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Wine and cheese for dinner

There was always dinner to look forward to at the end of the day, even if it was pasta again or baked beans on toast. It was the closure, knock-off time, the evening news with a stable table on our laps. Often, my husband cooked, which is one of the reasons I married him. We got outraged about news items together, and when some stories were too cruel, we pressed mute. In the later stages of Honeybunch’s dementia, before he went into so-called care, he became more tolerant—because he didn’t understand as much. Like a lot of us caring for loved ones, I knew he couldn’t remember which side he voted for, so we just cuddled together in the voting booth and I ticked the boxes.

Ian gave up cooking, thankfully, because as he got less capable his cooking got more interesting but less edible. One occasion, he failed to put water in the steaming saucepan with the potatoes. It started to crackle and the house stank like a smelting foundry, but the potatoes were weirdly baked and tasted okay after a few seconds in the microwave and lashings of butter and parsley. He also specialised in raw sausages. ‘We’re out of gas,’ he’d say, but the barbecue’s connected to mains.

‘I’ll pop them in the oven,’ I’d respond. ‘It’s electric.’

You don’t need to eat a lot of food when you’re older. Big helpings of food sitting in your tummy keep some of us awake, and the morning flatulence release can be more potent than after just a salad the night before. My beloved became partial to ice cream for any, or all meals, and was even happier with the Australian Classic Dessert—tinned peaches and ice cream. Sometimes I’d add muesli, but his teeth weren’t really coping anymore. We got him some new ones.

When he moved into a care facility, I found myself standing at the fridge eating from jars and slicing off chunks of cheese while slugging mouthfuls of wine from the bottle, as we did after a party aged twenty-two. Then I succumbed: If this is how it’s going to be then I’ll at least use those manners I learned in deportment. So, I set my stable table with a breadboard, cheese, olives, dip and wine. And a linen napkin. I dined like this for quite some time, having swapped my big main meal to lunchtime, often eating at a food court or buying something pre-prepared. A couple of containers of stir-fried veggies and curried chicken can last over three lunches when you’re seventy.

We older people often find it easier to not drink when we go out, given we need all our senses—hearing, sight, smell, taste and touch, and all of the wits—to drive, keep up with what’s happening, try to understand what the young people are talking about, and prevent falls. In the interests of good health (senses, wit, memory and digestion), it’s advisable to have at least two alcohol-free days a week, though no one I know thinks that’s entirely necessary when you’re over seventy, and we mostly eat at home every night anyway.

It was when I was employed to address a room full of older ladies for a charity event that I found out about the single older lady evening meal club. Naturally I was seated at the head table with the longstanding members and dignitaries. Our average age was seventy-five, an age when most of us are beyond pretence; we are interested, and safe, in familiar surrounds with toilets close by and lunch on the way, and happy to be ourselves, unafraid to say what we think.

Finally. But always politely. And a big useful day means we’ll treat ourselves to a second glass of wine for ‘dinner’ later.

The table conversation was of someone’s divorce: ‘My second, I’m never doing it again.’

The idea that another marriage was even considered, let alone possible at her age, and that she would refuse, if propositioned, was impressive.

No one mentioned children or grandkids. It’s just a given that they’d all had them for decades. Old news. Summer plans and inter-national travel were discussed. ‘How was the beach house after the storm?’

‘I hear Betty lost her roof.’

‘Expensive.’

‘And inconvenient. How did you go with Dom Casmurro?’

 ‘Marvellous, but I found James Salter easier and of course nothing gets close to Shirley Hazzard.’

‘Elizabeth Taylor’s good old one, Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont.’

‘I’ve got a driving test looming.’

‘You’ll be right, just don’t kill a cyclist on Beach Road.’

‘You could, I’ve got a good lawyer and you probably won’t go to jail.’

Lunch arrived. Meat and three veg.

‘Oh,’ the ladies said, ‘this will do for the day, we won’t need an evening meal.’

‘Not that we ever eat one.’

Everyone offered their glass for a second pouring of wine.

And so, I asked, ‘If you were to open your fridge right now and saw your dinner, what would I see?’

‘Wine and cheese,’ they said. All of them.

That was the staple evening meal of the single older lady. It’s not only normal at our age, but expected. I even saw a character serving herself wine and cheese for dinner on a TV series made in New Zealand. So, it’s an international custom—one can only assume worldwide.

Hallelujah.

Extracted from Look After Your Feet by Rosalie Ham

available March 31.

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Look After Your Feet

by Rosalie Ham

An irreverent look at the darkly funny experience of getting older from one of Australia's favourite authors.

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