Lifestyle

Chew a few cloves for your toothache

The clove is often described as a little nail, but I look at a single clove and see it as a dark chocolate-coloured jewel, perched on a stem holding a precious gem-like orb with clasps around it.

It is an amazing spice, camphor and cocoa - like in aroma, tasting warm, spicy, peppery and pungent. When it is bitten or chewed, the spice leaves a lingering numbness on the tongue, which masks or reduces the pain from an offending toothache. Cloves originally grew in the Moluccan islands of Ternate and Batjan. As early as the 2nd Century A.D. it was transported to China where it not only added amazing flavour and warmth to dishes, but acted as a breath freshener when held between the teeth as courtiers spoke directly to their Great Emperor. The spice arrived early in the west, brought through the Silk Route by caravans travelling to Alexandria. From there it easily spread through the Mediterranean and the rest of Europe. The Arabs who had carried the spices either used camel trains overland or sailing dhows to transport spices. Astute traders kept the origins of their spices secret claiming that the spices came from mountains close to Arabia. The clove was in great demand in 8th century Europe where unknown fevers and plagues killed people indiscriminately. The stench of rotting bodies was unbearable. We hear of courtiers carrying bouquets of spice, sweet smelling flowers and orange pomades studded with cloves to reduce body odours and to clear the air especially from poor hygienic practices. Throughout history cloves continued to be used for herbal treatments and in dental care. European traders and merchants, constantly trying to find routes to spice trade were encouraged by Marco Polo's descriptions of spice gardens. A Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama, commissioned by the King of Portugal to find a maritime route to the East, sailed directly to India where he found “all the spices of Arabia” in one trading spot, Calicut, on the southwest coast of India. The rest is a bloodthirsty history of greed: power struggles between the Portuguese, the Dutch, and the French that finally established the clove trade in exotic Zanzibar and Madagascar. Indonesia still grows cloves in significant quantities especially in Amboina. The Clove story continues in many areas of the world but none so interesting as what happened during WW11 when soldiers on the front line in combat could not get to base camps to see their dentists so they resorted to the age old quick-fix of chewing cloves to numb a toothache temporarily. Despite its common use in history, the clove tree is very fragile needing up to 8 years before its first harvest. Harvesting is done with great care to keep the branches intact. When the branches are broken or damaged, the regrowth does not produce any spice in the following years. After the first 8 years, though, the tree will continue to produce a harvest every 4 years. The tree lasts for about 50 years or more, assuring the diligent farmer of a constant harvest. From experience and necessity, the Indonesian clove farmer has created myths centered around the tree, likening the plants to pregnant women who have to be treated with kid gloves, respected and revered when the clove tree flowers start to blossom. No noise may be made to upset the flowering cloves or the unborn ‘fetus’ and no fires lit close to the trees. As a sign of respect, all head-gear must be removed in case the buds fall and the mother loses the baby. Cloves need to be handpicked before clusters drop to the ground and are damaged. Harvesters carefully handle the spice, placing them in baskets, then hand-separate each clove before laying them out to dry where they turn auburn red, as volatile oils are released. To test if the cloves are fully dried, the pickers hold some in the palms of their hands. If the sharp ends prick, they know that the cloves are ready for use. Clove oils are produced by heating the leaves of a plant, however, since even the harvesting of leaves may affect the clove production, growers are reluctant to jeopardize their larger spice crops. As a result, clove oil is produced in smaller quantities. Look for whole undamaged buds intact with soft balls when shopping for cloves. Powdered cloves need to be bought from a reputable buyer, but I find it simple to grind my own when I need with a coffee grinder. The residue gives a subtle aroma to my coffee as coffee beans are ground subsequently.

Café Diablo

A FESTIVE DRINK FOR COOLER WEATHER:

l 5 oz. dark Bundaberg Rum l 2 Tbsp. sugar - optional l 5 cup(s) hot coffee l 10 cloves, pounded roughly then added to the coffee l 5 small sticks of Sri Lankan

Cinnamon, not cassia. (One small stick for each cup) Make up a pot with your favourite brand of coffee; steep for a couple of minutes, pour into 5 cups. To the cups add the pounded spices and milk, or sugar if required, and then add rum. Steep spices with the coffee if you prefer it stronger. Best served individually in cups on trays.

Carol Selva Rajah

BY ANNIE GORDON

Well, the party’s almost over. I write this on the last day of two weeks at the beach. That quintessentially Australian holiday. You know the drill - stellar view, sea breeze, sleep-ins and the Big Bash League (BBL). That’s right. I’m a closet cricket fan. Though not the snooze-fest that is test cricket. I can do a day/night at a push. No, it’s the BBL that has me hooked. How did this come to pass? To take you back to the beginning, three years ago I fell on the volunteering grenade and became the Manager of my son’s cricket team. This followed a life of zero interest in cricket. Growing up with a sister, it was nowhere to be seen on our list of summer viewing on the Rank Arena telly. As an adult, I saw it from time to time but that was largely accidental. Then shazam, I’m an U11’s cricket team Manager. I had no trial by Milo cricket, it was straight to the big leagues. But I figured I was up for it. You may remember our family motto – “There’s bigger morons than you out there.” So, into the fray I went. Like most parents who volunteer soon discover, the job always seems to involve that bit more than you expected. Who knew you’d be lugging the team training kit all over the suburbs? Who knew I’d be roping the Mediocre Father in to be Umpire? And of course, there’s scoring. We all know that in theory. We see the news reports. Wickets, runs, blah, blah, blah. But then you see the score book, which is quite unwieldy and has a distinctly sorcerer’s spellbook feel about it. But I wasn’t too concerned because someone else would be doing the scoring. Someone of the ‘scoring knowledge’. And during the first match I was feeling quite happy with my efficiency. All was ticking along nicely – we had a team and umpire on the field, family spectators and a scorer. Nothin’ but good times. Now I’m the first to admit to a certain naivety, but it was only after the game I discovered I’d be inputting the scores into the official (not to be trifled with) online scoring thingamajig. And still later before I realised that the scores aren’t just Team A 6/92 beat Team B 10/74. Oh no, the score book revealed the pencil scratchings of a language I not only didn’t know, I had no idea it existed. Who knew there were ‘extras’ including wides, no balls and byes and each has its own symbol. There’s overs bowled, there’s catches taken. There’s what can only be described as an overkill of statistics for a game of smallish people. Yikes! And, if my deciphering was off and I pressed the submit button? Well, computer says no… Back to the drawing board. There was a lovely solution though. Upon hearing my squeals of outrage and groans of frustration, the Mediocre Father came to my rescue. Through some mansplanation (and browbeating) I came to understand cricket. Under 11s cricket anyway. And when I say ‘understand’ let’s stress that’s a fairly low level of understanding. And so - I came to love cricket. (Cue music and credits) That’s possibly overplaying things a tad. I’m not going to sit at the SCG with a KFC bucket on my head, but I carry this secret interest inside as I walk down the street. You would look at me and not even suspect that I know all the BBL teams and their marquee players. You’d suspect I was thinking about what to cook for dinner and that I really must call ‘the man’ to come and trim the hedges, but never that I was thinking about the Big Bash ladder. And the other great thing about the BBL – to the Mediocre Mother it says summer, it says beach holidays and a slower pace of life. Perhaps I’m going soft? Never fear, I’ll be choking on a ball of start-of-term stress any day now. So, I’ll enjoy the cricket while I can.

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