Hello folks. This is a 2011 article from my former gardening column in the Toowoomba Chronicle. I hope it helps give meaning to your observance of today's Anzac Day centenary. 

It's been more than 150 years since Easter Monday last coincided with Anzac Day, a date well before the landing at Gallipoli and one that won't be repeated until 2095. For the keenest of the keen, such a rare event equates to five days in a row of gardening bliss. I'm pretty keen myself. I plan to do a bit of work outside, but I'll also be making time to relax, and reflect on what the weekend might mean beyond chocolate bunnies and slouch hats.  

Easter and Anzac Day share a common message as far as I'm concerned. It's a message not of war and glory, but one of sacrifice and ultimately, enduring peace.  The Old Testament prophet Micah foresaw this peace in pointedly non-violent, agrarian terms: 

“They shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up a sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid.”

These words ring true for a fruit grower (and peace-lover) like me. I'm a bit taken by the idea of sitting under my abundant fig tree and pruning it with a tool furnished from a defunct weapon of war. It's certainly not the reality at the moment. I've got one old, poorly positioned fig in the garden, and the world's most cursed marsupial – the possum – usually beats me to the fruit. I'm planting more figs this winter, and hope for a day when I can eat from a number of trees and live not just in peace with my fellow human beings, but the local wildlife as well.

The common fig, Ficus carica, is probably the oldest of all the domesticated fruit trees. It is one of a number of contenders for the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden, and was first described in stone tablets by the Egyptians more than 2700 years ago, when it was revered as the Tree of Life. The tree and it's fruit are afforded frequent mentions in the Bible, but the most famous is, of course, Adam and Eve's use of the leaves as “modesty patches” to hide their nakedness.    

The fact that the leaves were able to hide the dangly bits of the first man should give some indication of their ornamental value. The leaves are big and handsome. The tree itself can look scrappy, but a well pruned example can make for a very attractive specimen that meets my ideal characteristics  for a plant – beautiful and productive. 

The fruit is even more luscious than the foliage. If you've never eaten a fat, fleshy fig straight off the tree then I don't reckon you've quite lived. Don't even give the occasional supermarket fruit a second glance. Figs have such a short shelf life that they demand to be eaten fresh, cooked or dried. Freshly picked figs, halved and baked with honey, then served with a dollop of double cream is nothing short of a taste of heaven.

Figs will grow in any climate the Downs has to offer, from warm to cool temperate, to subtropical, and while the tree prefers reasonably rich ground to sand, isn't overly fussy. The real key to getting bumper crops is to grow figs “leaner” than you would most other fruiting trees. A well-nourished fig tree will get fat and lazy, developing an extensive root system and putting lots of energy into a lush canopy. It will do this at the expense of fruit, so in fertile soil, feeding is only necessary to get the tree established. As Louis Glowinski says in his excellent The Complete Book of Fruit Growing in Australia, “neglect seems to be a good policy as far as fertiliser in concerned.” 

The other trick people employed to stimulate fruiting, was to constrict the tree's root ball. Old timers would plant a fig in a 44-gallon drum to keep the roots compact. Others advocate pruning the roots periodically with a sharp spade. A simpler option is to either plant your tree against a sunny wall and espalier it, or grow a fig tree in a large pot. Half wine barrels are perfect, both practically and aesthetically, but don't forget to drill drainage holes in the bottom, and for longevity, treat with a wood preservative. As for varieties my picks for the Downs are 'Brown Turkey', 'Black Genoa' for colder areas and 'White Adriatic' where its warmer.

My hope is that you'll take some time this weekend to reflect on the common message of both Easter, and Anzac Day. Perhaps you'll be inspired to plant a fig tree. In years to come, maybe you too will be found sitting beneath your tree, eating its fruit, looking forward to the day when war is over and peace reins upon the earth. 

I really don't get popular culture. Never have. I have a degree in psychology, so I understand some of the science behind collective behaviours, but personally, I've never felt the need to compromise my beliefs and my sense of self to blindly follow the crowd. The road less travelled has, and continues to be, my chosen path.

My garden reflects this. I happily grow whatever I feel like growing, not what's popular. Take kale. It's become such a darling with paleo life-stylers and foodie hipsters that there was a shortage of seed last year. Kale is a virtuous plant, no doubt, but it's hardly new to the world of food. For centuries it's been a staple in places like Siberia and Scotland, and it's been grown in Australia since the arrival of the First Fleet. I've grown various kale varieties for nearly a decade. Yet in the last couple of years the humblest of foods has suddenly become popular, and equally virtuous greens have fallen out of favour.

Take lettuce. It's dead easy to grow in the cooler months of the year, and is much less prone to pests than kale. Cabbage white butterflies, aphids and flea beetles don't bother it, slugs and snails have to be really desperate to eat it, and possums, the Clive Palmers of my vegie garden (they eat pretty much EVERYTHING they can get their big gobs onto), can be kept at bay with a simple throw-over net. Lettuces are a lot nicer in salad than mature kale leaves, and most varieties as just as suitable for cooking as their trendier cousins chicory and dandelions. 

This isn't to say that I'm calling for lettuce to be the next big food trend. No way! On the contrary, I'm hoping it keeps flying under the hipster radar so proper gardeners can grow it without impunity. The point I want to make is this: Grow your own way. Know who you are and what you're on about, ignore the crowds, and find your own path toward bliss in the garden, and life. It's not a popularity contest.

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I - 
I took the one less travelled by,
and that has made all the difference."
- Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

Next month marks nine years since we moved our family from Toowoomba to the little smallholding in the hills we call Thistlebrook. A lot has happened in that time. We've added two kids to the brood. Endured biblical floods and droughts. Seen neighbours come and go. Raised livestock and buried dead stock. We've had seasons of plenty and seasons of want. 

The summer just passed was about average, produce-wise, which in real terms means that we had an abundance of some things, and a lean season for others. The blackberries were epic, for example, but the tomatoes...dismal. We've picked a reasonable amount, but blight got the plants during a December wet spell and they haven't recovered. As for the current season, autumn is shaping up to to be similar, with abundance and scarcity in roughly equal measure.

What hasn't been abundant in the last few months is money. We've been running such a tight ship since Christmas that the bolts holding the beast together have almost sheered off from the pressure. We're essentially holding on for grim death until next term, when some invoices are due for payment and, barring a catastrophe, we can ease the strain and loosen things up a bit. 

No-one tells you about this aspect of smallholding life when you're stuck in the city and dreaming nightly of a move to the country. You can research books and websites in minute detail and you can pick the brains of those hardy souls who've already made the move and persevere with the dream. Personal finances are one of the last great taboos, so for the most part, nearly everyone who blogs, speaks, and spruiks about smallholding will never mention the fact that this way of life has always been financially precarious, at best, and devastatingly effective at forcing a signature on a bankruptcy form, at worst. 

