The Vanishing Australian Tablespoon

Before we emigrated from the USA in 1969, visiting Australians told us we would find Australia like the USA, only twenty years behind, but on arrival it seemed more to us like a sunnier version of the UK. Of course, a lot has changed since then, all over the Anglosphere; each nation is evolving in different ways; each nation does things differently; some nations do things better than others. For example, both the USA and the UK have experienced more local opposition to metrication, while Australia adopted metrication successfully, but not quite universally, between 1970 and 1988.

In spite of Australia’s success with metrication, for reasons that are increasingly obscure, and increasingly irrelevant, we refused to adopt the standard metric tablespoon of 15 ml (three 5 ml teaspoons)—which happens to be nearly identical to the standard US tablespoon—and clung to an Australian tablespoon of 20 ml (four 5 ml teaspoons). This Australia-only tablespoon has become somewhat mythical except in cookbooks and blogs and among those who like to chat about non-essential things. What made us do this? Was it a fear that our baking would fail? Was it a crisis of national identity? Perhaps someone will write a PhD some day and enlighten us.

In my first cookbook, From Julia Child’s Kitchen (1970)—a twenty-second birthday present from my maternal grandmother in California (who also sent a begged-for case of Hershey’s hot fudge)—Julia was upbeat: “America is the only major country that has not yet converted to the metric system, and certainly in another generation we shall happily and comfortably have done so.” She waxed lyrical about what this imminent metrication would do for the US cook: all will become logical and simple; because everything is in units of ten; because weights and measures are easily transferred between systems; because liquid and dry measurements are approximate enough to keep using non-metric measuring cups and spoons: “Professionals and scientists must, of course, be precise down to the fraction of a fraction,” she said, “and anyone tripling or quadrupling recipes had better watch their millilitres, but we in everyday home cooking can take a far more relaxed attitude.”

Alas, nearly two generations have passed since Julia’s optimism appeared in print, and it’s doubtful whether the US cook is far more relaxed about metrication. This is because the USA has chosen a difficult path. Visiting an American supermarket reinforces the view that a commitment to side-by-side metric labelling isn’t doing much to reduce metrication anxiety among local cooks. A label telling them a quart of milk is 946 ml, or two pounds of flour is 907 g, doesn’t encourage the view that each measure is pretty well interchangeable; it merely reinforces the view that metrication is fraught with danger; a label saying one quart is approximately one litre, or two pounds is approximately one kilo, might get more of them to take the plunge.

Julia’s attitude towards metrication was similar to ours; the two systems are roughly equivalent; a metric recipe yields a slightly larger result; so take the plunge and don’t worry too much; just be consistent; use one system or the other and don’t mix them up. She would have admired the way we managed metrication in Australia, apart from our tablespoon, which she wouldn’t have comprehended, because it isn’t comprehensible, especially since the standard US tablespoon and the standard metric tablespoon outside Australia are nearly identical. (The British tablespoon is apparently 17.7 ml—halfway between the Australian and US tablespoons—and is therefore best left to its own devices.)

If the purpose of metrication was to allow Australia to position itself in a globalising world, what was keeping our 20 ml tablespoon about? Has it been helpful or is it just peculiar? Is it really necessary? If it is necessary, where do we buy one? My measuring bowls, cups and spoons are all metric. I bought them in Australia and the tablespoon is 15 ml. Recently I went into a homeware store that offered seven different sets of measuring spoons (six plastic and one metal): four plastic sets had a 15 ml tablespoon; the one metal set had a 20 ml tablespoon; two plastic sets looked as if the tablespoon was 15 ml, but studiously refrained from disclosing the ml, either on the tablespoon itself or anywhere in the packaging, presumably because the manufacturers didn’t want to get into a lose–lose debate with potential customers. Also, all the measuring bowls, cups and spoons were made in China, mostly for companies in Europe and North America who sold them to Australia. Now, the question is: In this kind of globalising environment, why should foreign companies selling measuring equipment for domestic cooking have to make a 20 ml tablespoon for the small Australian market and a 15 ml tablespoon for the huge standard metric and standard US markets?

