The seventies were when Australian kitchens started looking outward, when exotic meant exciting rather than scary. I found this recipe in my mother's old handwritten cookbook, dated 1977, tucked between the lamingtons and the pavlova. She'd taken a cooking class at the local community centre, taught by a Thai woman who'd just moved to the neighbourhood. The recipe card is stained with coconut milk and love, the corners worn from being pulled out again and again. Back then, getting Thai basil meant a special trip across town. Now it's everywhere, but the magic hasn't faded — that moment when the curry paste hits hot oil and the whole kitchen transforms into somewhere far away and wonderful.