Food on the Edge: the power of conversations to create change

When I think of some of the best conversations I’ve had, they are defined more by the questions they have raised than any neat solutions they’ve offered. Finding the space to come together to ask searching questions, to listen, to be challenged, to make connections and build relationships, sometimes in the unlikeliest of places, seems to be more important than ever these days.

In October, people from around the world gathered to create just this kind of space at the Food on the Edge symposium in Galway, on the west coast of Ireland. The symposium aims to challenge our perspectives on food and our connection to it, and features TED-style talks by speakers chosen for their innovation, passion and influence on contemporary food culture. This year focused on the power of conversations to transform the way we relate to food and each other. The conversation continued afterwards as the speakers spent two days visiting local Irish producers and attractions.

Attyflin Estate, Co. Limerick

Attyflin Estate, Co. Limerick

Attyflin Estate, Co. Limerick

Often our first experience of other cultures is through food. Instinctively, we know that the relationship that people have with food tells us a lot about who they are and how they live. And yet, if we had to explain our own food culture to someone, would we know how? Could we trace how our relationship with food is shaped by our culture?

These are some of the questions that Adrian Klonowski and Matylda Grzelak posed as they shared their story of closing their successful fine dining restaurant in Poland to start again from scratch. Despite trying to promote Poland and its produce, Klonowski and Grzelak realised they had adopted popular Nordic and fine dining trends that did not ring true. They explained that in Poland, dining is more informal and centred in the kitchen where people cook, talk and eat together. They remembered that it was these authentic experiences they sought out when they travelled, and felt that people who dined with them were missing.

Unexpectedly, it was working at a restaurant on an island in Estonia that helped Klonowski and Grzelak find a way back to their Polish food culture. Faced with the challenge of creating a menu with limited ingredients and understanding of the Nordic islands, they constantly asked questions. Very quickly, stories emerged that revealed to them that customs convey the food identity of a place or culture. For example, they encountered the mealtime greeting jätku leiba, which means “may your bread last”. As they asked more about it, they learned about the custom of guests bringing bread as a gift, especially when visiting from the mainland. The limited ingredients on the island meant bread was important and needed to last when other food was scarce. It is with this philosophy that Klonowski and Grzelak will open their new restaurant in Poland to promote and keep Polish customs alive.

This was echoed by Russian chef Vladimir Mukhin, who spoke about how an import embargo forced him to source produce solely within Russia and ended up making him an advocate for Russian food culture. At first, he was seeking local produce that would meet his high standards but as he formed relationships with farmers and met Russian elders, he deepened his understanding and appreciation of Russian food traditions. Mukhin became inspired to share this with others more broadly by celebrating and saving Russian food traditions, creating new trends for modern times, and promoting Russian cuisine at home and abroad through festivals and open kitchens.z

Gregans Castle, Co. Clare

Gregans Castle, Co. Clare

Flaggy Shore Oysters, Co. Clare

Cliffs of Moher, Co. Clare

In contrast to the Polish and Russian speakers, who spoke of rediscovering what they have, a Japanese chef, Takashi Miyazaki described his experience of cultural exchange here in Ireland. By applying Japanese techniques to Irish ingredients, Miyazaki has found a way to embrace both his Japanese heritage and his new home.

When he arrived in Ireland in 2008, Miyazaki was surprised by the lack of local appreciation for seafood and seaweed compared to Japan, given Ireland is also an island nation. Yet he also saw opportunities to work with the abundance of excellent seafood and types of seaweed not encountered in Japan.

Miyazaki has found a receptive local audience and industry recognition by showing the potential of seafood that had been undervalued in Ireland. While Food on the Edge director JP McMahon and other Irish chefs are also championing Irish produce, McMahon reflected that “sometimes it takes people from outside to teach us what we have”.

Rigneys Farm, Co. Limerick

Karissa Bercerra, La Revolución

The desire to not only find and share one’s food culture, but also shape it, was another theme of the symposium. Some of the most compelling conversations were inspired by speakers who showed the potential to transform the way we live by changing our relationship with food. They saw beyond individual cultural heritage to advocate for a shared inheritance of our environment and dignity as fellow humans.

Karissa Becerra’s non-profit organisation, La Revolución asks why a country with a strong food culture like Peru can have both increasing child malnutrition and adult obesity. Becerra and her team are building early intervention programs to create lasting social change by empowering children to become responsible consumers who choose good quality, healthy and delicious food while also being conscious of their environmental impact and cultural heritage.

