As a kid growing up in St Kilda, eating could be a terrifying experience. Almost all of my inner Melbourne, Windsor Primary schoolmates were recently arrived immigrants: Italians, Greeks, Maltese and Germans, mostly. How often I would find myself at these friends’ houses, trapped at a dinner table, staring at the food on my plate, trying to figure out how I could shuffle aside or hide the weird things I was being served… or eat them. Plenty of times I would go home with damp pockets stuffed with pieces of fish or strange meat. I’m in my mid-fifties, a product of the classic, 'white-bread', Aussie… read more.