Giving up meat when your family bonds over barbecues

When my mother discovered I could no longer eat lamb, beef and pork cooked over red-hot coals, she was panic-stricken. Barbecues are a window to our family identity.

When my mother discovered I could no longer eat lamb, beef and pork she was panic-stricken. Source: E+

In the scorching Australian summer, our cooking tends to follow us outdoors, moving from the kitchen to the backyard barbecue. Whether it’s a simple sausage sizzle or a mix of satay, souvlaki and shish kebab, the Aussie barbie isn’t just a beloved tradition but a window to our family identity.

Growing up in Sydney, my most memorable, most visceral experiences of food were set in a backyard around the barbecue, the scent of smoky meat mingling with the salty air, the chatter of friends and family backed by the constant hum of the cicadas.

Nowadays I’m not able to embrace these gatherings in the same way that I used to. In 2019, I was diagnosed with a life-threatening meat allergy from a tick bite. As a result, I’m forced to forgo some of my favourite foods: lamb, beef and pork cooked over red-hot coals.

Growing up in Sydney, my most memorable experiences of food were around the barbecue

Seafood and poultry are still on the table, which probably means that for many people, my allergy would be no big deal. But consider this: in my extended family, life without real meat is unthinkable.

Picture a whole lamb roasting gently on a spit rotisserie, juices rolling off the golden carcass as it rotates, the fat hissing as it drips onto the charcoals below. When my family gathers to eat lamb in this way, we don’t wait until it’s fully cooked to start consuming the meat. We hover over it, children and adults, our mouths watering as we search for morsels of ready meat to carve off the animal and drown in lemon juice. It’s not just a meal, it’s a ritual.

Well, it’s a shame that you miss out on that, you might tell me, but hey, barbecued chicken and prawns are still pretty tasty. And I would have to admit, it’s not all that bad.

The author’s grandfather Savvas (centre) with his grandmother Maria (right) and aunties and uncle in Cyprus. Source: Supplied

I guess that in some ways, the person who has been most troubled by my allergy has been my mother. When she discovered that I could no longer eat the meat of mammals, she was panic-stricken. The very real risk that I could have an anaphylactic reaction was distressing, but I suspect the prospect that I might never enjoy another bite of her hand-made sheftalia alarmed her even more.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay with no meat, agapi mou?” Mum asked over the phone one day, as if I’d told her that I’d have to eat cardboard for the rest of my life.

“I’ll be fine, Ma. You know we don’t need meat to survive, right?”

Mum was raised at a time when delicacies like souvla and sheftalia were only consumed on special occasions

Due partly to her upbringing, Mum has come to believe that meat is a necessary inclusion in any round meal. She was raised in a humble village at a time when delicacies like souvla and sheftalia were only consumed on special occasions. Since migrating to Australia in the 1970s, she has relished a lifestyle that allows her to offer and indulge in these sometimes-foods whenever she likes, and that means meat is almost always on the menu.

Even so, as time has passed, Mum has adjusted to the fact that her eldest son can’t join in the feast on souvla day. She has even cut down on beef, pork and lamb herself.

But there is another reason why my allergy diagnosis hit so hard, and it’s more to do with the method of cooking than the meat itself.  

In Cyprus, my late grandfather Savvas was a woodcutter and charcoal burner. When he made charcoal to sell to neighbouring villagers, he’d build a large upright mound with stumps and large branches in the centre, and smaller bits of wood on the outer layer. He’d then coat the mound with mud and set it on fire, ensuring a long, slow burn with very little oxygen. During this two or three-day process, the mound would have to be continuously monitored, and my mother remembers staying up overnight to keep my grandfather company until the task was complete.

My late grandfather made charcoal to sell to neighbouring villagers. During this two or three-day process, my mother remembers staying up overnight to keep my grandfather company

Savvas raised a family of seven children in the village of Arakapas, in the southern foothills of the Troodos mountains, and all meals were cooked outside with burnt wood. When he migrated to Australia, he brought the charcoal tradition with him, and it’s always been the centrepiece of our family gatherings.

Even the act of starting the fire has a sense of ceremony to it. Gathering the required equipment, striking the match and standing back to watch as the flames wrap their arms around the coals until they glow with burning heat, ready to be used as cooking fuel. 

Thankfully, three years on from my diagnosis, I’ve found that I can consume very small amounts of meat without any obvious allergic reaction. It means that when the family gets together, I can join my cousins, aunties and uncles and indulge in a sheftalia or a few mouthfuls of charcoal-cooked lamb.

But even when I’m not eating meat, I still enjoy few things more than a backyard barbecue, and the ritual of lighting a fire and cooking anything – fish, halloumi cheese, eggplant, pineapple or even just a marshmallow – over hot, glowing coals. It enhances the flavour of the ingredient I’m cooking, and connects me with family, tradition and heritage.