EVERY NIGHT OF THE Everything I love, I love with saturating intensity. Food is not the exception; it’s the first passionate relationship I had. When I was four I would relish eating warm buttery toast in bed at a way-too-early hour (thanks Dad for indulging me). Then I’d climb into my parents’ bed and complain about pointy scraps in the sheets, earning me the title of Princess Fancy Crumb.
And in my first share flat, there was that roast chicken with basil and wine dish by Nigel Slater that changed my life. Food – all food – became an exciting journey. If I didn’t like something, I wondered why, and tried cooking it in different ways. For this rather selfish reason I am the cook at home. Not necessarily to nourish my family or to indulge my friends with the gift of feasting; more so to play with the thing I love, to replicate something I have eaten out, to ex a new tool or try a new process.
Rose-vanilla bath melts At age seven or so I had a play date who brought a tin of wonderfully artificial home-brand spaghetti. Lunch that day would be the stuff of dreams. No ham and cheddar grazing plates, no garden herb omelette made from our own hens’ eggs, no Promite and sprouts on dark caraway rye – that day, we would dine on something loaded with sugar and salt, yet completely bland and utterly without air or emotion. My excitement was palpable. The heartbreak set in the moment Mum delivered our plates to the table. She had lightly heated the food (unnecessary but acceptable) and then stirred through an equal quantity of roughly torn flat leaf parsley that was so robust it had surely twice seeded. Fury and tears inevitably followed. Looking back, I’m convinced the PTSD from this incident motivated me to become the curator of everything that goes into my mouth. By the time I was nine I knew how to separate eggs to make mayonnaise and meringues, but also the perfect quantity of water + time on the stove and seasoning to get the most Shirley Temple tasty bounce out of a 2-minute noodle. Then there was the boscaiola period of 1995 (I still don’t understand how something can be SO delicious and sickening at the same time). As a teen, I had an unruly crew of friends who would seek munchie satisfaction in our Bondi kitchen when we’d skip school, eating crushed summer tomato and garlic spaghetti.
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I am just lucky that my obsession benefits those around me. I’ve always found it incredibly satisfying to induce appreciative moans in people and so far, making incredible food has been one of the easiest ways for me to do that. Pair that with a weakness for laughter and big gatherings, and the generous facade is complete. I have been a food, lifestyle and event stylist in Sydney for over 20 years, and have recently been able to add food writer and consultant to the bill. I began this illustrious career under the guidance of Donna Hay. Aside from teaching me to appreciate the beauty of seasonal food, she once said something during a heartbreaking time in my life that has forever made sense: ‘You need to prioritise. We are making pretty pictures for a magazine.’ I am grateful because this sentiment has allowed me to drive my passion and profession, while keeping love and humour firmly at the top of the list. My new book’s namesake is my Instagram account @EveryNightOfTheWeek, which was originally a space for me to document the dinners I made for my family. Mild envy of people with a repetitive repertoire inspired a personalised visual menu board, so I didn’t have to think what I was going to make. It also gave me an outlet to love, question and mildly mortify my family. It turns out the daily struggle and juggle is real, and we are far better off enjoying it all together than alone.
x Lucy Tweed
