Ahhh….the 70′s Dad. Mutton chops, beige trousers impossibly tight at the thighs and dramatically flared from the shin downwards to expose the mickey mouse platform shoes.

In the kitchen Dad was a dab hand at ….well, passing through actually. On special occasions, getting drinks for the dinner party guests (beer or moselle) or finding the sponge to wipe the home made ginger beer that had exploded all over the walls & roof.

When 70′s Mum was working nights at the restaurant, Dad was holding fort for the kiddies come dinnertime. Trips to the Lyn Street Shops for fish and chips were mainstay sustenance… kids were loaded into the Monaro in pyjamas and slippers ( it seems that all other 70′s family had the same idea..slippers were de rigueur for fish & chip pick up – I can still hear the sound of sand scuffing against the bottom of slippers). Great big pieces of moist Flake and generous scoops of piping hot fat chips with lashings of salt and vinegar. Wrapped in butchers paper with a hole torn in the top to let the steam escape and enabling little hands to dart in a sneak out a chip or two before arriving home.  No self respecting fish and chip meal would be, without giant brown pickled onions.

Outdoors is where 70s Dad came to the fore. Hand on hip whilst casually swinging the BBQ fork in hand, between sips of Emu Lager there was the flick of the wrist to endlessly roll sausages over and over and turn the steak more times than we now know is necessary.

Culinary interludes with Dad went onto to include 20 cent twin poles at the Trigg beach on hot summers days, the cold sweet icy pole melting down your hands in sugary red riverlets as you licked it as quick as you could, in-between jumping from little foot to little foot for temporary relief from the burning hot pavement.  Day fishing trips to Fremantle Wharf with Dad included hot pasties and moon candy that fabulously popped and crackled in your mouth.

Down the farm for the weekend is when Dad in the 70s really hit his gourmet peak, with a weekend supping solely on soup & noodles in a cup, polystyrene cup that is..….so much so that I haven’t gone there again in the thirty years since. The trip home to the city  saw an obligatory pit stop at the Ravenswood Pub drive- through, Dad for his stubby of beer for the hour drive home and a packet of salt & vinegar chips to placate the kids.

Happy Father’s Day Papa John…and all you gorgeous 70′s Dads who made that era such a safe, carefree and golden time.

Footnote: Father’s Day last year, my sister and I found ourselves in our hire car with a wheel off on the ground and precariously lodged upon a 1000 year old Etruscan tomb in Italy. We were frantic, and called our Dad to help ‘text’ us out of this precarious situation. We knew we could rely on him. That’s what Dad’s are for..they know everything.