For example, in recognising that the palate is the best weapon to guard against poor food choices, La Revolución has examined how to avoid dependency on refined sugar from early childhood. Its ChocoRevolución program teaches children the process of making chocolate and the health and taste benefits of good quality dark chocolate, and the difference they can make by supporting Peruvian biodiversity and farmers of native cocoa beans. Becerra is enthusiastic about how children understand these concepts and change their habits immediately, while also becoming advocates in their families and communities.

Joshna Maharaj, Take Back the Tray

Food on the Edge symposium

Another chef and activist, Joshna Maharaj inspired many at the conference with her conviction to transform the way food is produced and served in public institutions in Canada. Maharaj lamented the deterioration of institutional food to become an industrial process left to the lowest bidder, rather than being valued for its role in nurturing health and wellbeing. Through the Take Back the Tray campaign, she is championing a philosophy that good food can be healthy, delicious and pleasurable; and for a return to the principles of hospitality and human dignity for people in our care.

Maharaj has faced considerable resistance from asking hospitals and universities to return to making food from scratch. While common in the restaurant world, it was controversial for Maharaj to call for sourcing produce from local farmers and small businesses, offering seasonal and culturally appropriate food for diverse populations, upskilling catering staff to cook again after years of de-skilling from using pre-prepared food, and taking staff on field trips to local farms. Like Becerra however, she has found that staff become engaged advocates when they realise the opportunity to take pride in their work and support their community, with one staff member saying, “I would be so proud to serve these greens to our patients”.

Charlie Byrne’s pop-up bookshop, Food on the Edge symposium

Artisan Village, Food on the Edge symposium

Irish Raw Milk Cheese Presidium, Food on the Edge symposium

Another compelling conversation centred on transforming our relationship to food by eliminating waste. Several chefs and producers showed how they are leading the way by asking themselves how they can reduce their own ecological footprint and also use their creativity to shift public perception about what is possible. Some speakers were provocative in declaring that waste is a lack of imagination, but many have also begun by making small changes where they are, just like we can at home.

Two pioneers are Doug McMaster and Dan Gibeon of Silo Brighton, the UK’s first zero-waste restaurant. At Silo, they eliminate waste production at every level of their restaurant by trading directly with small suppliers, recycling and reusing containers for food and furniture at the restaurant, processing food as much as possible on-site, composting their organic waste on-site and sending it back to farmers to close the loop.

While beyond the means of the vast majority of restaurants and homes, McMaster and Gibeon are showing how creative we can be to eliminate waste. They led an inspired masterclass on the Alexander plant to demonstrate how they use different parts of this wild plant across the seasons to make everything from oils to ice cream, cocktails and pickles. They even shared canapés they had made using the Alexander plant and crackers using excess sourdough starter culture.

Doug McMaster and Dan Gibeon, Silo Brighton

Alexander Plant canapés by Doug McMaster and Dan Gibeon

Spanish chef, Albert Adrià is also harnessing creativity to address rapid decline of fish stocks and species. He spoke about seeking alternatives to using seafood that is endangered or out of season by inventively using elements that would otherwise be discarded (such as octopus and monkfish heads), and learning from other cultures that do use those parts in their cuisines. Adrià is promoting these methods in his own restaurants to demonstrate ways to make the most of seafood trimmings that would normally be discarded, and to give them what he described as more dignified treatment.

At the other end of the process, Irish Seed Savers and Brown Envelope Seeds are working to educate people about the value of seeds to avoid the loss of Ireland’s native fruit and vegetable varieties. They are conducting seed trials to compare different varieties and identify what grows, stores and tastes best across the seasons. Their aim is to open up a conversation with chefs to share these varieties and understand what chefs want to cook with so that those seeds can be produced and promoted, and so consumers will recognise the taste and value of that produce and want to protect it too.

Rigneys Farm, Co. Limerick

Donal O’Grady’s beef farm, Co. Limerick

Rigneys Farm, Co. Limerick

These stories from Food on the Edge show how coming together to share our diverse perspectives can build relationships, make connections and create change. Some found great inspiration in rediscovering and celebrating their food heritage and sharing it, while others looked to a collective inheritance that transcends borders via the themes of health and wellbeing, human dignity and sustainability. They all showed that we have the power to influence the way we live through our choices and questions. In this light, we can see that culture works both ways – it is an inheritance that we all receive and also an obligation we have to participate in and shape. We don’t need all the answers, we only need to join the conversation.

Donal O’Grady’s beef farm, Co. Limerick

The Burren in between

I first visited the Burren region of Ireland last year and it really took hold of me. So much so that when it came to time to leave, I had a wrenching feeling and didn’t want to go. I couldn’t explain why exactly, but it was so powerfully visceral, I had to take notice.

