I have this nagging dread my kids will be the ones who answer, ‘from the supermarket,’ when the teacher asks where eggs come from.
Mind you, ‘from a chicken’s bum’ probably wouldn’t earn them any points either.
With this fear niggling at the back of my mind we occasionally try to edjumakate our kids on how food makes it to our table.
We started a little vege patch a couple of years ago and suddenly the backyard was full of Tomato Fairies every afternoon, stuffing their mouths with handfuls of cherry and roma tomatoes. The kids loved it. I loved it. I felt very Farmer MacDonald, even though I had nothing much to do with the success of our crop – it was a wet season. I doubt the plants would have survived if they were reliant on me to water them: I struggle to remember to have a drink of water myself throughout the day.
Unfortunately the buffalo grass which frustratingly came with the load of soil I trailered home took over and for the last couple of years every time we looked over the balcony at the forest of weeds our enthusiasm evaporated like a puddle of pee in a heatwave.
It’s not just tomato seedlings either. I’ve purchased no less than a dozen mango plants in the last ten years and only one of them is still with us and thriving – although I fear this may be due to being planted over a sewerage pipe. It’s producing well though. Ten years and we’ve plucked about 8 mangoes of it. That’s nearly enough to fill a $15 tray from our Marketman. So no chance of supplimenting our income by selling fruit at the front gate just yet.
So today, in stark contrast to the last 600 odd days, we started the weeding and digging with vigour and enthusiasm. This lasted nearly a full minute.