My husband and I once lived in a 50-square-metre apartment. It was small in the way that forces ambition elsewhere. We didn’t have a dining table. We had a trestle table stored behind the couch, like a secret magic trick.

When friends came over, we didn’t squeeze in. We carried the pop-up table down the street to the Botanical Gardens, on the nature strip just on Domain Road.

We did the whole thing - a full commitment to our outdoor dining room. Tablecloth. Proper plates. Real cutlery. Wine glasses. Music. No picnic gear in sight. Just straight up, crockery in the park.

We cooked everything in the apartment and ferried it down to the nature strip. Ragu. Fish. Vongole. Pizza. It felt like our own little restaurant had opened for the night. No bookings. Questionable licensing. Sometimes if we planned it right, one of the fancy restaurants down the road would be having a jazz night - so live music was an extra bonus. 

There was something thrilling about it. A few wines in, deeply happy. The smell of freshly cut council grass, mixed with food. The mild adrenaline of being in a public space while feeling completely at home. People walking past. The sunset casting colours across the sky. The sense that we were getting away with something naughty, even though we absolutely weren’t! (In Victoria you can drink wine in most parks).

So many of our friends experienced our outdoor restaurant with us. It started to become a serious occasion. We just couldn’t wait to have people over and share the alfresco thrill of it all.

Now I’m a grown-up (and feel like one because I have my very own backyard), our family eats outside more than we eat inside. Just because it's so much nicer than inside! The air, the smells of the garden. Although we miss the days of our nature-strip pop-up restaurant, we are constantly struck by how lucky we are to have our own space.

When we first moved in, our yard was lovely its own way. It was scruffy and overgrown with no outdoor dining area. We are south facing you see, which means we don’t get a huge amount of sun, but the little patch of sun we did get was occupied by beautiful salvias. So sometimes we would sit in our backyard, and look at those salvias, being so lovely in the sun, and honestly being a little jealous of their disposition. 

As I shivered in the afternoon shade, I realised that, yes the garden is for flowers but its also for us humans! So my husband and I decided to invest in landscaping — proper adult stuff. Ag pipes. Drains. Buffalo grass. Words we’d never used in a sentence before. We even put in an outdoor wood-fired pizza oven, because once you start saying “ag pipes” you may as well keep going.

Any renovation is a scary financial commitment and deeply unsexy on paper, but it changed everything. The pizza oven brings the whole extended family together. The cooking becomes the main event. People help, guests ask questions, everyone is attentive. We say it often, usually mid-meal, usually while holding a glass of wine: this is the best money we’ve ever spent! 

In Australia, the outdoors isn’t somewhere you plan to go, it’s where life happens to be 90% of the time! It’s one of the best things about our country. In Queensland, balconies are dining rooms. Verandahs are living spaces. The barbecue is used more than the indoor kitchen, because it’s just second nature up north. Why heat the house when you can cook outside. It makes sense. 

While living in Queensland briefly, I found what I cooked naturally adapted to balcony living. You cook differently. You choose meals that survive heat, insects and interruptions. You stop aiming for perfection and start aiming for “still good in ten minutes.” And that is pretty amazing when it’s 30 degrees, 87% humidity, and the Shooaway’s on full speed.

I found dining outdoors gives some equality. There is no head of the table on a picnic rug or a balcony. Hosting becomes more of a communal get together... Someone gets the ice for the beers. Someone brings the salad. Someone slices bread. Someone forgets the salt. No one seems to care.

There is also an honesty to eating outside. Crumbs are allowed. Fingers are encouraged. Paper towels are used as napkins. You forgive a lot when there’s a breeze and nowhere else you need to be. For me, the outdoors isn’t about the perfect meal, served at restaurant level. It’s about being comfortable with your guests, having honest food that fits into your life. To the way we actually live.

Some of my favourite memories of ‘living my best life’, have happened outdoors … long before we had a backyard, or even a table of our own. And some of the best meals don’t happen in kitchens at all. They happen on balconies. On verandahs. In parks. In backyards. With borrowed tables. Or public barbecues.

With food that tastes better because of where you are and who you’re with. The outdoors, at its best, reminds you that living well doesn’t require much.

Just a table. Something good to eat. And a vague sense that you might be pushing the rules, even when you’re not!