This part of north County Clare is where the Burren’s limestone hills meet the sometimes wild weather coming in from the Atlantic. There is great drama to take in – from the waves crashing against the rocks to the sand dunes’ grasses waving in the wind whipping off the water, and sunlight flaring across the bleakness of the limestone.

Tiny flowers and ferns grow in the protection of the limestone’s grikes and whitethorn trees grow low and bent in the direction of the westerly gusts. Dry stone walls delineate fields and farms, and are carefully constructed with openings to allow the wind to blow through them.

Walking high on the ridgelines and along green roads on a clear day you can see across the bay to the Aran Islands and the mountains of Connemara.

Mobile homes at the caravan park shelter behind the dunes at the beach. Their rectangular silhouettes placed at angles to brace against the wind, like tanks on a battlefield; the lighthouse too.

The mystical, pulsing vitality of this place gets under your skin. It did mine. After spending just a week here immersed in its landscape, poetry and music, I knew I wanted to return.

There’s something thrilling about tasting the breadth and diversity of the world that I wouldn’t want to give up. But there’s also a lot to be gained from devoting time and attention to the richness of one place and your encounter with it.

In a region like the Burren, there are layers revealed by steeping yourself in it, whether in one block of time or by returning across the seasons and the years.

When I came back here last year, I was in a liminal space having quit my corporate job and city life, and feeling my way into a new one. I planned to stay for two months. I would rent a house so I could cook and have my own space. I would write and edit in the mornings and go hiking in the afternoons. I knew some people from my last visit so I wouldn’t be completely alone, but I did think it would be a quiet time spent largely in solitude, which is what I thought I needed.

These photographs were taken during the early days. They are dear to me because they reflect back to me the openness and curiosity of that time, of grounding myself in this place. I began to shift my orientation from walking through the landscape, to immersing myself in the place. I tuned into what was around me and noticed details I might otherwise miss. I covered much less ground and discovered more.

With my openness, I frequently encountered warm and generous people, who welcomed me into their lives and communities in ways I could never have expected. Opportunities opened up all the time and I ended up having a busy social life, which included meeting my husband!

As summer turned into autumn, I witnessed the change of seasons in the landscape and light. Now that I have returned to live here, I’m fortunate to explore its different faces across the year.

One advantage of being a foreigner is that everything is experienced for the first time and with wonder, rather than the closed complacency of the familiar. And yet, I believe that the invitation is always there, wherever we are. Home can be place we inhabit with wonder just as much as somewhere new, but it is more likely to be subtler as we experience its shifts more gradually.

It seems the key is our perspective and willingness to open ourselves to experiences with curiosity. For me creative practices help with this, like photography, writing, growing and foraging food and flowers, cooking and preserving, as well as the mindfulness of walking. Anything that tunes me into the rhythm of nature and its seasons. What about you?

The Burren Flower Farm

Buying or gathering flowers can feel like a luxury. In a practical sense, they have no use. But as Michael Longley has said about poetry, that’s not to say they are without value.

The Burren region on the west coast of Ireland has a wild, bleak, even surreal, landscape of limestone. At a distance its twisted, glaciated hills can look like smooth silvery mud pies. When you get closer however, its limestone karst terraces are punctuated by woodland of hazel, ash and birch, which provide a haven for lichen and ferns, along with wildlife from birds of prey to butterflies, bats, pine martens and even wild goats. At your feet are tiny wildflowers, ferns and grasses emerging from the limestone’s grikes. Alpine, Mediterranean and arctic plants grow side by side because of the region’s unusual geology and history.

It’s a place unlike anywhere else I know –  mystical, fragile and full of vitality all at once.

The Burren Flower Farm is a microcosm of this landscape: surrounded by those unmistakeable hills and with its own limestone pavement, native woodland, turlough and meadows.

Originally bought as a tranquil place to live while working nearby, over time founder Sarah Wall has drawn on her background in forestry, ecology and gardening to create a home and a living on the land.

I had been attracted to Sarah’s work for its colour and rambling textural beauty, and the way it reflects the particular season and place through an intelligent and creative mix of cultivated, native and wild flowers, along with herbs, grasses and branches that thrive in the Burren.

I visited the farm one evening during the recent heat wave, when it had cooled enough for Sarah to show me around the property and to cut flowers for the next day’s deliveries.

As we walked around, Sarah explained how the landscape and seasons offer both creative inspiration and constraint. Because she works with what she has available on the property, Sarah is careful to make the most of her cultivated flowers and be open minded about the wildflowers and foliage available to her. She cultivates her flower beds in stages to generate a constant supply and variety for her arrangements, as well as continuous cover to control weeds naturally.

