse drawn wagons would pull up - we had a large cellar with a shute and they would open up the bag from the wagon and dump in the cucumbers into the shute.”
I'm spending a lot of time here in the Western Balkans with people who live on the land, and who grow and preserve cucumbers, themselves. They also sell them in the green market. Mainly, they are economically poor people, but less poor in terms of how they believe they should treat people. These days some of their product ends up in fancy restaurants but still most of it does not. These past days, with a couple of Australian friends, I have moved between Serbia (including the Banat where my Yugoslav father grew up in a village, and whose mother was illiterate, she pickled many cucumbers) and Hungary. Since COVID and the Ukraine war, all food is much better and affordable in Hungary than in Serbia or Australia. Back in Belgrade, and this is the point of the comment, last year I met an old man who is an Arab from Lebanon who makes cucumber pickles for the very modest falafel place his son works in. These are maybe the best cucumbers I have ever eaten and he gave me the handwritten recipe in Arabic, which his son translated into English. Today, to my relief and gratitude, Belgrade is not in any way an aggressively 'Free Palestine' and certainly not a Jew-hating jurisdiction – which may have something to do with hundreds of years of Ottoman invasion and occupation. However, this old man and his outstanding cucumber pickles somehow still exist in the middle of a lot of history and turbulence, and all kinds of displacements.
I am happy you enjoyed it! I moved sideways to my other key emotional food group today - kupus (cabbage), which I enjoy both fresh and pickled. But somehow pickled cucumbers always triumph. 🥒
One day you might share this recipe? My late father who was a wonderful chef - across all cuisines, he arrived in Oz in 1960 when so-called international cuisine (mainly bastardised Italian and French) was the local restaurant vogue, right to the end he always whipped up a magnificent veal scallopini; but sadly he never passed kiseli kupus down the line.
Glad you liked it. No, there are a Jewish friends of mine who live in Fitzroy. Indeed there are probably more Jews there now than when we had the milk bar. The Jews lived in Carlton.
Thanks Michael, we lived above my father’s deli in Glen Eira Road Ripponlea from 1960 to 1966 in a veritable luxury 4 room dwelling!!
We too had the pickle barrel in the lounge room and the sour milk bottles on the window sill. My parents ambition for ‘wealth’ were an unrealised dream, but their daily reflections on the freedom we had from tyranny and the trauma of the holocaust they survived were a powerful narrative in our lives and of my earliest memories.
I think the world would be a better place if there was more writing about pickling cucumbers. I remember all the jars in summer in Odessa by my great grandmother. These have now been replaced by the Eskal pickles - hopefully BDS doesn’t come for them - although there’s none at the Woolies in South Yarra (not surprised).
What a beautiful piece. You always move me. It reminds me somehow of the first episode of Shtisel (which was on Netflix) because of food and the son/mother relationship.
Very touching. Thank you
Magnificent, M Gawenda. I’m glad this miracle found you.
Such a wonderful piece! It made my mouth, and eyes, water. In my family Polish pickled cucumbers go with just about anything.Watching USC Shoah interviews a while back I stumbled across a chestnut from Karl Diamond. He spoke of his late father , Fatel Diamant, from Tarnow, Poland, who was called 'the pickle man'. He said, “In Summer horse drawn wagons would pull up - we had a large cellar with a shute and they would open up the bag from the wagon and dump in the cucumbers into the shute.”
What a great story!
Beautiful and moving
I'm spending a lot of time here in the Western Balkans with people who live on the land, and who grow and preserve cucumbers, themselves. They also sell them in the green market. Mainly, they are economically poor people, but less poor in terms of how they believe they should treat people. These days some of their product ends up in fancy restaurants but still most of it does not. These past days, with a couple of Australian friends, I have moved between Serbia (including the Banat where my Yugoslav father grew up in a village, and whose mother was illiterate, she pickled many cucumbers) and Hungary. Since COVID and the Ukraine war, all food is much better and affordable in Hungary than in Serbia or Australia. Back in Belgrade, and this is the point of the comment, last year I met an old man who is an Arab from Lebanon who makes cucumber pickles for the very modest falafel place his son works in. These are maybe the best cucumbers I have ever eaten and he gave me the handwritten recipe in Arabic, which his son translated into English. Today, to my relief and gratitude, Belgrade is not in any way an aggressively 'Free Palestine' and certainly not a Jew-hating jurisdiction – which may have something to do with hundreds of years of Ottoman invasion and occupation. However, this old man and his outstanding cucumber pickles somehow still exist in the middle of a lot of history and turbulence, and all kinds of displacements.
What a delightful comment. Thank you Natasha. The old man and his pickles. How great!
Natasha Cica
just now
I am happy you enjoyed it! I moved sideways to my other key emotional food group today - kupus (cabbage), which I enjoy both fresh and pickled. But somehow pickled cucumbers always triumph. 🥒
I make pickled cabbage too. Second best.
One day you might share this recipe? My late father who was a wonderful chef - across all cuisines, he arrived in Oz in 1960 when so-called international cuisine (mainly bastardised Italian and French) was the local restaurant vogue, right to the end he always whipped up a magnificent veal scallopini; but sadly he never passed kiseli kupus down the line.
Very lovely read..very gentle..
re the restaurant ...it's probably now in a judenrein zone....
Glad you liked it. No, there are a Jewish friends of mine who live in Fitzroy. Indeed there are probably more Jews there now than when we had the milk bar. The Jews lived in Carlton.
ahh maybe... but Northcote and Collingwood are Jew free zones now. So just a matter of time....ever the optimist :)