Here's the hard truth: Unless you have major capital reserves that enable you to purchase a viable property outright, or you can earn very decent off farm income, or you can grow high value crops that earn a decent on-farm income, or you have a thriving farm related business, it's nigh on impossible to make smallholding pay its own pay. We've tried, and failed. Almost all of our income now comes from off farm sources (for me, writing, for Kylie, piano teaching) and that's barely enough to make ends meet.

This isn't a whinge. Or a plea for help. Or a boast, if that's the way your mind interprets such personal financial disclosures. It's simply a statement of fact, and I hope, a case in point. In addition to the hard truth I just outlined, there's another: Time is money.

Benjamin Franklin, American Founding Father and renowned polymath, coined this phrase. It refers to the concept of "opportunity cost", which is one of those wanky terms economists like to trot out to impress economic plebs like you and I, but it's a concept worth getting your head around. In simple terms it is the value of the next best thing you give up when you make a decision. The simplified version of Wikipedia puts it this way:

"Opportunity cost is how much leisure time we give up to work. Because leisure and income are both valued, we have to decide whether to work, or do what we want. Going to work implies more income but less leisure. Staying at home is more leisure yet less income."

In smallholding terms it might go something like "opportunity cost is how much farming/food growing/smallholding time we give up to earn an off farm income. The more work we do off-farm, the less time there is for smallholding." 

The ideal situation is to use your land to produce enough food to feed your family, and produce a surplus that can be sold for good money, generating enough income to make the smallholding financially viable. I know of some really hardworking, clever people around Australia who've managed to achieve this, but for most smallholders, it's simply not going to happen. 

So what's the solution? What advice would I give someone determined to make their smallholding dream a reality? I've got a few ideas.

• Grow high value crops and farm full time. This is doable, but you'll need the right combination of factors to make it work. Decent land helps. A reliable, cheap water supply is a must. Really hard, physical work is a given. The right kind of crops must grow in your climate, and you'll also need access to markets that will value your produce highly and be willing to pay a premium. 

• Minimise, or eliminate debt. To own a piece of land outright is to ensure maximum flexibility when it comes to opportunity cost. One of our issues at Thistlebrook is that we still have a chunky (but not excessive) mortgage keeping us tied to the rack, and this eats up a large part of our monthly income. One way to minimise debt is to buy a cheap property, and in certain parts of Australia (eg TASSIE!!) this is still a possibility. As for high interest consumer debt such as credit cards and interest free deals - they're the work of Lucifer himself. Pay them down and close the account or better still, avoid them in the first place, however tempting.

• Minimise expenses. The more frugal you can be, the more time you will have to farm. In fact, these two are interrelated. By growing your own food, cutting your own firewood, harvesting your own water and so on, you will reduce your expenses, freeing up more time to farm. But pay attention to the idea of opportunity cost (see below).

• Try really hard to get your opportunity cost settings right, and revise them continually. A friend of mine worked for a while as a dentist. He was in such a decent paying job that he could afford to work a day or two a week, buy a house to live in and a house to rent out, and spend the other few days a week studying for a second degree and doing whatever he damn well pleased. But not all of us are qualified for high paying jobs. Some of us (me included) work in struggling industries where the rate of pay hasn't increased in a decade or more, while the cost of living has gone interstellar. get the balance between time and money right and you'l be more likely to keep the smallholding dream viable.

• Persevere. My family is at a critical moment right now. We're making hard choices. One option is to quit this way of life, get decent full time jobs and dramatically downsize the amount of land under our care. Or, we can stay put, spend less time smallholding and more time earning money. The choice is that simple, and that complicated.

For now, we've chosen to stay put, and to persevere. This means that we'll have to bear the cost to time spent actually in the garden growing things, and will require us to really prioritise what we do and don't want to grow. I'll probably spend less time and space on plants that my immediate family doesn't like to eat, and devote more time and space to the things we really love. There's no way we could give up entirely, knowing deep in the pit of our guts that smallholding is the most direct path to the good life. And the good life - purposeful life that is inwardly rich but outwardly poor - is absolutely, doggedly, worth striving for. 

Any gardener worth their salt knows that the orderly landscape under their care is largely an illusion, and at certain points in the year, gardens teeter on the brink of chaos. All it takes is a spell out of the garden and, inevitably, your highly manicured replica of nature will tip over the edge, to begin the first stages in a return to wildness.

It starts with the lawn, which gets shaggy and seedy. Then come the weeds, usually the most noxious and invasive things possible. Then colonisers like wattles, which grow with Formula One speed and die nearly as fast. Then larger trees, followed by undergrowth, and eventually, a merry natural anarchy. It doesn't all happen overnight, of course, but after a month or so it's almost game over - illusion shattered.

There are two times in the year when I feel my garden teetering. The first is in spring, when warming weather spurs on a gallop of rampant growth exactly at the time when there's lots of pre-summer planting to get done. The second time is in late summer and early autumn. That'd be right about now.

It's no surprise really. In temperate climates March is a busy pre-winter planting period, which is fine in and of itself. The problem is, March is also the start of a phenomenon known as the "autumn flush". Some people scoff at the idea of a flush, but most gardeners will attest to the fact that many plants put on a spring-like surge of growth as summer starts to succumb to a lowering sun and cooling temperatures. Throw in some March rain to really power the growth, and what are you left with? A very thin line between order and chaos.

The solution to teetering is triage. This is a French word that means "to sort" or "to sift". You've probably heard it used in hospital emergency departments, where staff allocate treatment to patients according to the urgency of their need for care. The most life threatening injuries or illnesses are treated as a priority, with less life threatening conditions treated with reduced urgency. I once put my head through a glass window (by accident!) and spurted blood from a slash in the middle of my forehead. But because the injury wasn't life threatening I had to wait for an hour with a rag pressed against my head before doctors were able to stitch me up. It was fair enough. There were other patients in a worse state than I was.

A garden left to go wild is hardly a matter of life and death, but when you're trying to produce food with a semblance of order, chaos isn't the ideal outcome. Rather than become overwhelmed, here's what I do: I allocate care to plants and sections of the garden according to the urgency of their needs. Watering young and vulnerable plants during a dry spell often gets triaged above trimming the hedges, for example. Planting out seedlings and sowing seeds is more timely than mowing the lawn, so I do those jobs first. My garden isn't regularly open to the public and I don't rely directly on it to make an income, so neatness isn't my number one priority. 

