Sheep and lamb have been much on the agenda around here this past couple of weeks … and not only because of the latest, rather controversial, Australia Day lamb promotion Lambassador. My regular followers (and the three of you know who you are) will recall I wrote about Tuki Trout Farm recently … which is also the home of Tuki lamb. After lunching there last week, we carried home our Tuki provisions and a couple of nights ago we gorged on some of the haul – the best roast rack of lamb I’ve ever cooked. Ok, to be honest it’s only about the second one I’ve ever cooked. And I was seriously put off by my last shot, as Filipino butchers don’t remove the chine bone (the very rigid, heavy-duty bone along the bottom of the rack, that joins the whole thing together and makes it impossible to carve individual cutlets unless you happen to be carrying a bandsaw around with you).
When Tuki’s Robert Jones told us they had lamb racks, the MOTH was sold straight away. I was a little more reticent … mostly about that chine bone. A quick chat with the ever-amenable Robert assured me that they remove it at Tuki so I had nothing to fear. He went on to give advice about getting the best out of the cut: “Rub it with a little olive
oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper and let it sit for a couple of hours. Then into a preheated oven around 200C for 45-60 minutes,” (depending on how “done” you like your lamb – 45-50 minutes is perfect for us, for a ten point rack). Crisp skin, tender and pink meat. Heaven!! Ably supported by some garlicky, herby, parmesan roasted potatoes and homegrown roasted zucchini with mint & lemon (all herbs grown right here at the Allan Street Flower and Veggie Collective, of course; lemons from my brother, aka Baby Bear). An altogether amazing meal and a wonderful showcase for seriously good produce.
The other sheep connection came from the MOTH’s blog earlier this month, when he was paid a mid-day visit by a small flock. I was away on what he describes as a nuts-and-berries-gathering expedition, while himself was busy being a lumberjack in the wilds of our back block. I was on the road between berry bushes when I heard a text message, which I duly checked at the next stop. “We just had visitors,” it announced – and attached was a photo of a woolly mob hanging sheepishly around our driveway and looking like they knew they’d just been caught trespassing. Fifteen sheep – we presume a small flock from a local holding – had busted out of their fences and dropped in at the Allan Street Flower and Veggie Collective. The MOTH, mindful of the vulnerable and sheep-tasty native saplings he’d recently planted in the back block, was swift to herd them on their way. He rounded them up, encouraging them down the driveway and back from whence they came (then contacted the local ranger, to try to reunite the ovine escapees with their rightful owner).
Which reminded me of another time we rounded up sheep …
Three years ago, on our mission to find the ideal retirement spot, the MOTH and I headed to the tiny NSW town of Binalong, where the former railway station was for sale. Long decommissioned as an operating station, the building had been converted to a residence and partially restored. From the online real estate photos and given the asking price, it looked like it had potential. We were due for our annual “escape from Manila” routine (aka “home travel – enabling staff to reconnect with their own culture,”) so we decided to view the property. Amongst other things, the station was where the youthful Banjo Paterson would have arrived home by train, on holidays from a Sydney boarding school, and that added another level of interest for us. So we winged our way to Sydney, picked up a hire car and began what became known as “The Great NSW (and lesser Victorian) Road Trip”.
We set up an appointment to inspect the station and drove into Binalong on a hot, dusty February day. We checked in to the Royal Tara Motel (“Conference and Convention Centre” in slightly smaller letters), unpacked our bags and headed to the Railway Station for our first proper look at the place that had captured our imagination and prompted our impulsive departure from Manila. We were hoping for an unequivocal ‘wow’ moment as soon as we stepped inside the place and whilst we were slightly impressed, it wasn’t quite the must-buy experience we’d wished for. The house was a delight but there was still a lot of restoration and renovation to be done, despite evidence of much hard work by the current owners over the previous 17 years. And the village, where we would spend our retirement – potentially thirty years, the last stretch of our lives – wasn’t quite our cup of tea.
But we decided a cup of tea in the village was precisely what we needed once we said goodbye to the agent. After a bite to eat at the general store and café, we strolled past the Binalong Hotel, front verandah already abuzz with locals settling in for the first few beers of the day. We wanted a second look at the station – outside at least, as the agent had now long departed. Perhaps wandering around the unoccupied property and soaking up the character might cause a decision to drop upon us from the sky.
