Saying Goodbye to my Mum
The music was fantastic, everyone was dancing. Oopah! Oopah! And the dancing continued. We were celebrating my friend Helen’s daughter’s 21st birthday at a Greek restaurant. Lots of eating. Lots of dancing.
Most Greek restaurants have feasts when they cater for parties. There is always the entrée: the platter of dips, taramosalata, tzatziki, eggplant, hummus served with warm Greek bread, olives, pickled vegetables, fried halumi, (cheese). Then there is the fish platter: fresh oysters, calamari salad, grilled garlic prawns, grilled or baked whole snapper. Then comes the meat platter: keftethakia, little meatballs, sousoukakia, little handmade spicy sausages and, of course, lamb kebabs served with a Greek salad, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, olives and feta cheese.
Of course, you have to fit all this food in between dancing. All Greeks dance, it is in their blood -- men and women. You don’t have to have a partner, you just get up and dance.
After the last dance we sat down and they were serving Turkish coffee, with Greek sweets: baklava, galaktobourikou, Turkish delights. A perfect night.
It was about 10.30p.m. Vicki, a friend of Helen’s, was reading a coffee cup for the lady sitting next to me. She seemed quite pleased with what she heard. Helen asked Vicki to read mine. She gave a brief look at my cup and then turned to me and said that she had had enough of reading coffee cups that night. My cup seemed very simple to me, it only had one mass of coffee on one side. I was a little disappointed, but let it pass.
I had organised for my son Justin to pick me up at midnight so I was really surprised to see him walk in at 10.45 looking very upset. He had come to pick me, not to take me home but to take me to the airport. My sister Irene had called to say that my mum had died.
The shock just brings you down to earth and suddenly you are at a loss as to what to do next, all I knew was that I had to go to Sydney. My other three children, Diana, Amy and Andrew, were all in the car waiting for me. They had put some clothes together in a suitcase, organised the airline ticket to Sydney and they were taking me to the airport. I didn’t have to think about anything other than being in Sydney.
I had time to myself on the plane to think and come to terms with what had happened. I was thinking of a few months earlier when Mum had come to Melbourne for Christmas and stayed until February that year. She kept me company as my husband, Richard, had to go overseas for business. We had a great time:, grandmother, mother, grandchildren in the same house; in the same kitchen. We cooked our traditional Greek Christmas biscuits together.
I don't sew – my passion is cooking. But Mum’s favourite hobby was sewing and when she came down to see us, she would always attend to any of Richard’s clothes that needed mending, sew all sorts of things for the girls and would always make me a new dress. (I think the boys definitely missed out with the sewing).
We went out on picnics with the all the kids, went shopping, played cards, even though the kids accused Mum of cheating, which she did not deny. We just had fun.
When I took Mum to the airport and gave her a hug and a kiss just before she boarded, I asked her when she was coming to Melbourne again. Her words to me were that she thought that “this was her last trip”. I said that we would definitely be in Sydney for her 80th birthday, in August that year, and we would talk about it again. But it was not to be.
I was so grateful to my children for acting so quickly, organising a ticket on the last flight out of Melbourne and getting me to the airport on time to catch it. It gave me time to think on my own and come to terms with the news. Sitting on the plane, her words came back to me and I think she was trying to forewarn me. It was a strange feeling -- I felt incredibly sad but not empty. I felt that Mum would always be there, no matter what. I still believe that. I did, however cry all the way to Sydney.
By the time I got to Sydney I knew that I had to be strong for the rest of the family. We would fulfil Mum’s wishes for her funeral and if Mum was watching she would think to herself that we had done her proud.
My sister was not in a good way when I arrived at her place. Unfortunately she was the one that found Mum. Irene lived around the corner from Mum and saw her regularly. Apparently the week before, Mum had made Irene sit down and listen to her instructions about her financial and funeral arrangements. Being Greek, we all have a bit of drama surrounding us and Irene took it with a grain of salt. Most Greeks talk about their funerals, dinner, going to the movies all in the same conversation. They think that it is normal. Maybe it is…
I was glad that I found my strength as it helped the rest of the family. My brother arrived the following day. The three of us wanted to do everything just right for Mum. We did want her to feel proud of us but, more importantly, she deserved to be treated with honour. She was the matriarch of our family. Whatever Mum, or Yaya -- Greek for grandmother -- said was never questioned. She was always wise. We all loved her so much and we miss her wisdom.
As cooking has always been my passion, it was very important for me to be able to express myself with what I could cook for Mum’s wake. It was my final tribute to her. There are certain things that one cooks for a wake – they have to be plain to show respect. I had never really thought of these things but with the help of some family friends we decided what we had to prepare. However the cake -- Mum’s famous123 cake -- was definitely on the list.
This cake symbolised Mum. Ever since I can remember, she baked this cake e.v.e.r.y Saturday. It is, in fact, a chocolate, orange and vanilla marble cake. It was named 123 by Mum because the quantities are: 1 packet butter, two cups sugar, three cups flour. It should, in fact, be named the 1234 cake as there are also 4 eggs. This quantity was enough to make two cakes: one we could eat on the weekend and the other we would have during the week. Some Greeks do have cake for breakfast!
All of us -- children and grandchildren -- remember this cake and we now make it ourselves, perhaps not every Saturday, but very regularly.
Whenever I make this cake for my family they always comment on how the baking aromas remind them of Yaya’s house. What a tribute, Mum’s 123 cake.
