Clothespegs and Churros

I take off my shoes to better enjoy the spring grass, and hang the washing slowly. The sun beats down, I think it’s going to hit thirty today, and Sam Beam warbles from my nearby bedroom window as I stoop between the basket and the line. After I’ve finished working my way around the hills-hoist, I notice that I’ve created a wavy pattern in the long grass. Kaleidoscopic trails of domestic duty. I have a caffeine headache. I am happy.

Having had to duck into the office, it’s later than usual when I load the iPod, wind down the windows, and head to the markets. I’m going to buy all the necessities for that recipe I’ve been meaning to try for ages, to see if I can find some Alpha Pale Ale, and to find something for the headache. I’m yet to make a decision as to who makes the best coffee down here, and have settled on a vaguely scientific method of research which involves working my way, coffee by coffee, clockwise around the entire market, until I hit on a winner.

Today, this lands me in front of the delicatessen, where a cute girl yells numbers from a window dispensing a bewildering variety of Saturday morning beverages, “ristretto, short mac, and a skinny flat-white. Number 45 please.” The girls sitting behind me are discussing the relative merits of tramp stamps and gluten-free chocolate brownies, two topics I had not previously made the connection between. I guess it’s obvious, when you think about it. I sip my coffee and wade through the testament of Gideon Mack until the sun begins to erode my patch of shade.

On my way back to the car, I notice a cart selling churros. In truth, the smell turns my head before I spot it: the sweet, punchy aroma of pastry in the deep fryer, the softer notes of cinnamon, the burnt tang of fresh caramel. As I wander up, the owner, a large French man wearing a threadbare Wallabies cap, is arguing with a Brazilian student as to the relative merits of churros in South, Central and North America. When the Brazilian suggests that perhaps South American ones are the best, because they contain fillings, and are larger, he becomes visible upset, pacing up and down behind his cart as he gesticulates in refute, stopping only to adjust the sticks of pastry as they float to the surface of the bubbling oil.

A three word summary of his argument would be as follows. One, tradition. Two, texture. Three, simplicity. He delivers his parting shot to the Brazilian as he hands me my bounty, a crisp, golden-brown pastry coated in cinnamon and smeared with thick dollops of dulce de leche. I stop and bliss out for a while, until a car beeps at me and I realise I’m standing in the middle of the road with caramel syrup dripping off my face. I decide I need to get home before I finish the remainder, or I’ll find myself walking back with the intent of buying out his whole stock. I manage to make it to the car without a relapse, and head home.

My housemate comes into the kitchen as I’m stacking cans and announces she’s bought new clothes pegs. That they’re in the cupboard near the laundry. That I can use as many as I want.

I’m telling you, if you can get excited by the little things, the big things are easy.