I’ve always been moved by seeing people sleeping and begging in the streets and wondered what their story is. How did they get to this place? Do they have a family? What do they dream about? Do their minds wander back to lost loves, missed opportunities and regrets or are their concerns primarily basic human survival? Where and when will I get my next meal? There’s a storm approaching, where can I find shelter?

My family was raised to share what we were blessed with and treat all people as equal; so it always breaks my heart to walk by someone on the street who looks hungry, in need of a shower, clean clothes or even a hug and some encouragement. When I’ve gone through dark times in my life, the support of my family and friends helped me get through and eventually feel stronger than before. Who do these people have to turn to?

I never had the guts to walk up and ask someone these questions because I thought, ‘Why would they want to share their story with me? Just because they’re on the street doesn’t mean they have nothing better to do than indulge my curiosity.’ One Saturday morning, about two years ago, I was walking down deserted, cold George Street lined with buildings like a fortress. There was a different energy in the city compared with the weekday buzz of the 9 to 5 crowd, honking taxi horns and peak hour traffic crawling like ants to their colony. I was strolling towards Pitt Street Mall in search of a dress to wear to a wedding and I saw some homeless men sitting on the sidewalk. This time I felt the urge to do something about my sadness and diverted into the first convenience store I could see.

I bought a sandwich, an apple and a bottle of water and walked up to the man outside the door. The man said, “I can’t eat apples” and proceeded to lift his top lip to show me that his mouth was completely toothless! He told me that he also has food allergies and needs to buy groceries himself to read the ingredients on the labels. At first I was taken aback by this man’s reaction and then I offered to give him the food anyway to share it with a friend.

image gratefully supplied by Jessica Fernandez

This was a real eye-opener for me because I hadn’t thought about the fact that this man has specific needs just like you and me. He wasn’t acting desperate – he was simply asking for financial assistance from anyone who was willing to help. I left the food with the man and he said, “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it”, and I walked away with more questions than before and tears streaming down my face. I felt like I wanted to do more but then I started to ask myself why I was so affected.

Was this my ego wanting to show off to the passersby that I was such a ‘good Samaritan’? Was it because I couldn’t stand the thought of a person not enjoying one of life’s greatest pleasures, food? Or was it because my dad and his family left behind poverty in India to build a better life in Australia, and the thought of this cuts me deep inside? Whatever the reason, I felt grateful that I trusted my intuition and offered this man a small gesture of kindness.

I had lunch with my dad on 30th October for his birthday and we chatted about the dishes his dad used to cook for the family. My grandfather, Kingsley Fernandez, passed away on 25th January, 1981, just before my parents met, and I found a photo of my dad next to his father’s headstone while I was going through some old photo albums. My dad told me that meat was very expensive in India when he was a young boy – so his parents would make dishes using offal (animal organs) and turn it into some of the tastiest meals he ever had.

Dad recalled a dish using goat head, “The meat was minced up and mixed with typical Indian spices, and the flavour was just, wow”, he said. They also ate duck, rabbit, liver, kidney, lambs’ brains, cows’ tongue and hearts. Theses types of peasant or working class dishes from around the world have made a comeback and are now commonly featured on fine dining menus. Being exposed to these foods as a child has definitely influenced my willingness to try new flavours. I tried sweetbreads a few months ago for the first time at a hatted French restaurant in Haberfield [suburb of Sydney]. Once I got past thinking about what organ I was eating, I really enjoyed the dish because it was cooked well and, after all, it’s just another form of protein.

I am grateful for the strong influence my dad had and still has on my food habits, especially his hate for waste. My grandfather worked hard on the railways to provide food for his nine children – so nothing was taken for granted. If my sisters and I didn’t like eating something or didn’t finish our meal, Dad would tell us stories of how children in India starve and cry for food. Sometimes to get the message across in a different way, he would tell us a story about how the peas were separated from their families so we could eat them and that’s why we shouldn’t waste anything on our plates.

When I watched Slum Dog Millionaire, a film about the life story of a boy from the slums of Mumbai, I cried for the entire 120 minutes. It’s inspiring to know that real people go through spirit breaking trials like the scenes in this movie and still maintain faith that their situation will improve. I’m planning to visit India next year with my dad and sisters to celebrate Dad’s 60th birthday. Amid the celebration, feasting and sightseeing I’m sure the blatant poverty will be a sobering and confronting experience. We’re truly blessed with abundance and variety in Australia and I believe fresh, nutritious food is a basic human right – not a luxury. My plan is to support a charity that shares my sentiments.

Jessica Fernandez is a freelance writer with an interest in food stories. Based in Sydney, Jessica also writes a food blog which features recipes, food adventures and experiences. You can read her lovely blog at  www.jessicafernandez.com.au and contact her on This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it or phone 0431 216 880.