Like all types of farming however, things often don’t go to plan. The first half of this year alone has brought extremes from the cold and snow of Storm Emma to the recent heat wave and drought.

These challenges mean that Sarah also relies on foraging to supplement her cultivated flowers. Out of necessity, she takes a holistic view of her environment, but it is this perspective that also highlights its beauty and diversity. Through Sarah's eyes, the gentle wave of grasses call to be included in her arrangements, and the architectural qualities of young hazel and birch branches become a complement to the elegance of tulips.

Sarah also sees weeds in a different light. It's a reminder that the term doesn't have any botanical significance, and really refers to a plant that is undesirable in a particular location. But that doesn't mean that weeds can't be appreciated for their own kind of beauty and place in the landscape.

Like her arrangements, Sarah’s management of the property balances the cultivated, wild and native. She allows nature to do its work in the meadows and limestone pavement areas where cattle previously grazed, as is traditional in much of the Burren. Over her 13 years on the farm, the woodland has naturally expanded from a single large birch tree to over 40 trees.

There is some debate about hazel scrub and woodland covering areas of limestone where the Burren’s renowned flora otherwise bloom. Sarah’s counterpoint to this is to recognise that woodland is also part of nature and that native woodland and lichen are equally important as the flowering herbaceous, and can be managed where needed.

Sarah taking in the exotic scent of Bergamot, used in Earl Grey tea blends

Sarah's blend of creativity and invention ensures that her arrangements are always unique and reflect what is flowering on her farm and in the Burren at that particular time. It’s not an easy balance to strike and many people wouldn’t bother, especially with the flower industry shipping flowers from all over the world these days to guarantee supply at any time of the year. But for me, and many others, this dedication matters.

My time with Sarah helped me to appreciate that being in the presence of her beautiful flowers has the power to enliven and bring us more into rhythm with the natural world.

We can enjoy flowers in the wild but we can also find great delight in giving or receiving an arrangement that has been grown and gathered into something new and perhaps even surprising.

They help us to value what is fleeting and fragile. They remind us that even in the greatest bleakness, we can be elevated and sustained by everyday beauty. And that has real value.

Sincere thanks to Sarah for so warmly and generously inviting me to the Burren Flower Farm and into her creative process in those gorgeous golden hours of sunset. It's an experience I'll never forget.

You can follow Sarah's work on Instagram and if you’re lucky to be in the Burren on a Friday, go and buy some flowers at the Kinvara Farmers’ Market. They’ll be sure to brighten your day.

Larapinta Trail: lost and found

There is a mystery about Central Australia that is deeply, quietly alluring. I had felt drawn to it for a long time but it wasn't until I embarked on the Larapinta Trail, just outside of Alice Springs, that I came to understand why it is so captivating and confounding all at once.

There were times it was so challenging that I wondered why on earth I was doing it, but when I found my feet, a world of incredible beauty opened up to greet me.

My spirits were lifted by delicate wildflowers scattered over the jagged orange-red rock like fairy dust, by flocks of tiny flitting fairy wrens and honey eaters, by the valleys and gorges that descended from the precarious ridges we walked along, by the ethereal ghost gums with their branches outstretched like arms across the bright blue sky, and by the gentle sparkle of the stars and muddled current of the Milky Way that mesmerised us in ways no human entertainment could.

I must admit it took time to find my way to that perspective. In the early days on the trail, my attention was often immediately focused on the challenges right in front of me, which at times felt like they would overpower me if I let them.

The most pressing of these were the soles of my superlative Asolo boots of seven years finally giving way on day one to the harshest, sharpest ground I’ve ever walked on, leaving us to feebly hold them together with duct tape, string and my gaiters. My broken boots produced blisters all over the soles of my feet and under my big toes and then there was the cyst behind my knee whose appearance on the first day made my knee and calf muscle strangely stiff, swollen and shaky. This wasn’t helped by the weight of my 20 kilogram backpack bearing down on my shoulders as starkly as the sun, to which we each added five litres of extra water every second day to sustain us until we got to the next water source.

I can feel the dread again in my body as I list these challenges. You might think I’m complaining about something that I volunteered to do and is part of trekking, and that’s true. But to appreciate the beauty of this journey, I had to be honest about what was hard. I had to be humbled by the disappointment that this was not the nurturing experience in nature I wanted it to be, and to accept that I was in it all the same. 

