MEL BUTTLE
“It was where I saw my first hotdog. I got one and we’ve been close ever since”
If you’re lucky you have a nana, if you’re very lucky you have two. I differentiated between them by calling one nana and one grandma. Did you have a favourite? Mine had different strengths: one had lollies, the other made a killer roast chook. How could you ever compare them? Well, I have.
When it comes to food, Grandma takes the cake for sweets; she wouldn’t bat an eyelid giving me a bowl of cream with two strawberries dotted in it for appearances sake as a treat.
Her cups of tea came from a teapot, with a semi-solid lump of sugar in the bottom of your cup, which made the tea its own two-course meal, dessert included. Multiple lolly jars adorned her bench, and once I’d dug my little hand past the boring mints the size of 20c pieces, I’d strike gold: raspberries, snakes and Minties. Bliss. “You’re cleaning your teeth the minute you get home,” Mum would say. Worth it though, to eat a handful of jubes up a tree.
On the other hand, Nana was the queen of savoury, she made the best ham toasted sandwiches. It was just bread and ham, but I swear she must’ve buttered both sides of the bread, as they were epic.
They both lost points for their tomato sauce, neither had my desired brand. I was, am, and will always be a Heinz girl. To this day, I don’t want your homemade tomato relish thanks, I want to bang the end of a glass bottle over my pie, until way too much comes out, thank you very much. Both of them unfortunately, had a certain other brand, which to my palate tasted way too tart and nothing like the sauce we had at home. So points off for both of them there.
Who had the best house? Grandma lived on a creek. I’d jump off the jetty, and plummet into the dark green water, which was so salty my nose would burn all through the post-swim afternoon tea. After I’d hit the water, which was always covered in a bit of an oil slick, I’d swim as fast as I could around to the boat ramp and get out, pushing all the stories I’d heard about eels and bull sharks out of my mind.
The other cool thing about Grandma’s house was getting to burn her garden waste. As I saw the flames die down, I’d dash around the yard and add more sticks and leaves to the pile to keep it going. Screen time wasn’t the biggest danger to kids in the ’80s, finding a jerry can of petrol was.
Grandma had all the delights of acreage living, whereas Nana was in the suburbs, opposite a playground and soccer field. It was where I saw my first hotdog. I got one and we’ve been close ever since. Sausage on a soft white roll, the roll perfectly housing the meat, both things just a vehicle for my beloved tomato sauce, perfect.
Other than processed meat and swings, the best thing at Nana’s house was her compost tumbler, I’d spin it around, pretending I was hosting the lotto draw. When you’re an only child this is a great game, until someone comes out and says, “I think that’s enough tumbling of Granddad’s compost Melinda”.
No one is perfect though; even nanas have negatives, and the worst thing at Nana’s house was her outdoor toilet.
I’d fly across the lawn in three huge leaps, quickly use the toilet, then I’d zip back inside at lightning pace. Cordial with dinner? I don’t think so Nana.
The worst thing at Grandma’s house was the sandflies, upon arrival, just as I’d step out of the Ford Falcon, Grandma would pounce, dousing me in medicated insect repellent. It smelled and felt as good as it sounds. I’d hold my breath while she sprayed the cold repellent on my arms, legs, and neck.
Better not breathe in any of the chemicals my body is now absorbing through the skin. Kid logic.
Who was better? Hard to say, but I would’ve given it to whoever gave in and bought me my preferred tomato sauce.