In fact, I think the whole concept of high maintenance gardening is a Calvinist, guilt inducing relic from an era that prized first impressions above all else. Bugger that. I'm more interested in authenticity and productivity than I am in keeping up appearances, so if my lawn gets a bit unruly and the weeds invade my gravel paths, sue me. I've got more important things to worry about, like putting food on my family table. When my garden teeters, I triage.

I've been following this week's tainted berry saga with great interest. For those of you who've been living under a rock, or better still, gone off the grid, a growing number of people in Australia have been infected with Hepatitis A as a consequence of eating a contaminated batch of frozen, mixed berries. Patties Foods, the company in question, imported the packed berries directly from northern China, where it is thought that poor hygiene standards caused the contamination. 

My first reaction when hearing the news was, as it always is with cases like this, to think grow it yourself, or buy it from a small local farmer. In all honesty, berries are among the easiest plants to grow in a temperate climate garden, to the point that some varieties can become weedy. At Thistlebrook we grow blackberries, raspberries, blueberries and strawberries (as evidenced in the photo above). I spend maybe an hour or two on each plant per year, for a return worth hundreds of dollars. I never spray my plants with anything, such is their resistance to pests and diseases, and I only water during dry spells, most notably in spring when the plants are breaking dormancy and raring to put on a spurt of growth. 

We also buy berries from Hampton Blue, a wonderful certified organic blueberry orchard just 1km up the hill from our place. These cost us about $12 a kilogram when we pick them ourselves (I think Sue gives us a discount for being good neighbours :-) ), a bargain when you consider the quality of the berries and simultaneously cheap enough for us to stock the freezer, but with enough of a margin for Hampton Blue to stay in business. 

I'm pragmatic enough to understand that not everyone has access to a local berry orchard, and not everyone can (or will) grow berries in their garden. But this doesn't mean that I'd give a green light to anyone anywhere consuming frozen berries from China just because they can grab a box from the supermarket. To be really frank, my overarching view is that we should eat the foods that have their provenance in our individual corners of the world, and avoid those that don't. For me, berries grow wild along the creek, so it's natural that they will grow in gardens and farms. But that won't be the case in Darwin and Cairns. Those of you up north have access to foods that we can't grow down here, and you ought to consume your local delicacies with gusto.

In other words, we should all aim to eat as locally, and seasonally, as we possibly can. This doesn't mean you have to wear a culinary hair-shirt. We can all eat like kings and queens if we put in a modicum of effort growing our own and sourcing it locally.

Next, food labelling. You don't have to be Stephen Hawking to know that food labelling in this country is pathetic. Not only do we not know whether a certain product contains Genetically Modified Organisms or is sprayed with a cancer causing pesticide, we are subjected to this ridiculous concept of foods bearing the phrase "made from local and imported ingredients". These are nothing more than weasel words, championed by the food industry who argue that comprehensive labelling costs big money and the price of food will rise if it is implemented. Maybe it will, but I for one would like to know, for example, that when I buy a staple pantry product that I can't get locally, say flour, I can make my purchasing decision based not just on price, but where a particular ingredient was grown. 

I would avoid Chinese grown ingredients altogether if labelling was enhanced. China is among the most toxic, polluted countries in the world and everything that leaves their shores, even products that are certified organic, leaves them potentially contaminated. Forget about free trade agreements. No amount of testing and no level of biosecurity can account for every food item that leaves China's ports. That one pavlova topped with frozen berries might be the one bite that gives you a nasty strain of E.Coli, and a short track to the grave. The risk of this happening in low, but the precautionary principle suggests that it would be wise to top my next pav with berries grown just up the road, if not those grown 10 metres from my backdoor.

Here's the bottom line: Industrialised agriculture always carries an increased food safety risk. Regardless of whether it comes from China or otherwise, food grown using corner-cutting techniques and toxic chemicals is unsustainable, and as we've seen with the contaminated berries, potentially dangerous. I'd never wish HepA on anyone, and sympathise with those who've been infected. But they ought to thank their lucky stars they didn't get something far, far worse.

Grow it yourself. Buy it local from people you know on a first name basis. Source ingredients from further afield with care.

Got it?

Has anyone else seen the latest Lynx antiperspirant TV ad? A man "who doesn't sweat" is in his "natural habitat" eating sushi in a Japanese restaurant. An attractive female chef is shown flicking a flaming frypan when the man "eats a large piece of wasabi by accident". Does he lose his cool? No way. He releases not a drop of sweat thanks to an antiperspirant that keeps him dry and fresh for 48 hours (at this point, don't be afraid to snigger).

It's hard to know where to start with such blatant stupidity, but let's give the wasabi thing a go. Anyone who has cooked with, tasted, or grown wasabi, knows you don't just pick up a piece with your chopsticks and throw it down the hatch. For wasabi to release it's magical intensity of flavour a section of the plant's stem has to be very finely grated. This grating process combines different chemicals in the wasabi stem, and produces a reaction that lasts for approximately 15 minutes.

The other stupid thing in the ad is that eating wasabi doesn't make you sweat like eating a hot chilli does. The heat produced by wasabi is entirely different. When you eat a dollop of freshly grated wasabi paste (not the imitation, green dyed horseradish that masquerades as wasabi paste), the experience is almost erotic. The flavour starts out sweet and tender, but after a few seconds, a spicy intensity begins to build, then it escalates, before it roars up your nasal passages in a final, eye watering climax that quickly tapers off to a pleasantly sweet aftertaste. Like your first time in the sack with the partner of your dreams, it's an experience not quickly forgotten.

The Lynx people, or rather their marketing company, got wasabi completely wrong. I guess I shouldn't be too hard on them. It is one of the most misunderstood foods in the world, and the plant, well it's a cool climate treasure rarely grown beyond its native Japan. Lucky for me, I got to visit a couple of wasabi growers when I was in Tasmania last year (including one of the few commercial growers in Australia). I wrote about them, and in the process busted a few wasabi myths, for the current issue of Organic Gardener magazine. You can pick up a copy at most newsagents or your nearest ABC Shop. Until then, go here for a quick teaser:

www.organicgardener.com.au/magazine/issues/marchapril-2015

One of the reason I'm so down on the supermarkets is that I worked at Coles for nearly a decade, and it gave me an inside view of of a truly busted system. When I was 15, I turned down a job with Myer to take up a job pushing trolleys for Coles. What was I thinking! This was back in the days when Coles was Coles New World, the staff (including the trolley boy) had to wear a collar and tie, and the car park was sloped from top to bottom, full of potholes, and completely exposed. I collected trolleys in all kinds of weather, and nearly passed out on a scorching hot Saturday morning in mid-summer. 

