46 GOURMET TRAVELLERProduce
ILLUSTRATION DAWN TAN.A
line of partygoers, burdened
with camp chairs and picnic
baskets, follow their noses,
drawn to the scent of roasting
meat. A 40-kilo Large Black pig that
Coreen and Matt have raised at Our
Mates’ Farm is rotating on a spit,
all heat-blistered coppery skin with
caramelising juices running hither and
yon. The kids flinch at first, seeing ears,
curly tail and snout, but the promise
of crackling soon wins them over.
Coreen and Matt and their two
mini farmers, Julian and Rachel, bought
a neglected apple orchard at Geeveston
in the Huon Valley four years ago,
converted it to organic, grubbed out
trees grown to triffid-like proportions,
introduced pigs, cattle and sheep to
the production system, and grafted
traditional cider varieties and more
flavoursome fresh-eating cultivars onto
the old rootstocks. They’re innovative
farmers, pruning apple branches higher
so sheep can run the orchard eating the
lush pasture growing under the trees- eliminating the need to slash or
spray. They press single-variety apple
juices, make pies, tuck a jar of apple sauce
in with every side of pork they sell, and
work with a special pig, the Large Black,
a breed that will graze and scavenge
apples under trees without the bulldozery
habits other breeds have. This kind of
polyculture makes sense. Why wouldn’t
you use sheep instead of herbicide
to manage grass – growing chops
underneath your apple crumble- with the sheep adding
little pellets of fertiliser as
they graze? And the pigs
eating fallen fruit is a
boon to the organic
farmer, breaking the life
cycles of pests such as
the codling moth, which
emerges from fruit left on
the ground to infest next season’s crops.
The feasting begins as Masaaki
Komaya, chef and local legend, does the
rounds with a platter of rainbow-coloured
sushi, alchemically more delicious than
the rice, seasonings and vegetables it’s
made up of. Our fluid intake is well
We carve juicy,
pale slices of
loin, melting,
fatty bits of belly,
plump cheeks.served, too. In an orcharding part of the
world, amply supplied with cider makers,
the pop of bottle caps and murmurs
of wild ferments and forgotten casks
rediscovered is a constant hum, while the
kids are queuing clutching mugs before
an urn of warm spiced apple juice.
I’ve picked the first of my cucumbers
and turned the last of my medlar paste,
made with Coreen and Matt’s medlars,
into a fool with whipped cream and
honey, and our friend, chef and farmer
Matthew Evans, has baked little rolls
that are being stolen from the table by
tiny hands long before the pig is done.
The bring-a-plate table is heaving with
the choicest things we guests could
muster from our gardens or larders.
There seems to be an established
tradition of Matt Tack – our host farmer- growing or catching a particular type
of animal, then inviting the appropriate
chef over to help prepare it. If there’s a
tuna on the table Masaaki is in charge,
but carving the pig on the spit falls smack
bang in Matthew Evans’s field of expertise.
I’m not sure what draws me – the lure
of properly sharpened knives, perhaps,
or my latent desire to become a butcher’s
apprentice – but I find myself alongside
Matthew, slicing up the pig after it’s
been declared cooked and heaved onto
a workbench for carving. We try to be fair,
giving everyone a little piece of puffed,
crackling skin, but we make sure to slice
off the odd perfect piece and sneak it into
our own mouths. Having piled meat onto
plate after plate we’re about to fill our
own, when Masaaki arrives with his. We
carve juicy, pale slices of loin, melting,
fatty bits of belly, plump
cheeks and dark slices
of leg and shoulder
meat, noticing the
fresh sweetness of
loin compared with
the richness of the belly
or the gaminess of the
cheek. A meal like this,
the bounty of a whole beast, grown with
love, shared between a happy, grateful
horde and savoured with our almost
scientific analysis and juicy-chinned
smiles, doesn’t feel like gluttony, it feels
like plenty – a soul-enriching bounty
and a delicious learning experience.
Roasting a home-reared pig feeds more than the masses,
it feeds the soul, writes PAULETTE WHITNEY.
The whole hog