There is one fact that can never be denied in this world; No person ever left Norm Coleman's table hungry.
There were folks who would drop by for a chat. A cup of tea and discussion of a committee meeting or plans for some project and somehow, by accident or design, end up staying for a meal. Teenage friends of us children often came for the afternoon and found themselves seated at the table for dinner.
Always there was enough.
Our father was a good cook. He enjoyed cooking, and loved feeding people. To see his satisfaction when presenting a meal, whether it was a family dinner or breakfast for forty starving Boy Scouts was proof in itself of his love of giving people a good feed. Any bystander could sense his satisfaction as he watched the table being emptied of his efforts.
Cooking for a crowd, I can see him yet; tea-towel over his left shoulder, his uniform in the kitchen. He moved with a purpose, unhurried, yet brisk, a focus in his eye. A sense of timing that ensured everything was just so when it it needed to be. Cooking for twenty or cooking for two was one and the same, or so it seemed. He appeared to be at ease in every task. The man filled a doorway like no-one I ever knew, yet moved around that tiny kitchen with a deft assuredness, as if he had all the room and all the time in the world.
Of course these are generalisations, ones that the man himself would be quick to deny, but they are also truths, in the real sense of the word, and deserve qualification.
There is more to than this, a deeper and more personal story which I hope the family can explain more clearly. As always, I believe it began in Norman Laurence Coleman's early years.
Dad was a true child of the Depression. Born in 1930, the eldest child of a family that genuinely had it tough, he knew what it took to survive on very little. There were no government subsidies for rent or low-income payments back then. A man out of work had to hit the road to find work, and there were lots of men on the road. Dad saw how his mother ( a tower of strength if there ever was), could stretch resources to feed a growing family, as younger brothers and sisters were added to the brood in the next few years. He also realised that as the eldest, a level of responsibility lay across his broadening shoulders, and it became heavier as he grew. He never shirked that load, and took it seriously all of his life, often at great cost to himself. Yet I never heard him complain. Not until the very end. But that's another story.
Our parents were not gourmet chefs. Not even close. The food in our family was basic, solid English style fare of the sort that had fed generations of British immigrants to Australia for generations. Salt and tomato sauce were probably the most common condiments in our house, with Worcestershire sauce and pepper getting an honourable mention, particularly on eggs. Dad also had a fondness for Barbecue sauce, but only on specific things. The thought of chilli, turmeric, Chinese Five Spice, or other exotics would not have crossed my parents' minds. They had nothing against herbs and spices, they simply didn't have the experience of ever using them. You don't miss the things you have never had.
I can understand why people gravitated to our house, and it was not all about the food. Our home always seemed to be a welcoming place for children and adults alike. There is a comforting security in being welcomed without being told you're welcome. Of course, a good meal also helps.
I can still smell a roast leg of mutton, cooked in the wood stove, the outer skin made crisp by rendered fat. Potatoes, creamy, buttery softness inside, with crunchy burnt exteriors courtesy of over an hour nestled up against that roasting piece of meat. Pieces of pumpkin, cooked to collapsing, the tops burnt and caramelised, the flesh creamy mouthfuls of flavour. Gravy made in the roasting pan, using the juices from the meat. There was a technique here, a certain procedure to produce the best gravy.
Drain the fat, preferably into a tin of dripping on the back corner of the stove. Place the pan over the stove top and warm it. Add flour by sprinkling it across the delicious residue in bottom of the baking pan, then loosen it with a fork as the flour absorbs the juices and starts to thicken. When it gets hotter, but before it burns, add water and stir with the fork to ensure there are no lumps in the flour. Cook to the desired consistency, season to taste and serve a delicious gravy. That's what my father told me, even showed me, on my specific request.
I have never been able to replicate his gravy.
There were big dividends to be had if you gambled on a roast at the Coleman house.
Of course it wasn't all roast dinners and big meals. I would estimate that from somewhere around the mid 1960's until Dad's passing in 2004 there were probably far more lean years than plenty. Yet somehow it never seemed that way for us children. We never felt we went without.
Oh, we knew there were things we couldn't afford. The luxuries that would have been nice, but weren't necessary were often beyond our reach, and we knew that. But the essentials were always there. We had clean clothes, (if occasionally a little threadbare), shoes on our feet, (even if they were sometimes thin on the sole), a firm guiding hand when we needed it, and food on the table.... good food...
