My mother’s garden tells the story of her life. A tiny inner city space where she grows vegetables and herbs amongst flowers. She belongs to a diminishing community of Greek immigrants who won’t be squeezed out of their now trendy suburb. They share their seeds, their vegetables and their recipes. After all, the best spanakopita has the complex taste of wild and bitter greens, not just the delicate taste of spinach.
“You must plant these ones on the 25th of March — that’s how they will grow best. Dimitra, the neighbour, heard I was gathering seeds for you so she bought over some of her seeds for you too.”
“Make a shallow hole, put 3 seeds in a row, cover them and water them. One of them will grow strong. Remember to collect new seeds for next year, don’t let them go to waste.”
The plants are pruned within an inch of their lives — they can’t take up more space than absolutely necessary. As small as her garden is, it is a welcome relief from the house where every window looks out to a wall.
My mother doesn’t like to share her spoils with the snails, spiders or the cat next door who shits in her garden. I tell her she shouldn’t use pesticides.
She replies, “άσε με!”
“You think you know it all....”
“I better get some more chilli powder for that καταραμένη cat.”
She gave me the seeds on my last day staying with her — a way of keeping us close. She cried as she touched the seeds.
Ourania and Taki’s first vegetable garden in Sydney in 1971 after emigrating from Greece.
