Part two
Matthew Evans, former food critic and most recently known for his Gourmet Farmer television series and books, takes an approach based on the understanding that farming well comes with a responsibility that the broader public should at least consider as they consume. ‘I want people to eat well,’ he says ‘but I want animals treated with a certain amount of dignity and respect.’ The rationale is essentially that, as an affluent nation, there’s a responsibility to look after what we rear – and to know not only providence, in an image of those ancient Shinto traditions, but the ache behind the feast on the plate.
For Evans, it is about a ‘decent life and a decent death’ – the pig may well be killed months before sexual maturity, but at least time and care have been taken to raise its health and give it a good run around a grassy paddock – rather than a life lived on a concrete slab being pumped full of grain or packed inside tin sheds, lying on its side in a tiny stall, in a constant state of pregnancy. The responsibility stems from the knowledge that ‘the only reason they are alive is because we want to eat them,’ and because of this there should be some generosity towards the beast which provides us with proteins to sustain, yes, but also the simple pleasure of a lunch shared in the warmth of our companions. The harvest feast should remain a celebration of an animal’s life, taken for our sustenance and enjoyment.
Jay Patey, baker and co-owner of Hobart’s tiny, charming café, Pigeon Hole and Pigeon Whole Bakers, bemoans this loss of connection with the simplicity of seasonal life. The Summer hail of tomatoes is worth noticing, he says. An absence of nine months can make that most beautifully basic of fruits cause for celebration at its return. Patey chooses to seize the potential in the space of Tasmanian living.
On an island where sizeable yards allow for garden bed growth where clipped lawn used to be, Tasmanian food culture is in a special, unique position – and it is not hard to promote a whole-food culture as a result. Not only does inner-city Hobart feel rural, with wide streets and farmers’ markets on the weekends, but throughout the Island there are apple sheds and potato stalls selling freshness and pleasure.
A Cox’s apple is good for eating, and Dutch Creams perfect for mash – both reasons to celebrate, in kilo sacks. It’s quaint, and cutely connected. Apparently Sunday drives, and rides, are better down here because the abundance of civil engineers in Tasmania (following the boom of the hydro dams) made for easy cambers, but really it’s the land yielding such fresh roadside treats. Both in the loss and the joy of the harvest, Tasmanians should see in their space something to cherish and explore. Some answers are hard, but others are spectacularly rewarding. It all depends on how involved you want to be in how and why you eat what you eat, and whether that means something or not. How can it not?
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