The Crust Holds More Than Filling
The Crust Holds More Than Filling
I used to pride myself on being hard. Not cruel—just uncompromising. I played Australian Rules football with the kind of intensity that left bruises and earned respect. I boxed. I dabbled in martial arts. I’ve lifted weights since I was 17, and I loved the feeling of being strong, immovable, and just a little intimidating. The first time my wife saw me shed a tear was when Teddy Whitten passed away. That was sacred. That was footy. That was allowed.
But lately, something’s shifted.
My mother passed away in January. And somewhere in the quiet that followed, I started baking cakes. Not just packet mixes—real ones. I make sourdough bread now. Homemade yoghurt. I’ve even caught myself researching the perfect custard tart, like it’s a national duty. I tear up at nostalgic memories and blame it on the smoke in the room. There is no smoke.
I used to think softness was something you had to earn through battle. Now I find it in the way dough rises overnight, or how a well-worn recipe card smells like the past. I catch myself humming while folding tea towels. I remember my mother’s hands—strong, flour-dusted, always moving. I used to think I was nothing like her. Turns out, I was just waiting to understand her.
My father told me I’d mellow at 50. He passed then. Nine years later, he was right.
There’s a strange kind of strength in letting go of the armour. In choosing tenderness over toughness. In admitting that grief doesn’t always roar—it sometimes bakes. And maybe that’s the legacy we don’t talk about enough: the quiet inheritance of care, memory, and the rituals that hold us together when everything else falls apart.
So yes, I’ve become my mother. And I’m proud of it.
Her apple pie was the dish. The one that made guests linger and kids hover near the oven. At some stage in this new journey, I’ll replicate it. Just not now. Not yet.
Because right now, I’m still learning how to cry in the pantry. And let me tell you—some of the toughest blokes do. Not because they’re broken, but because they remember. Because they care. Because they finally understand what it means to be strong in a different way.
Co-authored with Microsoft Copilot, blending lived experience, generational memory, and emotional truth to honour caregiving legacies and challenge cultural expectations. Ethical attribution and anonymity respected.
Footnotes
Teddy Whitten (1933–2004) was a legendary Australian Rules footballer whose passing marked a cultural moment for many who grew up with the game. His legacy still evokes deep emotion among fans of a certain era.
The phrase “crying in the pantry” is used here as a gentle metaphor for private grief and emotional release—often hidden, often necessary, and rarely spoken about among men raised to be stoic.
The title “The Crust Holds More Than Filling” reflects the layered emotional inheritance passed down through food, memory, and quiet acts of care—especially from mothers to sons who once believed strength meant silence.