Who is responsible for this Australia-only tablespoon? The still current Australian Standard 1325, Measuring cups and spoons for domestic purposes (1997), adopted international metric measures for cups and spoons, except for the tablespoon, which Standards Australia still insists is 20 ml (four 5 ml teaspoons) not 15 ml (three 5 ml teaspoons). Standard 1325 was prepared by Committee MS/6 (Cooking Utensils Dimensions), which comprised the following four stakeholders: the Australian Gas Cooking School, the National Council of Women of Australia, the New South Wales TAFE Commission, and the Metal Trades Industry Association. We might guess the committee overwhelmingly represented the interests of women who cooked or taught cookery; women who were highly sensitive to the loss of 5 ml, globalisation or no globalisation. We might also guess this kind of female sensitivity is a large part of the metrication problem in the USA and UK but on a much larger scale. If only more cooks, and cookbook editors, had the same relaxed attitude as Julia and didn’t treat domestic cookery as an exact science. If only they were more like statisticians, who place confidence intervals around their estimates, who smooth their data as the need arises. If only they were more like climate modellers.

The issue would present itself as a harmless eccentricity if it hadn’t been occurring at the same time as our pioneering generation of cookbook authors were launching themselves internationally and letting the world know how far Australia had come, culinarily speaking. (Wasn’t that what metrication was supposed to encourage?) When you read their guides to weights and measures, which in addition to metrication had to reconcile the American convention of measuring by volume and the British convention of measuring by weight, you get the sense that their task could have been made a little easier. In Charmaine Solomon’s Complete Asian Cookbook (1976 edition), which I’ve seen in bookstores overseas, Charmaine had to tell the world to make adjustments for our tablespoon. In Tess Mallos’s Complete Middle Eastern Cookbook (1991 edition), which I’ve also seen in bookstores overseas, Tess was more philosophical; she confessed her recipes were all tested with Australian measures but cooks in the UK, USA and Canada could use their own measures with equal success: “Where tablespoon measures have been given,” she added, “these are not crucial measures, so using the smaller tablespoon of the USA or UK will not affect the recipe’s success. At least we all agree on the teaspoon size.” By the time we get to Stephanie Alexander’s Cook’s Companion (1996 edition), Stephanie set the tone for the future and diplomatically avoided the tablespoon issue, whether out of embarrassment or because she hoped it might go away: in her cookbook, the tablespoon will be whatever the reader wants it to be, whatever they have at hand. It’s a pity Committee MS/6 didn’t write Standard 1325 with an eye towards the needs of Solomon, Mallos and Alexander, who had been publishing international cookbooks for twenty years before the standard was published in 1997.

Our pioneers have given way to another generation of cookbook authors living in a twenty-first-century context which in many ways is different but in some ways is similar. The cookbook market is vast and has splintered along demographic lines. Australian cookbooks fall into distinct categories, depending on their target audience. What we might call the more literary cookbooks tend to keep an eye on the rest of the world, a global market that also keeps an eye on Australia; they tend to ignore the tablespoon issue, perhaps as an unfortunate relic of the past, like the White Australia policy, and some sidestep the issue by opting to measure by weight rather than volume. What we might call the more local cookbooks tend to re-package traditional anthologies of recipes for domestic consumption; for example, from the Women’s Weekly or the Country Women’s Association. They tend to mention the tablespoon issue because, well, this is Australia and a significant proportion of their target audience is going to be aware of it (if not worried about it).

In spite of its irrelevance, as far as the tablespoon is concerned, Standard 1325 is still in effect. It would be good if Standards Australia saw fit to re-issue the standard. Since the only thing that needs to be done is change the tablespoon from 20 ml to 15 ml, they might not even need to re-convene a committee. They could explain what they’ve done in a paragraph of text and put us out of our misery. This would simply be bowing to the inevitable, since so many cookbooks now come from overseas and few if any overseas cookbooks are going to bother about an Australian tablespoon. Globalisation has a way of working these things out, standard or no standard.