A Foodie Sunday

I am turning into a Hobbit. Second breakfast and second tea time. Scary.

"And now leave me in peace for a bit! I don't want to answer a string of questions while I am eating. I want to think!"

"Good Heavens!" said Pippin. "At breakfast?"
— J.R.R. Tolkien (The Fellowship of the Ring (The Lord of the Rings, #1))

"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"

"What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?"

"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.

Pooh nodded thoughtfully. "It's the same thing," he said."
— A.A. Milne

"I went to a restaurant that serves "breakfast at any time" so I ordered French toast during the Renaissance."
— Steven Wright

Now that the house search has culminated in a win, we can relax a bit for the next sixty days. There will be plenty to do to prepare to unpack our household goods, I’m sure, but at least we won’t be driving all over the countryside to meet real estate agents!

Sunday dawned with a beautiful sky. Thank goodness I was up at 0700 because it melted into a light blue sky with clouds fifteen minutes later.

Perfect day for our first visit to the Farm Gate Market in downtown Hobart.

There are wonderful rules for this once a week market - here’s the write up from the webpage.

In 2009 our market began with an honest and simple philosophy – that if you couldn’t eat it, drink it, grow it or meet the producer, then you wouldn’t find it at Farmy.

That ethos has always held true. And now, the little farmers’ market that began with just 12 producers has grown into an essential Sunday ritual for locals and one of the top five farmers’ markets in the country.

Tasmania’s distinct growing seasons make for an ever-changing array of produce and that’s what we celebrate every Sunday.

Staying true to what’s in season locally is reflected throughout the market; on fresh produce stalls, in artisan foods and on street food vendors menus.

See you Sunday.

The Farm Gate Market made Lonely Planet’s 10 top markets in the WORLD. How could I resist!?! I freaking love farmers markets. Unfortunately, I had to deal with two negatives - Herr Zen’s idea was to walk the market and see what they have, saving the buying for NEXT time. And he was in the early stages of hangry. I failed, in my excitement, to ensure that he’d had his Weetabix feed before we left the house. Rookie mistake. Again.

Fortunately, I had some cash money in my billfold not subject to Herr Zen’s market rules. And I saw a couple of must haves for my little cloth market bag. The first I found at my friend Julia’s stand. Oh my goodness. The jams alone were beautiful. I settled on the passionfruit and mandarin one.

Then her little cakes. I resisted. It was tough, but I’m proud to say I was not overcome by my sweet tooth. I could feel them clacking together angrily as I turned away, but you can’t let your appetite rule you, people! Plus, Herr Zen was standing right there watching with his beady eyes. No way could I have pulled off that lime and sesame seed cake heist under his nose. Next time, Julia.

The next stall had fresh, homemade mascarpone, quark and sour cream. Then the farm produce. Stalls and stalls of beautiful vegetables, tons of different little potato species, huge daikon radishes and lovely herbs.

There were oysters and fresh fish, along with several butcher stalls for lamb and beef.

Here’s another one that appealed to my sweet tooth. I love pies. Herr Zen prefers the normal steak and cheese hand pies here, but I am enamored with the traditional sweet pies - at least, traditional to Americans - and these were beautiful. I still hope to find one with blackbirds that fly out, one of my favorite fairy tale images. But I’ll settle for apple and raspberry. Topped with that homemade custard, please.

There was a separate small area with hot food popups - Indian, Korean, Burgers, even gourmet small batch coffee. And this man playing the didgeridoo added the perfect doleful sounds to complement the seagulls. (I thought of Dad when we walked by, because the store directly behind him is an Antiques market and they had savvily opened for the Sunday morning market crowd. I wanted to go in, but did not. Herr Zen. Hangry. It takes precedence over shopping.)

Then I spotted something so interesting that I had to have it. EXPENSIVE. But EXOTIC trumps expensive every time. I bought a bottle of fermented turmeric syrup. Turmeric is really good for you so I figured adding in fermentation must take it over the moon in terms of health benefits.

I asked lots of questions of the proprietor. (It’s FUN being the stupid American. No question is too dumb.) Does boiling water kill the fermentation? Possibly. He recommends letting the kettle calm down a bit after boiling before pouring. Does it have the required pepper? Yes. (Duh, It was on the sign.) How often can you take it? Every day if you’d like, it’s safe. But his partner only takes it when she feels sluggish or like she’s getting a cold, and she adds an extra bit of honey to her mixture.

Done! I’ll take it. Herr Zen tried not to wince when he saw the big bills come out. (It’s fermented turmeric syrup, I’ve never seen it before. I must have it, Sweetie. Sorry.)

The happy vendor gave me a free sample in a cup. Delicious! Much less bitter than straight turmeric. I’m looking forward to cold season now that I have a secret weapon.

My bag is still woefully deflated, the syrup and jam don’t take up a lot of room. But we need to keep moving towards the brunch, people. Herr Zen probably groaned inside when he realized we had to walk by the Hobart library to get to the parking garage. LIBRARY! My eyes lit up like a cartoon Tasmanian Devil.

Surely we could just pop in for a minute? He agreed. Yes. A MINUTE! Which means ten minutes, right? I love the rules in Tasmania. I can check out a book at any library in any town, and I can return it to any library in any town. The Hobart Library had a mystery I wanted and I also found a book on Symbols of Australia. Since it’s a foodie Sunday, I read all about vegemite and pavlovas on our way home.