There were many times I was just as hard on myself as the landscape. I wished I could be faster, fitter and unfazed by the challenges of the trek and the unhelpful places my mind leapt to as I faced these struggles. But I learned it takes more courage to keep walking with humility and compassion for my body, with all of its limitations and all of its capabilities; to hold space for power and frailty, beauty and brokenness to co-exist.

I was also nurtured by the kindness and compassion of my friend and hiking partner, who graciously took on camp responsibilities when I needed tend to my feet and aching legs. Kirsten and I have been friends a long time so she knows how to gently chide me when my expectations of walking time are rather unrealistic, to keep my clumsy hands and feet away from the gas stove, and to make me laugh with her jokes along the way.

On the fourth day, I found my groove. And as my spirits lifted, so did my eyes. I was able to open to and delight in the landscape. Even with my calf muscle giving way and the wind whipping around us, I felt a lightness and joy bubble up inside. It carried me up the rough, steep climb to Brinkley Bluff where we camped that night.

I knew that all the challenges had been worth it for this: the panoramic views of the West MacDonnell ranges, the dusky pinks, blues and burnt oranges as the sun set to reveal the most spectacular stars, and then again as the sun rose in the morning.

Like every place we camped along the trail, we had Brinkley Bluff all to ourselves. Experiencing such peace and solitude here made it very hard to leave. It will remain one of the most treasured of all my trekking memories.  

Now that my physical injuries are fading and I’m back with the comforts of home, I look at these photographs and it seems so otherworldly that I ask myself, Was I really there?

In that way, the enigma that drew me there lingers. My mind can't name it, but my heart knows.

Big thanks to Kirsten for her friendship and the wisdom to bring duct tape and string (even if they originally were meant for the tent, they literally kept me walking!). Gratitude also to Zak of Larapinta Trail Trek Support for the transport to and from the trail, food drops, invaluable tips and insight into his fascinating life. If you decide to do the walk yourself, call Zak and make sure you have new boots!

Kangaroo Island: everything is waiting for you

A recent trip to South Australia offered the opportunity to visit Kangaroo Island. It takes effort to get there, and some expense. It is not easy to get around: the island is larger than one might expect and there are only a couple of sealed roads, a few populated areas and amenities. The island demands a willingness from the modern traveller to remember and respect the reality of that remoteness – we can’t access its beauty, stillness and wilderness without also accepting the removal from the accustomed convenience and pace of urban life. We are called to let go of our race of doing, and ease into being. Sometimes, as I found, that’s not so easy to do.

The arrival on the ferry at Penneshaw on the island’s east coast is gentle with its shimmering bays and quiet fishing village holiday atmosphere. Travelling inland and to the north coast maintains this tranquillity of coastal and farming life. Though there is more happening than might appear in these protected pockets – from the making of the island’s famous Ligurian honey to sheep's milk cheese, gin and vodka, abundant seafood, wine, and long lunches underneath an enormous fig tree.

To the south and west, the wilderness quickly opens up. A stop at Pennington Bay elicits the first gasp at finding the wild beauty the journey had promised. The azure blues and greens of the water startle in their contrast to the white foam of the breaking waves streaking across it, and the sandy creams and greens of the windswept scrub on the dunes and headlands that encircle the bay. The place feels both vast as the waves and wind buffet the shore, yet so quiet and intimate in its seclusion.

Here, the constructs of what we know as civilisation fall away and nature rises up to claim the space. In this space, nature can be at peace to follow its ancient rhythms and, it seems, is happy enough to invite us in as witnesses.

A particularly special invitation was to join the sea lions down on the beach at Seal Bay. These creatures were content to allow us to observe them go about their flow of feeding, resting and playing, as they have done in this same spot for generations. It felt like a privileged glimpse into a rare world, which it is.

Strangely, the awe I felt also brought up conflict in me.

I wanted so much to run headlong into the magic of this place, to soak up everything it had to offer, to know it all, that I reverted at times to feeling the pressure I encounter in city life to do and see too much. I felt the scarcity of the time I had there clash against the vastness I wanted to experience. I got out of sync with the rhythm of the island and tried to take in as much as I could, as if I could stockpile it to draw on when I went back to my normal life, and in fear that this might be my only chance. It bothered me that I couldn’t seem to accept the time that I did have, to trust that the island could give me an experience that transcended my limitations. I have gladly surrendered to the slow rhythm of nature before, so why not now?

I reflected on this inner tussle as I stood on the cliffs of the west coast at Cape du Couedic and looked out over the Southern Ocean. I could see that the waves colliding with the coastline were like my own internal battle, and that somewhere there was refuge like the rock pools where the fur seals played below.

