The children have made their lanterns and paraded through the streets of Cygnet. The days are lengthening, albeit at a snail’s pace. But winter lingers and begs for a big feast; for a fatty game bird, stuffed and roasted until the skin is as crisp as the morning before. For a boozy hot port drink, spiked with caramelised cumquats. Winter needs a savoury biscuit or two. And a bitter treacle tart for pud.
As mud lines my gumboots, and some of the pressures of summer gardening abate, I find solace in the cold starts. Times when I can see my breath in the air and feel the furnace in my lungs as I climb hills to set up paddocks for the cows. We churn through the firewood now. The cooker ticks along most days, clotting cream on one corner, simmering soups on the other, and roasting joints within. Winter, in all its glory, has settled on our farms.
Photography Alan Benson.
As seen in Feast magazine, July 2014, Issue 33.