I wasn’t too much of an idiot today - only one embarrassing moment. I tried to walk out of the entrance at the library and stood there in stupefied amazement that the sliding doors remained closed, until Herr Zen grabbed my arm and pointed the opposite way. For the last month I’ve wondered if I’m sailing into early onset dementia, because my memory and reasoning skills seem woefully inadequate in comparison to how I am in the US.

Fortunately, it’s getting better. The constant bombardment of new experiences, new places, new way of driving, new EVERYTHING has kept me off balance, but now that I’m starting to get into a bit of a routine, return to the same stores, recognize some landmarks, my brain is clicking again. Long may it continue.

ANYWAY. Brunch. Our neighbor in the other little Air BnB cottage on the property runs Providence Cafe in West Hobart, a happening little area with loads of cute lacy Victorian houses and happy rose gardens. Parking is difficult, but that’s long-suffering Herr Zen’s cross to bear. He let me out right in front and I blithely sailed in and grabbed a table while he struggled with inching into a small parallel parking spot up the hill.

Dani did not steer us wrong - her cafe fare is delicious! The man had eggs benedict, while I opted for bruschetta on sourdough toast. Added to the bruschetta were walnuts, goat cheese and honey drizzled over the top, which combined perfectly with the tomatoes, fresh basil and balsamic vinegar.

After a drive up Mount Wellington - more on that later - we arrived back home at about 2 pm. PLENTY of time for a walk. I gulped down a couple of glasses of water, grabbed my new backpack and let Herr Zen know my planned route - down the main roads back to the service station by the highway and return.

The route is pretty straightforward and I’d spotted a roadside farmer’s stand right before the little gas station market. Pretty sure she’ll have something I want.

I learned another important lesson today. If the farmers leave blankets on the horses, I should probably wear a warmer coat. Winter is definitely approaching, even on sunny afternoons.

In addition to roadside produce and jam stands, the farmers also sell horse poo. I have to admire the entrepreneurship of the locals. Our Air BnB landlord swears by it. She says she mixes it with the fruit and veg waste we’ve been emptying into the garden compost barrels. Note to self - buy gardening gloves pronto.

Since I was almost to the gas station market, I decided to take a look-see inside. Have backpack, might as well fill it up. I found a tiny jar of vegemite. After reading my Symbols of Australia section on the paste, I know that, in addition to a horrible taste, it offers tons of good B vitamins. I’m going to have to do my kalamata olive trick and eat it five days in a row to get my uncivilized American tastebuds to accept it. Eh. Might as well.

Here’s the roadside signs I have to interpret on the fly. Can you see why driving is difficult for me? It’s actually a really good solution to a bad traffic intersection, so once I understand it I’m good to go. Unfortunately, I also have Herr Zen in the passenger seat.

Picture me driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the road with traffic whizzing by the opposite shoulder that I’m used to, whipping my head in the opposite direction to look in the rearview mirror, side mirrors, app map to the left of the dash instead of the right. Now picture me trying to do all of the above while Herr Zen conducts a pop quiz. “Okay, what should you be looking at here? What does that sign indicate? What’s the speed limit?”

Shoot me now. “Come on, guy, I’m trying to stay on the right side of the road. STOP WITH THE QUESTIONS! Avoiding head on collisions is as much as I can handle right now!!” Then sulky silence from both of us for five miles or so.

But I digress. Back to the walk. I’m headed home. I stop at the stand and admire her garlic and rosemary plantings, pick up each jar and finally settle on some pickled beets. Very good for the stomach. I select the exact one I want and put it in the backpack along with the vegemite.

After happily walking another half mile, I realize two things. One - I am not going to get back in time to cook and serve supper in a timely fashion. I have underestimated the distance - I’m not on a two mile walk, it’s two miles down and two miles back. Ack!

Two - I have forgotten to put my eight dollars of coins into the farmer’s cash box at the roadside stall. I have shoplifted a jar of beets. I immediately try to recall if there were any roadside cameras in the area. Pretty sure there weren’t any, but you never know.

I pull my Australian phone out of the backpack and call my American phone, which is hopefully within hearing distance of Herr Zen back at the house. At least, that’s what I MEAN to do. Instead, I dialed my old number - Dad’s home phone back in the US. It rings five times before I realize my mistake. It’s 2:15 am at my father’s house. Oops.

My sister, my nephew and my brother are overnighting it with Dad. There’s no answer, so I’m picturing all four in their separate bedrooms hoping desperately that someone else will get up and silence the irritating ring. Geez Louise, the time difference is a killer when you get it wrong.

I hang up before anyone answers and finally call the right number. Herr Zen rides to my rescue and we backtrack to the stall so I can pay the piper. I am such a klutz. But at least I entertain Herr Zen. All fricking day, people. It’s a gift.

He gallantly allowed me to skate on cooking dinner. Instead, we had a Dr. Oetker pizza or two with the rugby final - shades of our time in Germany - followed by Tasmanian yoghurt with a little mandarin-passionfruit jam to jazz it up. Delicious. I think Foodie Sunday might turn into our first Tasmanian tradition.

Another day closer to moving into the house. Sixty days and a wake up.