![]() ![]() ![]() Pricing, channels, features, content, and compatible devices subject to change. Number of permitted concurrent streams will vary based on the terms of your subscription. Programming subject to regional availability, blackouts, and device restrictions. Click here to check channel availability in your area. Live TV may vary by subscription and location. Location data required to access content. Streaming content may count against your data usage. Multiple concurrent streams and HD content may require higher bandwidth. Compatible device and high-speed, broadband Internet connection required. Live TV is available in the 50 United States and the District of Columbia only. For personal and non-commercial use only. Any free trials valid for new and eligible returning subscribers only. The sheer joy with which the Ferrones fall upon their bowls of pho once they reach the 1990s is a demonstration of how broad our multicultural palates are.īut there is a nagging sadness behind all this sharing.18+ only. "If I eat that, I'll have to go to church and confess my sins!" protests Peter, whose eight-hour Bolognese sauce is the toast of his family. In the 1950s, you had to go to the pharmacy to buy olive oil, but within decades Italian food was so mainstream that we were violating its honour with terrible convenient adaptations like frozen pizza and jarred pasta sauces. The arrival of new foods along with immigrants to this country is a wonderful thing to see, especially when you're living a decade every week. While the significance of food has always extended beyond simple nourishment, this food is not about eating together. In the 1950s, scarcity was a fact of life, portions were smaller and there were no snacks in the pantry for perusal by the bored or peckish.īut now, 24-hour supermarkets offer aisle after aisle devoted to recreational eating snack-food whose primary purpose is effectively entertainment. One is that the food culture of plenty is slowly choking us. ![]() Other, larger patterns became clear as I watched the family (they're unbelievably good, by the way always enthusiastic and observant, and endlessly tolerant of the terrible things we made them eat, do and wear) time-travel in their home Tardis from 1950 through to 2010. Somehow, I have assumed on some level that this corporate knowledge is inherited umbilically by my children.īut to see Sienna greet the rotary dial phone with a stare of utter puzzlement was a brutal confirmation that my childhood is a long time ago a time capsule familiar only to others who lived in the same time. I can remember very clearly, for example, what it was like to have one single phone line, accessible only by a rotary dial phone that was moored to the wall by a cord. It was also a shocking reminder of the things that are gone forever. For me, walking into the 1970s house was the most unearthly moment because it was a return to my own childhood. I suspect that every viewer will – depending on their age – have a different point of connection to the series. Making this series involved myriad tiny stabs of recognition board games and china I remember from my granny's house, long-forgotten devices like the electric can-opener, the horrid reminder that parachute tracksuits really were once a thing. It wasn't until I went back to my primary school 10 years after leaving it and found a whole new cohort of Vietnamese kids that I began to understand how quickly things change how big events – like, in Australia's case, the significant influxes of human beings from lands across the sea, driven by conflict or enterprise, that have revolutionised, disrupted, expanded and divided this continent for 230 years now – will eventually generate a rain of tiny ones as significant as rice-paper rolls in lunch boxes. That velour had always been a go-to fabric, that all schools were like mine (heavily composed of central European kids from migrant families whose parents didn't speak much English) and that Sunday night pancakes with golden syrup in front of Young Talent Time were an ancient Australian tradition. When I was a kid, in 1970s rural South Australia, I thought – as does every kid – that the world had always been exactly as I found it. Not just as individuals, who carry the bumps and crenellations of the times in which we grew up (the awful spiral perm, the terry-towelling tracksuits, or the post-war rationing) also, as a nation, for which big events often come trailing long strands of smaller ones. But in another sense, the little things are what shape us. ![]()
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