After a couple of years I got promoted to the "grocery" department. This was the group of staff responsible for dealing with the processed food, health and cleaning lines - things like tinned veg, hair shampoo and Mr Sheen furniture spray. Our boss was a hard edged, ambitious, ladder climber named Mr Morgan.

One of our jobs in grocery was to answer queries from customers, and it has to be said, some of the regular shoppers were complete pains in the bum. One old bloke with a German accent would come in every Saturday morning and ask for pack of meat to be marked down. Being the era before Sunday trading was introduced, it was a reasonable request. One day, though, he pushed his luck too far, asking me for discount on a pack of meat with plenty of time to go before its use by date. I went out the back to ask the grocery manager, relayed the bad news to the customer that no, we wouldn't offer him a discount on that pack, only to be given a message for the boss in reply. "Tell him he's stoopid," said the old bloke with his accent. I went out the back, passed on the message to Mr Morgan and was told to go back out "tell him to get f****d!" So much for that pearl of retail wisdom, the customer is always right.

On another occasion, one of the grumpiest of all our customers cornered me in the bread aisle on a Thursday night.  With steam snorting out of his nostrils and a finger jammed at my chest, he declared that we were out of rye bread, and how could we do such a ridiculous thing. He'd been shopping in our store for years and didn't we know he had Coeliac Disease and was gluten intolerant. Not having any idea what Coeliac Disease was I offered him a loaf of wholemeal, thinking this was the closest thing to rye. This only served to fire him up more. It was rye bread, or nothing! 

The point of my story is this. In ten years of working at Coles, from 1987 until 1997, I only once encountered someone who was genuinely gluten intolerant - the outraged customer seeking rye bread. He was seeking it, I now know, because rye is very low in gluten. I know this because I've been baking my own sourdough every week for nearly six years, and have learned a thing or two along the way about different grains, their effects on the body, their growing methods and the qualities they contribute to a loaf.

How many people did you know 10 or 20 years ago who couldn't stomach wheat? One. Two. Maybe a few. Now, nearly every second person claims gluten intolerance, and the rate of people diagnosed with Coeliac Disease has increased fourfold.

What's gone wrong? Some say it's the widespread use of the herbicide glyphosate, which farmers use to keep their paddocks clear of weeds. Others claim it's the enzymes in modern strains of wheat. Others point the finger at commercial yeast. Whatever the cause, there seems to be a growing demonisation of grains, a fascination with paleo diets, and a blind acceptance of gluten-free forms of flour, no matter what their provenance. 

We need to get some sanity and logic back in the debate. Have a read of this article by 3rd generation baker Vanessa Kimbell, who runs a sourdough making school in the UK. It's a rational overview of what has become a growing intolerance.

http://sustainablefoodtrust.org/articles/growing-intolerance-happened-wheat/

It's been a funny few months, tacked on the end of a funny few years. In late November, drought was napalming my garden better than Robert Duvall's chest baring, Stetson wearing character in Apocalypse Now, Lieutenant Colonel Bill Kilgore. Weeks of relentless heat and arid winds had my toughest, most drought resistant plants crying for their mummies. Some started dropping foliage in a last ditch attempt to preserve moisture. Others had no moisture to left and turned skeletal. 

When the calendar clicked to December, local chatter was that we were set to record our lowest annual rainfall in living memory. We were sitting at 400mm for the year. In a 1000mm per year rainfall area. But the season flipped. A low pressure trough parked itself along the eastern seaboard and dropped a couple of inches of relief rain. A follow up trough dropped a couple more. Then the monsoon drifted south, arriving later than usual and with less vigour, but still possessing enough kick to dump another 100mm, reviving the landscape around Hampton with an emerald flush that felt for all money like a second spring.  And if I'm to be honest, a second chance. 

I now understand that I've been floundering. It probably all started in 2011 with the floods, which helped wipe out our fledgling fruit tree business. The following year was reasonable, weather wise, apart from a very dry spring and early summer that broke with Tropical Cyclone Oswald, who barrelled down the Queensland coast and swamped us on the 2013 Australia Day long weekend with 489mm - a second flood in as many years. The latter half of 2013 was very dry, and for the first time that I can remember, we had a failed summer wet season. The drought stretched right into the end of last year, causing the failure of another fledgling business, a market garden selling organically grown produce directly to customers. 

We never really recovered from this setback. In an effort to keep ourselves afloat we started the Edible Gardener Company, which I hoped would combine all of our previous efforts into a single entity that could help people grow their own food. The idea never really took off, and because we'd exhausted most of our available capital on the market garden, we had to face the reality of closing another business, and taking the associated financial hit. Closing a business is embarrassing. Closing three in the space of a few years is humiliating, and expensive. 

This post isn't about finding a scapegoat. Weather is weather, and as the good book says, rain falls on the just and the unjust. That's life. There's nothing you can do to change it, and I'm not laying blame on something that is completely out of my control. I've made my share of mistakes. Sometimes I've tried too hard to please people and despite knowing that I work best when I work intuitively, I've made decisions solely with my head, without the input of my gut. 

With the dawning of a new year, I'm convinced something has to change. Here's where I'm at: I'm going backwards to go forward. I've realised that the one constant in my working life is writing. So I'm going to embrace my creativity, and write. Full time. Full blooded. I'm determined that this will be the year I make a serious attempt at a book, and this blog will get the attention it, and you, my readers, deserve. No side ventures will be attempted, even though at some point this year, it's likely the wolves will prowl at the door, bearing fangs and ill will. 

The other thing I've decided to do is get back to my roots. I grew up on the water; surfing, fishing, swimming and mucking about in boats. Water makes me happy, so I'm hatching plans to get back on, and in it. I've started swimming laps at my local pool, something I've been too chicken to do since Kylie and I first got married. My goal is to lose some flab and get strong enough to be back on a longboard by the Christmas holidays. I want to get properly into nature. I'm planning to take the family camping once per school term and I'd love to do a bit of travel, maybe even get overseas for the first time. I'm going to listen to more music. Might even take up the guitar again. I'm back into reading books, and you'll be glad to hear that some of them have absolutely nothing to do with gardening!

In fact, I'm keen to explore my life a bit outside the garden. I'll always potter around in the soil and I love growing food, but the sole title "gardener" has me feeling pigeonholed and as my wife will attest, I hate being put in a box. Don't be surprised if this blog occasionally strays into new, unexpected territory. Stick with me!

G'Day everyone,

Long time no see, right. I'm sorry to say that's it's been more than four months since I've posted something on this blog. Those of you who saw my post from four months ago are probably now assuming that the cause of such a long hiatus was that I was hunkered down in my study cranking out a book. Sadly, I gave up on the book idea months ago.

