At the ice-cream shop last week, I order macedonia. “You mean macadamia,” laughs Bridie. Without my glasses, I’ve misread. Makes me realise, parts of my mind live in Italy, where macedonia is a scoop of fruit salad ice-cream. Parts of our mind involuntarily reside in places unvisited for years. Obviously the macadamia tub does not have flecks of glacé cherry and orange zest. Philip’s never been to Macedonia, but has enjoyed his share of [macedonia]. I order a cone with vanilla and macadamia. Mansplaining macedonia to Bridie leaves the usual delible imprint. She’s too busy checking out the other flavours.