Look closely and you'll see the fur seals on the rocks

Up at the Remarkable Rocks, whose jagged granite faces have been shaped by the wind and the ocean, I resolved to return in the morning to spend sunrise there in solitude and see what I might discover. I resolved to be gently open and curious; to stop looking outside myself and on the surface of the island, and turn within. And from within, to see and to feel what the island had to offer.

It was a slow journey up there the next morning as wallabies, native ducks and other animals dotted the way on their morning feed. Otherwise, I was entirely alone. As I sat overlooking the ocean in the gentleness of dawn, the birds warbled their awakening and I felt embraced by a timeless moment in nature.

The rain rolled in quite quickly so I wasn't there long. But I didn’t need to be, it was enough. The island had found its way into me at last.

The morning’s rain seeped me deeper into this surrender. The weather forced us to let go of any adventurous plans and instead drive up to Antechamber Bay on the east coast to a farm that was to be our home for the night. As the rain cleared, we walked along the property's private coastline and through the paddocks, and looked out at water whose blues merged into the dense grey clouds sitting just above them. We didn't need to go anywhere else. It was enough to just be there and immerse ourselves in the peace of the place.

Kangaroo Island had worked its magic by teaching me that the transcendence it offered was not to be found in racing about to visit all its beautiful corners. It was to be revealed in the stillness of being there. When I let go and tuned into that, when I listened, the island reminded me, as David Whyte does, that everything is waiting for me.

Feasting on the seasons: a spring lunch on the NSW south coast

When spring comes around, it can inspire a kind of fervour. There is visceral excitement, even ecstasy, as we rush to embrace the warmer weather and lighter foods – to welcome the new. There is so much green, so many sweet pink and white blossoms, and so much promise.

As much as I love spring’s heady rush, I have come to realise that I love the turn of every season and the incremental transitions within each one: to welcome its arrival and feast on its fleeting abundance, then let it go and turn to what comes next. The seasons teach me to be present with what is available and to accept what is not. They ground me and provide a rhythm I can flow with.

They are also a huge source of creative inspiration for me. Each week, I survey what is on offer and take up the invitation to imagination and invention: What can I make with this? How can I savour it before it passes and the next wave arrives? How can I preserve it for later?

The seasons also have their own curious intelligence. Somehow, they know to bring just what my body craves at that time. In winter, I love the substance of root vegetables and brassicas, and the heartiness of slow cooked casseroles. When spring arrives, I delightedly let them go (along with my winter coat!) and embrace the freshness of all the green vegetables, the abundance of sweet milk and the arrival of bright red strawberries.

The seasons also call us to share in their bounty - to gather friends, family and neighbours to enjoy these moments before they are gone, and to celebrate their return each year.

This is just what I got to do when I visited my friend Lean on the south coast of New South Wales. It was an opportunity to spend time getting to know this beautiful part of the world that Lean calls home and shares on her lean + meadow blog, and to do the things we love best – exploring the countryside and beaches and visiting local farms, producers and artisans. And what better way to tie it all together than to put on a seasonal feast to share with friends.

We celebrated spring with a classic Sunday roast, south coast style. So that meant a stop at Jim Wild’s oyster farm at Greenwell Point for Sydney rock oysters, a trip to Berry Sourdough for brunch and bread, picking up strawberries from the farm gate down the road, popping into the deli for Pines milk and crème fraiche, and pulling over on the side of the road to forage the prettiest pink wildflowers. Not to mention Lean’s discovery of a honeysuckle bush in her backyard to make cordial.

It was the loveliest languid lunch that began with canapés and drinks on the lawn and ended several hours later drinking tea, playing with the dogs and watching the storm clouds roll in across the ocean and the valley below.

Our south coast spring Sunday lunch

Freshly shucked Sydney rock oysters with mignonette
Broad bean smash on Berry Sourdough
Homemade honeysuckle cordial

Roast chicken with herbs, garlic, lemon and butter
Green salad of pea tendrils, asparagus and freshly shelled peas
Roast kipfler potatoes with rosemary

Strawberry and rhubarb tart with hazelnut spelt pastry + honey crème fraiche

For me, greens are the essence of spring so a feast at this time of year would not be complete without them. I love making salads like the one we had but I also couldn’t resist featuring broad beans. They are one of my spring favourites and every year, I’m excited to see them return. I don’t mind the work involved in peeling and cooking them because I know the reward is worth it. There are so many ways to enjoy them but this smash is a particular delight, and a brilliant alternative to the ubiquitous smashed avocado. For our lunch, we used it as a canapé but it’s also great for brunch on toast with a poached egg.