Book writing is a tough gig, and seriously risky. There's no guarantee that you'll get a publishing deal at the end, and though self publishing is a feasible option these days, I needed something more concrete than pages on a computer screen to keep my little family afloat.

Some of you also know that last year, we had to end our market garden business just as it was starting to really get a kick along. This decision hit us hard. The drop in income has been a serious challenge, and even though we decided to stop because of our lack of water and land (a decision that has been justified given the serious drought we're in currently), there's all the associated feelings of failure, humiliation etc that go with the close of a business.

To be really honest, I needed a few clear months to think through our options. We entertained the idea of selling up and moving to Tasmania ( as much as I love your island, don't get too excited, Tassie friends!), but have instead come to the conclusion that we need to stay and complete what we've started here at Hampton. We do love the place, and though it's becoming a challenge weather wise, our district still has loads of potential.

The result of three months worth of navel gazing is a new grand plan to change the world. Well, maybe not the world, but we'd be happy to change a small corner of it. In the last eight years we've explored various side ventures in addition to my work in the gardening media (which is still ongoing). These have included a landscape design consultancy, a heritage fruit tree nursery, gardening workshops, and most recently, the market garden.

We wound all these up for various reasons (the most common being bad luck with droughts and floods), but never lost sight of each project's potential to help people grow their own food and live a better life. That, after all, is what we're on about. Our purpose is to get every household growing food, and we're determined to keep plugging away until it happens!

So here's what I came up with on my little sabbatical. It's a new project that encompasses everything we've done to date, all under a unified banner. We've named it The Edible Gardener Co., and our tagline is "plants, advice and inspiration to help you grow your own food". Let me break down the three main elements:

Plants - We'll be setting up a boutique on-site nursery here at Thistlebrook selling only edible plants, plus a carefully selected range of tools, accessories and organic inputs. This is still in the development stage, but we expect to be open to customers within a month or so.

Advice - Over the years I've consulted with dozens of people about their gardens, both over the phone/email, and more preferably, at their homes and businesses. I haven't offered this service while our kids were little, but now they're older, I have more time for travel and would love to visit you on-site to help with your food growing efforts. I'm taking bookings now for Tuesdays and Wednesday each week, and can provide things like reports and plant lists as part of the service.

Inspiration - You'll still find my writing and photos in Organic Gardener Magazine and website, and for those who are members, in the Ross family's Garden Clinic Journal. I'm also launching a new Edible Gardener blog over at our spankin' new website, and will be sharing ideas, photos, tips, tricks and wisdom in whatever ways I can. Look for us on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. Finally, we're reopening Thistlebrook, our home garden to tour groups. If you're a member of a garden club or any other group and are looking for an interesting and inspiring place to visit, give us a try. 

We're building The Edible Gardener Co. on our 16+ years (or 32 collective years) of experience growing food for our family and friends. We don't know it all. rest assured, we still make the occasional mistake and struggle with forces beyond our control. But you can learn a heck of a lot in 16 years and we have lots of hard earned wisdom to offer. 

Here's what I encourage you to do. Head over to our new website The Edible Gardener Co. and have a good look around. At the bottom of the page you'll find a link that says "Subscribe to our mailing list". Click on this, fill in your details (it's free) and you'll start getting news, blogs and other updates direct from my desk to yours. If you've got a gardening friend who you think might be interested in The Edible Gardener Co., we'd appreciate it if you share the love by forwarding this blog post to them as well.

The main thing we need is your support. We desperately want to keep spreading the word about the joys and benefits of growing your own food but we can't do it without the love and support of our family, friends, and customers. Whether it's in kind or financial, we appreciate any and all goodness that comes our way.

Thanks for reading, and I hope this letter finds you well, and growing happily, wherever you are.

Bye for now,

Justin

PS: I'm a fan of a Victorian bloke called Rohan Anderson and his blog Whole Larder Love. Rohan and his partner Kate Berry (who has a blog called Lunch Lady) have just launched a crowd funding campaign for a new food education venture called The Nursery Project - I'd encourage you all to check it out. It's likely to be a smashing success, and has the potential to be a game changer. Keep an eye on www.thenurseryproject.com.au.

Apologies for the month-long absence here folks. I'm hibernating for winter. Well, that's only half true. I'm still working, but this year's colder than normal weather (we've had a run of frosts the last fortnight and have dropped to minus five three times. Whodathunkit?) presents such a good opportunity to slow down and reflect that I'd be a fool not to welcome the season with open arms.

For those of you curious enough to wonder what I've been working on, I'm happy to divulge. Apart from the odd job in the garden I've been working on a book. That's right, I've finally got around to putting a few ideas on paper and have three quarters finished a pitch that I'll be sending to some publishers in a month or so. Book writing is a whole different kettle of fish to writing short things like articles and blog posts, so it's been something of a spluttering effort so far. But gradually, I'm finding a rhythm and have started making steady progress. Don't ask me what it's about, okay. That's the first question everyone asks and for now I'm keeping mum. If I can sell the thing I'll make a big announcement then.

As for my winter reflections, they're all about a shift in focus. The world is in such a pitiful state at the moment that's it's easy to lose hope. But I'm not prone to depression and at heart I'm an optimist. So I'm deliberately shifting my gaze away from what's wrong with the world, to what's right, and what's hopeful. This isn't a denial of the facts. The world is still full of problems. But there's so many people working on positive solutions that once you look at the good stuff it's hard to be pessimistic.

There's one other thing that's helping make my focus-shift easy - seed catalogues have started arriving in the post. If you want a glimpse of a positive future I can't think of a better place to start looking!

See the photo above - it was taken a month ago during a burst of autumn warmth. I come from an extended family who farmed barefoot whenever they could, so for me there's nothing like working outside in shorts, t-shirt and a pair of thongs. The problem is, I don't want to look like I'm going to the beach a month later. 

By the last week of May, I fully expect to working outside in long pants, a long sleeved top, and my trusty Blunnies. But I'm not. It's still warm enough to be wearing the kit so beautifully modelled above. 

The BOM says we're having a record spell of warmth for this late in autumn, and I have to say, I'm finding it all just a bit weird. Autumn leaves are falling, but plants like roses and citrus are in full bloom. Toowoomba's famous jacarandas and camphor laurels are starting to lose their leaves, an event that doesn't usually happen until September (just before the start of the wet season). I've never seen plants so out of whack. They're totally bamboozled.

I'm pinning the blame on climate change. I know some people will balk at that idea, but my observation is that things are playing out for my area exactly like the climate scientists suggested it would. Our seasons are becoming erratic, and the day-to-day weather is more extreme. The concept of a "normal" season now seems quaint.

