He had absolutely no idea. There’d been no prior discussion. Not even the merest hint that such-and-such was being arranged. In a way, says George, it all took place behind his back. He was 28 and single. It was the ‘80s. In keeping with the spirit of New Wave, which was making a sort of segue from the shrill grungy rebellion of Punk Rock, a lot of his friends were moving out (of their parents’ homes) and seeking their own independence, often with painful initiation.

Somehow, the thought never entered his head. Not at 21 and certainly not at 28, by which time he was too thoroughly bonded with his mother’s cooking and driving his father’s second car (gas free) to work, to ever contemplate a life on his own.

Since they lived in this picturesque farming place miles and miles away from Sydney, he obtained work on a nearby farm, driving a tractor, helping with the livestock and on several occasions assisting the vet with the delivery of a new-born calf.

His mother, true to the tradition of the times, stayed at home, but in doing so ended up working far more than the two men who went out to earn their upkeep. She cooked, she cleaned, she scrubbed, she baked, she sewed, she darned and when night came and the two men were exhausted from their day’s labour and snoring, she’d be the last to give the home one final look over — straighten a cushion on the couch, pick up a peeled-off sock from the carpet — before turning out the light.

George’s dad worked at the leather tanning factory in the next town. One of his colleagues at the factory was Jay Rinaldi, an immigrant from the Philippines. At break time, the men sat and smoked together but when work ended, they went their separate ways. There was no history of socialising which is why, when he first spotted her on the back step, George wasn’t sure if his eyes were seeing right. He had, after all, just taken a swing with the cricket bat — in a game of backyard cricket — pirouetting with the momentum, though he missed the ball altogether.

“My first thought, admittedly was a racist one,” laughs George, “I thought to myself what’s an Asian woman doing here and who on earth is she?”

Jay Rinaldi’s only daughter, Ancita, that’s who she was.

“You heard about dad’s first Asian meal?” asks a striking young woman, entering the room with a child on her hip and a milk bottle clamped to its mouth. This is George’s daughter, Sarah Lee, and she has a twinkle in her eye.

“You tell him,” says George.

By all accounts, their first two meals sound like episodes of Cultural Revenge. Ancita, who is at the stove frying and sizzling things, speaks over the noise.

“It’s his fault. And his parents’. They invited me over and gave me a dinner of beef roast, potato mash and green peas.” George coughs apologetically, adding, “It wasn’t a very ‘moving’ experience for Ancita, I’m afraid. Moving in the evacuation sense, if you know what I mean.”

“Still, I married him,” she counters, with good humour.

“Not before exacting revenge. Tell him, dad,” urges Sarah Lee.

“Oh, well, her parents invited me over and the beautiful lady here was given total charge of the kitchen to woo her man with her best dishes. Rice, with coconut milk. Fish, with coconut milk and a handful of chillies just enough to make the crown of your head steamy.”

The girls are in hysterics.

“I didn’t see George for five days. Nobody in fact saw him. And look at us now. Six brats and grandparents.”

Who was it said cultures are not like oil and water; you give two cultures time they’ll blend, no matter how disparate, for each brings to the table their own brand of richness and in the infusion a new strain is created.

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.