The Pistachio is my favourite, with the shells of course. Oh you have to to buy them in sweet robust little jackets or it might not be the same. The Pistachio! What a nut, wonderfully delicious, creamy mauvish, soft green to ripe autumnal yellow and red sun and that audible pop of life to see light, all in good time.
My Grandmother used to buy packages, sometimes even in newspaper. I liked those packages. It wasn't a Christmas package or a Birthday offering but perhaps it felt similar. That's partly why I loved them, but only partly. The other part was stories. Stories are really everything and always there. You can't take a story away. People might try to, but the story is still hiding under a shell, waiting. It's hard to lose a story, if you really loved the story very much. There's always going to be more stories and some of the best ones are true and some of the best ones are imaginary but about truth nevertheless in one way or another.
Inside those little packages were not just pistachio nuts or hot chips or fresh prawns. There was an unwritten invitation to share stories. We used to sit around a circular table in a tiny kitchen on white seats with bright orange cushions and it was my job to help shell pistachio nuts. During these times, my Grandmother told stories of everyday life, of backwards and forwards and holidays, bright or teary, of the beach at Bondi of ballerina feet and jitterbug thrills and spills and picture theatres with only a few shillings to spend and that was enough. And I was glad there were so many pistachio nuts then, partly because they tasted so good, but only partly.
If you get the chance to crack open a nut, buy a handful and tell a story, listen to one or write one down. It's worth gold. Beautiful storyteller under a festive tree, never leave us....
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