The hardest part of such climate chaos is that it has become very difficult to plan. By this point in the year, we should be getting regular cold fronts sweeping through, bringing a quick burst of rain, followed by gusty south westerly winds and frosty nights. We've had just one of these fronts so far for May. The rest of the time the wind has blown unseasonably from the east and north, just like it does in spring (one of the culprits for this is a shift in the jetstream - read this article to see why www.smh.com.au/environment/climate-change/wilder-winds-less-rain-as-roaring-forties-become-furious-fifties-20140511-zr9b1.html)

How do you figure out what to plant and when when the weather is so a-typical? I don't have an answer. I'm trying to figure it out as I go, and I'm making plenty of mistakes in the process.

What I can tell you is that one of my new aims is for my garden to become more resilient. In fact, resiliency is set to become of ever greater importance for all of us in the decades to come. Our politicians and their corporate masters have let us down by failing to do anything significant to address climate change, so we're all going to need boxing lessons. It's time to start rolling with the punches being thrown by a less hospitable climate.

Photo by Fiona Stone Photography

Recently, the great American farmer-poet Wendell Berry gave the great Canadian social activist-writer Naomi Klein some words of wisdom. When Klein asked Berry if he had any advice for rootless people, "like me, who live in our computers and always seem to be shopping from home", he said simply, "stop somewhere, and begin the thousand-year-long journey of knowing that place".

I've only lived in Hampton for eight years, and though it will take many years to learn its every secret, I have spent time getting to know my little village at the top of the range and have developed for it a deep and abiding love. I think that's the point of Berry's advice - get to know a place, let it grow on you, and you're more likely to care about it's welfare.

One of the things I love most about Hampton is our village's annual festival. Held on the third weekend of May for the last 12 years, the Hampton Festival is a staple of the region's busy autumn event calendar. The resident population of about 600 swells like a party balloon to around 5,000 people, who fill every nook and cranny of the local park and bring a vitality to the place that might not be immediately evident on the 364 days of the year when Hampton isn't in Festival mode.

Last year, Kylie and I ran the Community Produce Stall. What a buzz! By 11am the stall was inundated with eager customers and by the Festival's close we were staggered to learn that our team of a dozen volunteers sold nearly $7,000 worth of local produce. Seven grand in seven hours.

This result had little to do with us. It was testament to people's enthusiasm for local food and most importantly, the quality of the produce we had to offer. Hampton is unlike the rest of the Darling Downs. The village is set at the crest of the Great Dividing Range and is surrounded by hilly country suited to grazing, smallholding, market gardening and orcharding. It's not land for growing broadacre crops, yet through a combination of fertile soil, high annual rainfall and a temperate climate, the area manages to crank out a surprisingly diverse range of crops.

A couple of years ago I made a list of produce available locally in each season of the year. Turns out, autumn is the time of bounty. If you visit us at the Community Produce Stall in three weeks time you're likely to find persimmons, avocadoes, tamarillos, beetroot, spring onions, kale, chard, lettuces, chillies, garlic, citrus, herbs, cucumbers, honey, free range eggs, rhubarb, passionfruit, heirloom seeds, monsteras, yacon, pumpkins, walnuts, cut flowers and many I've forgotten, all grown within 10km of the village. Hampton is a locavore's paradise!

So here's the plug. My family loves living in Hampton, we love our local landscape and climate, and most of all, we love our farmers and the amazing food they produce. If you want to learn why I'm so passionate about our place, come along to the Hampton Festival on May 18. I'll be at the produce stall. Say g'day, and support local food production by buying some of the freshest, tastiest produce south east Queensland has to offer.

It's been more than 150 years since Easter Monday last coincided with Anzac Day, a date well before the landing at Gallipoli and one that won't be repeated until 2095. For the keenest of the keen, such a rare event equates to five days in a row of gardening bliss. I'm pretty keen myself. I plan to do a bit of work outside, but I'll also be making time to relax, and reflect on what the weekend might mean beyond chocolate bunnies and slouch hats.

Easter and Anzac Day share a common message as far as I'm concerned. It's a message not of war and glory, but one of sacrifice and ultimately, enduring peace. The Old Testament prophet Micah foresaw this peace in pointedly non-violent, agrarian terms:

“They shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up a sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid.”

These words ring true for a fruit grower (and peace-lover) like me. I'm a bit taken by the idea of sitting under my abundant fig tree and pruning it with a tool furnished from a defunct weapon of war. It's certainly not the reality at the moment. I've got one old, poorly positioned fig in the garden, and the world's most cursed marsupial – the possum – usually beats me to the fruit. I'm planting more figs this winter, and hope for a day when I can eat from a number of trees and live not just in peace with my fellow human beings, but the local wildlife as well.

The common fig, Ficus carica, is probably the oldest of all the domesticated fruit trees. It is one of a number of contenders for the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden, and was first described in stone tablets by the Egyptians more than 2700 years ago, when it was revered as the Tree of Life. The tree and it's fruit are afforded frequent mentions in the Bible, but the most famous is, of course, Adam and Eve's use of the leaves as “modesty patches” to hide their nakedness.

The fact that the leaves were able to hide the dangly bits of the first man should give some indication of their ornamental value. The leaves are big and handsome. The tree itself can look scrappy, but a well pruned example can make for a very attractive specimen that meets my ideal characteristics for a plant – beautiful and productive.

The fruit is even more luscious than the foliage. If you've never eaten a fat, fleshy fig straight off the tree then I don't reckon you've quite lived. Don't even give the occasional supermarket fruit a second glance. Figs have such a short shelf life that they demand to be eaten fresh, cooked or dried. Freshly picked figs, halved and baked with honey, then served with a dollop of double cream is nothing short of a taste of heaven.

Figs will grow in any climate the Downs has to offer, from warm to cool temperate, to subtropical, and while the tree prefers reasonably rich ground to sand, isn't overly fussy. The real key to getting bumper crops is to grow figs “leaner” than you would most other fruiting trees. A well-nourished fig tree will get fat and lazy, developing an extensive root system and putting lots of energy into a lush canopy. It will do this at the expense of fruit, so in fertile soil, feeding is only necessary to get the tree established. As Louis Glowinski says in his excellent The Complete Book of Fruit Growing in Australia, “neglect seems to be a good policy as far as fertiliser in concerned.”

The other trick people employed to stimulate fruiting, was to constrict the tree's root ball. Old timers would plant a fig in a 44-gallon drum to keep the roots compact. Others advocate pruning the roots periodically with a sharp spade. A simpler option is to either plant your tree against a sunny wall and espalier it, or grow a fig tree in a large pot. Half wine barrels are perfect, both practically and aesthetically, but don't forget to drill drainage holes in the bottom, and for longevity, treat with a wood preservative. As for varieties my picks for the Downs are 'Brown Turkey', 'Black Genoa' for colder areas and 'White Adriatic' where its warmer.