Broad bean smash

Around 200g fresh podded broad beans (fava beans) (about 600g unpodded)
¼ bulb of young spring garlic with its green stem (or substitute 1 clove), finely chopped
¼ cup finely chopped fresh mint
50ml extra virgin olive oil
Juice and half the zest of 1 large lemon
Freshly ground pepper and sea salt flakes
½ tsp sumac (optional – I like the extra lemony zing it brings)

Take the broad beans from their pods and blanch them in boiling water for 2-3 minutes (depending on their size). Drain, refresh in cold water and drain again to cool before peeling the outer skin. Using a mortar and pestle, pound the garlic with ½ teaspoon of salt into a paste then add the peeled broad beans, mint, lemon zest, pepper and sumac (if using) to taste until you have a rough, textured mixture (you can also use a food processor but be careful not to over-process). Gradually add the lemon juice and olive oil to the desired consistency and taste.

Serve on sliced sourdough baguette or put everything out and allow people to serve themselves – be warned, they’re likely to want generous servings!

Big thanks to Lean, Jakob, their friends, dogs Taj and Wilson, and all the people, places and produce of the south coast that made it such a memorable visit and glorious lunch.

Weekend with the Dailys

In April I met a group of women at a week-long slow living retreat led by Beth Kirby of Local Milk. Among us was Annabelle Hickson of The Dailys, who lives with her young family on a pecan farm in the Dumaresq Valley in inland northern New South Wales.

We were all enchanted by the way Annabelle captures the beauty in her daily life so there was talk of making a road trip out to visit her. It’s a testament to Annabelle that we were willing to travel from far and wide for a long weekend, and for two new friends to join us.

Our Weekend with the Dailys was about being inspired by the beauty of Annabelle’s world and embracing the fun of adventure and creative play that grown ups can too readily let go.

Annabelle introduced us to her husband, Ed and their three gorgeous children. She showed us her cottage on the hill, her brilliantly transformed studio and the ethereal tobacco barns where her beautiful shoots of foraged foliage and flowers often take place.

Annabelle also opened up her local community and introduced us to wonderful people, places and stories.

Her neighbours, Julia and Philip Harpham at Moorabinda Station, were our generous hosts. Not only did they offer up their 1940s shearers’ quarters (which inspired us no end), they took us searching for brumbies, up the hill to drink Prosecco as the sun set over their 10,000 acre property, and they entertained us with their stories of growing up and making a life in the region.

        Image by Lean Timms

Other neighbours, Paul and Jenny Magner, invited us into the home they had built from scratch to hear their inspiring story of healing, self-sufficiency and sustainability.

As they hunt, gather and grow most of what they eat, Paul brought us back to the heart of knowing where our food comes from by showing us how to kill, pluck and prepare two chickens and a duck for us to cook that night.

My parents grew up on farms but as a city girl I hadn’t witnessed this before so I have to admit I was a little apprehensive. However, Paul’s quiet, confident manner put me at ease. We went with him to catch the birds and he explained the process to us so we both understood and knew what to expect before he swiftly and respectfully killed them for us, and then took us through scalding, plucking and preparing them.

I was sobered and grateful for bearing witness to the reality of what consuming meat involves and surprisingly relieved at how simple it is and how mindful it can be. I wondered how we’d all feel if we connected with our food in this way.

In further unstinting country hospitality, Paul and Jenny made pizzas in their outdoor wood fired oven with the toppings we brought to share.

Then there was the magic of what we created together back at the Moorabinda shearers' quarters, the most idyllic setting for our winter gathering in the Australian bush.

The modest quarters were made cosy by foliage, open fires and candlelight. We warmed ourselves on the cool nights with hot toddies and hot water bottles, and we gently greeted the mornings sipping cardamom and vanilla-infused coffee. I remember lying in bed at night thinking of the shearers who had been here over the years and what kind of life it must have been, moving about from station to station. And how did they wrestle with the vagaries of the wood-fired oven to fill their hungry bellies? We novices had our work cut out for us deciphering the oven's secrets and we yielded to the respect it commanded for simple, unfussy food.

But don't for a second think we didn't see beauty and inspiration all around us. The smallest details brought sighs of wonder and delight, such as grasping the roots of enormous cabbages, exploring the stillness of the woolshed and setting the table in the creamy long grass outside.

There was joy to be found in every moment - from raucous laughter as we sat around after dinner to the gentle conversation that unfolds when you are completely absorbed and time feels suspended, like a dream.

