Tropfest. Picnicfest. A bottle of excellent Winstead pinot noir from Bagdad. The Tassie Bagdad, a town in the drought-stricken Southern Midlands. A slab of experimental aged cow’s milk cheese with the texture of grana and a long, deep, satisfying flavour that brings back memories of haystacks and barns and country girls and wandering hands. Saydeh’s hummus and baba ghanoush, made fresh by the owner of my local IGA. Summer Kitchen’s wholesome hunza pie. And rugs splayed out across the lawn in front of the big screen.

We dip and chomp and try to steal moments of conversation between the short flicks.

I make lunch for friends. Mushrooms braised to silky softness in a tomato and red wine sauce. There’s polenta, cooked in the traditional way for an hour so the starch changes in flavour and the texture becomes more palatable than the fast-cooked version. It’s enriched with butter and cheese, than spread thinly on a large board. The sauce is smeared over the top and broccoli, simmered with chilli and garlic then finished with olive oil and lemon, is dotted around. You eat the polenta from the board – no plates – gouging out your territory in the yellow gruel. It’s an old Italian way of eating – no talking, I’m told, because then you’d miss out on eating your fill.