My hope is that you'll take some time this weekend to reflect on the common message of both Easter, and Anzac Day. Perhaps you'll be inspired to plant a fig tree. In years to come, maybe you too will be found sitting beneath your tree, eating its fruit, looking forward to the day when war is over and peace reins upon the earth.

Why two Tassie trips in almost as many years? For one, I'm into mountains, rivers, oceans, gardens, farms, forests, food, art, history and architecture, so it should come as no surprise that I'm completely smitten by the place. Nowhere in Australia (not even home, sadly), packs so much into such a compact area. I go to Tassie and feel like I'm in my natural habitat.

Huon River, near Port Huon.

The more professional reason for the trip was to cover stories for Organic Gardener magazine. I travelled with the very generous assistance of Tourism Tasmania, and will be writing a couple of articles - one on growing wasabi in the home gardens, and the other on eco-touring in the island state.

I'd love to give a day by day account of the trip, but instead, over the next couple of weeks I'll drip feed you some photos and stories about the places we visited. Today, first stop, it's Provenance Growers.

My only regret about visiting Paulette Whitney and Matt Deakin at their beautiful little farm on the slopes of Mt Wellington was that we couldn't stay longer. Kylie and I literally jumped off the plane last Friday afternoon, raced to our hire car, and sped off for the hills before the light started to fade. On the way we got a text from our contact at Tourism Tas saying that Paulette had injured herself that morning. Graciously, she agreed to meet us at the farm and give us a guided tour, crook back and all.

Set on five organically managed acres, Provenance Growers specialises in the rare and unusual. Paulette (who worked as a hairdresser before retraining as a horticulturist) and Matt (a chef who's now a full time farmer) grow plants in two forms: As seedlings, which customers can purchase and plant in their home gardens, and as fresh produce, which is sold directly to restaurants and from their stall at Hobart's weekly Farm Gate Market.

Some of the rarities Paulette introduced us to included celtuce (stem lettuce), crosne (pronounced krohn - also known as Chinese artichoke), orange thyme, painted mountain corn, sea celery (a Tassie native), and ashitaba (a Japanese angelica known as tomorrow leaf). In addition to rare plants, Paulette and Matt grow a wide range of edible flowers, mostly for restaurants such as Hobart's Garagistes but also in the form of edible flower posies at their Farm Gate stall.

Saddleback cross pigs and Barnevelder chooks also call the farm home, helping to break and fertilise new growing beds while providing a source of meat and eggs. The farm is a true family smallholding that produces food for the kitchen, income for two or three adults and opportunities for the kids. Paulette and Matt's daughters each have a little enterprise selling flower seedlings at the markets - one grows calendula and the other grows borage.

I'm a sucker for unusual plants, so it was a real privilege to learn from someone who I consider to be one of Australia's foremost experts on rare, cool climate, edible plants. Paulette will probably hate me saying that, but it's true - she knows her stuff back to front and inside out! If you want to tap into her and Matt's collective wisdom about plants, food and farming you've got two options: Visit them at their market stall, or check out the Provenance Growers blog at provenancegrowers.blogspot.com.au. Some of Paulette's articles on food security and smallholding are excellent, from-the-heart pieces of writing that deserve a wider audience.

Thanks Paulette and Matt for hosting us and all the best for your family and business. It's inspiring to see good people doing truly good work.

In case you missed it, the UN's Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change released its fifth report yesterday. It's the IPCC's first report in seven years, and it marks a dramatic shift beyond previous efforts, which were mostly about attempting to model what might happen in the future. This 5th report contains some modelling, but it also recognises that climate change is happening now, and its impacts can be observed and analysed.

The take home message of the report is that to maintain a habitable climate, humanity must mitigate and adapt. In my language that means we have to seriously pull our heads in and learn to conserve (mitigate), while at the same time, we must respond creatively to the problems a less favourable climate is throwing our way (adapt).

A key point is that even if all greenhouse emssions and deforestation ceased overnight, some future warming of the planet is already guaranteed. But mitigation can limit the damage. Because warming is locked in, adaptation can help us thrive in what is becoming a more chatoic world.

My personal view on mitigation is that the big corporations will be dragged kicking and screaming to the negotiating table. They have too much to lose and have shown repeatedly throughout history that they will lie, cheat, and steal - do anything - to protect their profits. Mitigation, in other words, is unlikely to happen without binding government regulations. How those regulations should look (carbon tax, emmissions trading etc) is matter that I'm not really qualified to have a view on.

What I do have opinions about, is how my family might adapt. We are anything but perfect, and one of our guiding principles is humilty. From that foundation, Kylie and I have deliberately chosen a path of simplicity and frugality. We're not well off financially, but that's by choice. We've chosen time over money, and we're rich in opportunites to connect with each other and our kids. Like all families we have our moments, but generally we're happy. Our kids hit their pillows each night feeling safe and content.

From a climate change point of view, frugal living is inherently beneficial. We consume as little as possible without alienating our kids or ourselves from society. We run our home with accredited green power. Obviously, we grow much of our food, and we do so organically. We have one reasonably fuel efficient car, and try to be conscious about the way we use it. We minimise waste. We maximise value and quality in the things we purchase. We're completely disinterested in keeping up with the Joneses (other than some friends at Ravensbourne who bear the last name Jones and happen to be excellent role models!). Above all, we try to live in harmony with the natural world.

You don't have to be Einstein to understand that we are linked to nature like an unborn baby to its mother. We're basically on life support, utterly dependent on clean air, unpolluted water, healthy food, and a favourable climate for our existence. So the bottom line for me is this: Whether climate change is happening or not (I accept the scientiific consensus that it is), whether it is caused by human activity or not (I accept the scientific consensus that it is), humanity thrives on this planet when we build our llives on the foundations of simplicity, humility and love - for each other and the world to which we are a part.

And as the great philosopher F. Gump once proclaimed...that's all I have to say about that.

I've actually got mixed emotions about what some people are calling a drought breaker. On the one hand, I'm so thankful and happy that it's finally rained. The garden looks like it's breathed a huge sigh of relief and we are set up for the run into winter. On the other hand, I'm a smidgen disappointed that the rain didn't arrive earlier. It's never easy shutting a project down, especially when you believe in it so passionately. But above all, I'm thrilled to see some wet stuff.

One of the questions I'm anticipating from friends and customers is whether we'll now re-launch the direct delivery business. Sorry, but no, we won't be. This wet week has given me lots of time to think, more than I've had in ages, and I've made some decisions about my future.