The current owners were using the property as a weekender and kept a dozen or so black-faced sheep, which grazed on the 10 acres of land immediately behind the spread. Entering the back garden we were greeted by the sight of five of those sheep trotting around the house yard, and we wondered if they were meant to be there. Observing one of them munching heartily on the grape vines and another fearlessly demolishing a thorny rose bush made us think they probably weren’t.
A quick scan of the garden’s perimeter revealed that a small gate we’d passed through earlier had been left open, allowing them in. And so with a sense of reluctant obligation and a brief curse that the agent didn’t properly close the gate, we set about the task of playing sheep dogs to round up the silly creatures. It proved to be an effective way of working off lunch as we both tore around, trying to shoo them back through the gate. One sheep slipped through almost immediately as if sensing the game was up, but the others bunched up and dashed hither and thither, despite our clumsy, perspiring attempts to guide them where we wanted. Another sheep eventually leaped off the edge of the station platform near an old railway carriage that was part of the deal. Mercifully it didn’t break its stupid neck or legs, and the route returned it to the rest of the mob out the back, who were by now closely watching the comedy routine.
After a few more attempts that would have any self-respecting kelpie laughing in his kibble, the MOTH announced a change of strategy: The gate was too hard as they could still run in several directions and there weren’t enough of us to ‘surround’ them effectively. Instead, we would push them all towards the platform exit used by the recent deportee. Even if they didn’t go over the edge we figured at least we could corner them this way, though I’m not sure what we planned to do with them once we did.
Of course, the moment we began moving to implement our new plan, the three remaining sheep trotted through the open gate in an orderly line and I swear I heard bleating that sounded like a mocking giggle. We beat a hasty and sweaty retreat back to the motel to cool off with a couple of cold beers, and to check out alternative real estate options. What else is a pair of incompetent shepherds to do?
Trundling along narrow, rain soaked roads we passed a sign pointing to Tuki Trout Farm and decided it was time for that long-promised visit. The farm is very much a working property; if we’d been in any doubt, the long drive from the gate of the property to the stable building that houses the restaurant would have convinced us. Grazing sheep, iconic windmills, remnant timber cattle ramps and yards – all offered irresistible photo opportunities. With blue skies and fluffy white clouds in one direction and magnificent, moody grey storm skies in another, it was a feast for the eye and the lens.
Eating those trout was practically a religious experience – they were exquisite. Flavoursome, cooked to perfection and redolent with the beautiful spring water they were so recently swimming in. A squeeze of lemon and a trickle of creamy, home-made, crushed green peppercorn dressing made for a heavenly taste. This amazing fish needed nothing more than locally grown potatoes and a mixed salad to accompany it. Oh, except perhaps the scrumptious, locally baked bread. There was that!
Depending on who’s home we were holding the celebrations at, I vividly remember both my Mum and her Mum, my Nanna, cooking up their delicious pies. This centre-piece of the new year’s feast was neither fragile nor compact, as the term “pie” might suggest, but was made in a huge, deep dish – it often fed a dozen or more hungry revellers so it had to be hearty. No place here for small-scale casserole dishes – our family pies filled an enormous ceramic mixing bowl with a scrumptious mix of beef, potato and seasonings, which was simmered slowly in the oven till everything was tender and rich. This was then capped with home-made shortcrust pastry and baked till the crust was flaky and golden brown. The marvellous aroma that filled the kitchen on new year’s eve was enough to make you a little crazy even before the party began. The accompaniments varied little: pickled red cabbage (served cold) or pickled beetroot, and a dollop of mushy peas. The pie was served just after midnight, when the new year had been properly seen in; a steaming hot meal was thought to be a fine omen for a year of plenty, “If you start the year with a good meal, you won’t go hungry,” my Nanna always told me.
whelming in their productivity this year, mainly due to an accumulation of neglect. Despite all the inattention, two pear trees and one apple tree are valiantly bringing small crops to maturity. All going well these should have been ready to pick in another few weeks. But …
Once our furniture arrived, all the free time we thought we’d discovered seemed to mysteriously evaporate and a frantic few weeks ensued as we unpacked and found new spaces for most of our belongings. If you ignore the hundred or so boxes still sitting in our (thankfully large) shed, we were pretty well organised by October so we headed to Darwin for another catch up with Kate et al, then down to Perth so the MOTH could visit his dear old mum.
This Moveable Feast 