Evenings
When the first cool night comes
You can tell the weather's turned in South Gippsland by the colour of the sky at five and the number of people asking if the soup's on. This year it was, and so was everyone.
I'd been watching the sky all afternoon. By half past four it had gone that deep, clear blue that means the evening will bite, and the wind coming across the paddocks had a sharpness to it. Vanessa lit the lamps early, Heather got the first stockpot on, and by six every seat at the long table had a name against it.
The soup
Pea and ham, thick enough to stand a spoon in, served with buttered toast and a wedge of cheddar. It's the first dish on the cool-weather list, and Heather makes enough for an army because she knows how it goes. By seven there was a queue for seconds, and by eight the pot had been scraped clean.
The long table
Twelve at the long table, a few more at the window and a couple of regulars who insisted on their usual corners. A farmer from out past the highway sat next to a woman who'd driven down for the weekend, and by pudding they were arguing cheerfully about cream. That's the long table working exactly as it's meant to.
The card room
At seven the doors opened and the tables filled in a rush. Megan spun the wheel, Owen kept the blackjack gentle, and Hold'em drew a small, noisy crowd. It was all played on plain chips, and the loudest cheer of the night was for a first-timer who drew the card she needed.
Why we love it
The cool weather suits the house. The roof rattles, the lamps glow and people linger over their tea. If you've never been, now's a lovely time to come, and I'll save you a seat by the window.
The next morning
The best part of the night is the one nobody sees. In the morning the room smells of woodsmoke and cheddar, the lamps are still warm and the long table is bare and polished. Heather is already in the kitchen, the first pot is already on, and the whole cycle starts again.