Fat Pig Farm. - Summer on Fat Pig Farm

WELCOME

Summer comes slowly to our valley. Sometimes we get a hint in mid spring, a day when the thermometer soars. Sometimes summer creeps in, frustratingly snail-like in pace, waiting to really warm up.

We time summer by various things: the flourishing of the elderflower, marking roughly the end of spring; the cutting of silage, a forerunner to hay; the starchiness of the broad beans after months of them being our major green; the fact we need to start watering the fruit trees after two seasons of letting nature do it for us.

Fat Pig Farm is one of the last farms in the local area to brown off as hot weather comes. Our little gully captures the wind, but the valley location means we retain a bit more moisture. Typically, it hardly rains in summer. We keep an eye on the water tanks. We watch the weather over the Huon River; the way the rain falls on Geeveston. In winter, rain comes belting across in minutes and sprays the windows, encouraging us to button up our jackets. In summer, the rain clouds seem to pause, to look over at our little farm, and then dissipate or go on down the Huon and leave us well alone.

Summer is most apparent on the plate. This is fruit season: we gorge on the stuff. From the first mulberries, through gooseberries to raspberries. We celebrate the first cherries of the year with pip-spitting competitions on the deck, my son and I shirtless so we dont stain our clothes. We buy trays of peaches and nectarines from the Cane family on the other side of the river; impossibly sweet, melting-flesh stone fruitthe sort that dribbles down your chin as you eat them, that peel at the mere touch of a hand. In a good year, we harvest masses of apricots and realise the commercial varieties really arent the goods.

Summer means work. We milk all summer, and the cream is usually at its best then, which leads us into storing batches of butter for the leaner cold months. The garden needs watering most days. The pigs wallows need filling, the cows troughs are watched for faults in the siphon. Weeds grow well in our garden, protected from grazing by wallabies, so we spend quite a bit of time with the brush cutters and the Dutch hoe. And all the work is fuelled by our harvest. Blackberries late in the season, plucked from numerous fencelines. Raspberries, usually in two flushes: one at the start, the other on the cusp of autumn. Peas, so sugar-sweet straight from the pod. Theres even the first of the new seasons apples to be had, the sweet/sour gravenstein that gets baked into pies or simply devoured on the hoof.

But summer also means longer days. It means more chance to drop in a line or put up a tent. It means barbecues and cevaps, the scent of coals and fresh herbs, of fire-licked meats and charred veg.

Every year we cant believe the change. The need to water, the lack of mud. The (slightly sad) realisation that we dont actually have to light the cooker. The need for sunscreen. In midwinter, summer seems impossible. Then it lands with a thwack, with strawberries and blackcurrants, with stone fruit and corn.

Summer cooking often isnt cooking. Its assembling. Or gathering. Or gobbling in the garden. Summer cooking is drinking cider and sipping pinot gris. Cooking in the hot months is usually shorter and simpler, lighter and brighter. Its the gentlest season in the kitchen. All poaching and barely blanching, and dressing salads.

But most of all, every summer is a celebration of the bounty of the land.

CHAPTER

BRUNCH

In the warmer months, we think of second breakfasts after early morning chores (I think its called brunch for those of you not on the land). Were talking bacon butties and Afghan eggs; real crumpets; crisp waffles; drunken raspberries and no-machine ice cream. (Oh, right, thats dessert: its a fine line)

On warmer days its enough to have a little trifle to make brunch an occasion. Were unlikely to have porridge, though we do sneak in a little sweetened polenta, which seems to have become ingrained in the routine all year around.

If were having people over, it could be a Welsh rarebita nod to my heritage and the beauty of simple cheese on toasta fresh farmhouse curd or even some still-warm ricotta made from Elsies golden guernsey milk.

And if brunch becomes lunch, and a way to hide from the worst of the midday sun, so be it. The smoked trout kedgeree is just as lovely later in the day. That might even give me a chance to bake fresh honey buns to make a little bacon sandwich, too.

THE PERFECT SUMMER
BREAKFAST TRIFLE

SERVES 4

This dish, which is best made just before eating, was inspired by one I had at The Old Cable Station at Stanley in Tassies north west. The fruit you use can, of course, evolve as the season progresses. Use blueberries and nectarines if you have them, and raw muesli if the only toasted version is one of those nasty, cheap, overly sweet ones.

150 g (5 oz/1 cups) raspberries

1 tablespoon sugar

250 g (9 oz/12/3 cups) strawberries, stems removed, halved

125 g (4 oz/1 cup) toasted muesli

2 yellow peaches, stones removed, cut into bite-size pieces

100 g (3 oz) natural yoghurt (try goat, sheep or buffalo if you can get it)

2 tablespoons honey

100 ml (3 fl oz) pure cream (35% fat), lightly whipped

Pop the raspberries and sugar into a small saucepan and put it over a modest heat to melt the fruit slightly. Remove from the heat and add the halved strawberries, stirring well to coat. Set aside to cool.

Take four large tumblers and put a tablespoon of muesli in each one. Plop a quarter of the peach pieces into each one then spoon the berries over evenly. Add another tablespoon of muesli to each glass. Whisk the yoghurt with half the honey, then stir in the cream. Spoon this mixture over the fruit and muesli, then top with a little more muesli. Drizzle a tiny bit more honey over each glass and serve at room temperature rather than heavily chilled.

BACON NUDGERS

PER PERSON

The Brits have so many wonderful names for different kinds of bread rollsand the nudger is one of my favourites. Its a light, elongated roll, and at Fat Pig Farm, we think the name suits our rolls filled with particularly smoky bacon and a bit of fresh mayonnaise. Sometimes we serve them at festivals or events. Mostly thats because we want to eat them ourselves.