Gathan Beaga

pioneer house

It felt a little like that this evening at our place, as in an increasingly rare occurrence most of what we ate for dinner was grown or gathered by the people sitting around the table.

We had:

  • barbecued steak from cattle off Rebecca’s parents’ little farm at Masterton;
  • purple Heather potatoes freshly dug from our garden here in Wellington;
  • several varieties of lettuce from our garden;
  • cucumber and tomatoes from the garden at Masterton;
  • zucchini fritters, the zucchini also from Rebecca’s parents’ garden;
  • blackberry pies for dessert, the blackberries picked by the girls in a little patch of wasteland over our back fence and the pastry made by their grandmother.

We should have had some cream for the blackberry pies, but the nearest cows are on the farm across the valley on the other side of Otari-Wilton’s Bush and likely wouldn’t sit still for me anyway.

The next best thing to growing or gathering the stuff yourself is meeting the people who do. We also had a lovely bottle of Pinot Noir which we got from the winemaker: we had visited Paul at Judge Rock while we were down south.

And does buying the plum sauce for the steak from Barker’s while we passed through Geraldine on our way home to Wellington count too? Maybe.

You’ve got to love this time of year, when it’s relatively easy to contribute food to the table, even if it’s not quite always to the same degree as we managed this evening. But I’m not quite ready to turn over the whole lawn and dig for victory just yet.