A particularly dreamy highlight was taking part in preparing and sharing the Sunday Suppers winter brunch we adapted for our Australian bush setting. It was a loving dedication to slow living and the challenge of trying our hand at making bagels from scratch and negotiating with our wood-fired oven.

Our Sunday Suppers Winter Brunch Menu
Homemade everything bagels with nigella and poppy seeds
Tea and ginger cured barramundi
Whipped cream cheese with lemon, crème fraiche and olive oil
Citrus salad with a warm honey, lemon and sparkling wine dressing
Pecan tart with honey

Image by Lean Timms of lean + meadow

Image by Lean Timms of lean + meadow

You can read more about our brunch and all the other wonderful things we got up to in the Weekend with the Dailys ebook. You can view and download the ebook for free here and perhaps be inspired to create your own country gathering.

Most of all, I hope you are encouraged to seek out some adventure and play for yourself, especially if you're a grown up. Stuart Brown describes play as intensely pleasurable. It energises and enlivens us. It eases our burdens. It renews our natural sense of optimism and opens us up to new possibilities. I left the weekend feeling all of those things and returned home full of inspiration and eager to keep up the creative momentum in my daily life. It was just what I needed. It's what we all need.

Heartfelt thanks to Annabelle, Ed, Julia, Philip, Jenny, Paul and all the Weekend with the Dailys women.

The stories behind staples: Schulz Organic Farms and the Great Ocean Road

Since moving to Melbourne, I’ve bought my yoghurt, milk, quark and cream from Schulz Organic Farms at local farmers’ markets. Their products are my staples so I’ve gotten to know the guys as I stock up each week.

As a city dweller, it means a lot to me to have a relationship with the people dedicated to making the food I’m fortunate to have access to. Knowing the background and vision behind it provides a broader perspective and meaning, making it more than just beautiful food.

It’s great to know that Schulz Organic Farms value the connection too by choosing to have a direct link to customers and other producers by selling mostly through farmers’ markets, as well as cultivating personal relationships with the cafes, restaurants and the local specialty shops they supply.

As time has gone by, I’ve wanted to know more about their story. So, one day, I found myself asking Simon Schulz if I could visit the farm to see and learn more about what they do. Graciously, he said yes, and off on a road trip we went one weekend in June.

Before arriving at the farm, it was clear that the landscape of southwest Victoria had something to say. Driving out along the Great Ocean Road, there are stunning vistas are of jagged headlands shorn away by wild seas and wind that comes straight up from the Antarctic.

And on calm days, peaceful inlets of azure waters protected by sandstone and limestone cliffs offer a haven for humans and gentle plant life, which at other tempestuous times seems impossible.

Turning inland, the rolling hills are dotted mostly with dairy farms, the rusty tones of the last autumn colours and the moody grey skies that bring the high rainfall responsible for the lush grasses. And in late afternoon, they are rippled with the rhythm of the cows making their way single file up to the dairy for milking.

Schulz Organic Farms are tucked away from this huge landscape, just outside the small town of Timboon. They are both part of the area’s dairy farming community and quietly, intently building something unique.

The Schulz family has applied biodynamic and organic principles to their farm since 1971. The farm (and farmhouse cheesery) was started three generations ago by Herman Schulz, with the dairy farm carried on by son, Michael. Now, 30 year old grandson, Simon, is the extending that lineage to embrace the paddock to plate philosophy by producing milk, cream, cheese, yoghurt and more that can also be tasted at the onsite café.

Exploring the farm’s paddocks, dairy, calving pen and factory with Simon, it was clear what makes his products taste so good. There is a thoughtful approach to every aspect of what they do – from the health and sustainability of the soil and grasses, right through to their minimal intervention in processing to make small batches of the best product possible.

Being free to roam, rest and feed on large paddocks and treated with care, it’s no wonder the cows seemed so gentle and contented. They were delightfully curious and calm in our presence, even when we witnessed a calf literally just born take its first gangly gallops.

It really struck me as exemplifying Michael Pollan’s notion that “you are what you eat eats”. It was clear that the Schulz family understands that the health of the milk, the cow and the environment are not separate. They are one thing.

My intuition (and taste buds) had told me that Schulz Organic Farms were doing something special, and my relationship with Simon opened a door to understanding why. Now, having been there and experienced it myself, I have a deeper understanding and appreciation of the careful choices that go into making the farm and their products what they are. I don’t just know where my food comes from, I have a connection to the place, animals, people and values that infuse them. That’s what I can taste, and that’s why it tastes so good.

Big thanks to Simon Schulz for being so generous in sharing his time and story. For more information, visit Schulz Organic Farms or go and say hi to Simon at the market like I did.