The feedback I recieved after shutting down the business was overwhelmingly supportive, but not in the way I expected. Everyone was totally understanding of decision, and I was nearly moved to tears by some of the encouragement people gave us. But the clear message I got from the feedback was a surprise: Yes, we'll miss the vegies, customers told me, but what we really don't want you to stop is the writing.

Someone said I shouldn't be suprised by this. But in my experience writers are always shocked to learn that people actually enjoy reading their work. I'm no exception. Writing is solitary work, so when the sentences I've shaped go out into the world, it's hard to fathom that more than a few people might take more than a second's notice. To learn that you have fans is always a surprise. Always.

So here's my plan for the next phase of my life, and for that of my family. We'll still grow a few vegies commercially, but on a very small scale. For now we'll persist with salads, and we're planning on something that offers a high return for minimal labour. Probably garlic. Kylie will continue with piano teaching part time, and is looking forward to having more time for craft and preserving. My main gig, however, is coming full circle.

I started out as a full time writer 13 years ago, but since 2004, I've maintained my wirting practice as a side venture while I spent most waking hours designing gardens, running a nursery, and market gardening. As for photography, that's really been little more than a hobby. I've always taken photos to accompany my articles, and have never given it time beyond this rationale.

Now I'm getting back to what I do best. For the foreseeable future, writing (supported by my photography) will be the overwhelming focus of my work. It's what I've dreamed about since I was 15, when I decided to do Year 10 work experience as a journalist. I've always seen myself as someone with a reasonable competence for putting words on a page in a coherent fashion. Now, I'm about to turn 40 and it's time to make writing my life's work.

As part of this decision, I'll be refining my niche. In addition to gardening, my main topic for 13 years, I plan to write more about "smallholding" and the "good life". As always I'll be approaching the topics from first hand experience, and the fact that I've put these words in inverted commas means there's some explaining to do!

You'll notice that I've completed a major redesign of my website (let me know what you think!). I'll be blogging with more intent, and I plan to put together a book proposal over the next few weeks to send off to some publishers. I'll also be chasing a couple more regular gigs in addition to my work for Organic Gardener magazine. If you're a publisher/editor looking for someone experienced and passionate, contact me. I'm open to offers.

As for the rest of you - friends, family, fans and casual observers, alike - I hope you enjoy what I have in store for the future. My two goals, whenever I sit down to write something, are to teach and inspire. I'm grateful that you take the time to read my work, and I hope that my words help you to live ever more fruitful lives.

Kylie and I regret to announce that we've decided to cease our online ordering and delivery service. This decision is effective immediately, and comes after a long period of discussion and reflection. It hasn't been an easy decision, but over the weekend we came to the conclusion that we can longer continue with business as usual.

The Hampton area has had less that one quarter of it's average rainfall over the last nine months. The summer wet season has failed, subsoil moisture is drying up quickly, and conditions are ripe for the formation of an El Nino weather pattern for the second half of the year (El Ninos usually bring hot, dry weather. The last was in 2009/10, and the 2002/3 El Nino preceded the Big Dry). In other words, the outlook is grim.

We ran out of water at our shared paddock a month ago, which means we haven't been able to plant any new crops. At our home farm, are tanks are almost empty and we are getting by on town water (2-3 times the price of irrigation water). However we simply don't have enough space at home to grow the volume of produce we need to run a viable delivery service. We feel that in our part of the world we need at least an acre under cultivation and sufficient water to make an intensive market garden work. The reality is, we simply don't have such land/water available.

Kylie and I honestly regret any disappointment or inconvenience we cause by this decision. We've done our best to plan carefully and behave with prudence, but the drought has taken us by surprise. We've done out best to hold on for as long as possible, but we are now producing just a third of what we were producing back in November. The numbers don't stack up, and something had to be done.

For the time being, we've decided to focus our efforts on growing salad crops and high yielding vegies. We'll continue to supply these to Flavours cafe in Hampton, the Hampton Festival and other selected outlets, but unfortunately we can no longer supply direct to individual customers.

As for the future, first and foremost we hope it rains. But whether it rains or not, we have no plans to stop farming. Market gardening is in my blood, and I plan to find a way to make it work for me and my family. We're looking at a range of options at the moment, both locally and interstate, and hope to have some good news to share in coming months.

For now, though, it's time to thank you all for your support and encouragement. We really appreciate your business, and are sorry that things haven't turned out quite as we'd planned. Don't give up on local food. It's vital to a sustainable future, and we'd encourage everyone to support the other veg delivery businesses doing the rounds in the Toowoomba area.

Sincerely,

Justin (and Kylie)

It happens every autumn without fail. At about 9am in the morning I'll be outside tending to my vegetable plants, eyes facing the soil, sweat dripping from the brim of my straw hat. After finishing my task, I'll straighten up and turn my face toward the sky, feel the breeze on my skin, and WHACK, I'm struck dumb by the sheer beauty of an April day. You know the kind I'm talking about, don't you? A cerulean blue sky, gentle easterly, golden sun. No wonder I wait all year for autumn.

From a vegie grower's point of view, autumn is the crowning point of the year for reasons beyond blue skies and cool breezes. The soil bears summer's legacy by staying warm up to, and sometimes beyond, the first frosts in May. Combine this with cooling air temperatures as the season decends into winter, and you've scored the ideal time to grow a broad selection of plants.

As a consequence, we're getting stuck in at the moment pulling out the spent crops of summer, and planting a new season's bounty. I especially like growing brassicas in autumn. Broccoli and cauliflower heads tend to form beautifully, and Asian cabbages like bok choi and mizuna grow so rapidly that they are ready for the kitchen just a month after sowing. Same's true for greens like lettuce, rocket and spinach. We've planted them all in the last fortnight and expect to reap a bumper harvest.

As we transition from summer to autumn crops, our availability list will shrink a bit in terms of variety and volume. This week will be particularly light, and we'd ask please that you don't give up on us. In the coming weeks there will be an increase in what we have available, and regardless of what happens with the rain, we're confident that the quality of what makes it's way from our soil to your dining table will be top notch. Stick with us! There are good things in store.

Did you know that the average age of farmers in America is 57? Or that in Australia the average age of farmers is 52, twelve years above the average for other occupations? When the current generation of aging farmers decide to retire, who's going to take their place? Adult children who've seen their parents endure the ravages of drought, flood and financial struggles?

Have a read of this New York Times article about a gathering of elder farmers in the US who are struggling to find ways to pass on their legacy to a younger generation. I found it a poignant read.

Then, for contrast, check out the site of a young farming family grossing over $150,000 per year from one and a half cultivated acres in Quebec.