A plastic garlic bulb is on display in the museum as an ethnic contribution to our state. Plastic covered sofas reserved for special guests in my Father’s Zia’s parlour. We sit on them once upon arrival but now congregate familiar around the Formica table. The plastic cloves are indivisible now that southern Europeans are considered white. Restrictive quotas that once separated north from south, now tolerate warm tones. A plastic garlic, the colour of milk fat on the cappuccino strip, umbrellas waft, papery skins lift, the sea breeze ventilates alfresco dining. I should be grateful for the assimilation of the plastic artefact.