Paddock to Plate: Orange Regional Museum

On a trip to Orange, when Him Outdoors was busy competing in a cycling race, I went to the regional art gallery and museum. Their exhibition was Paddock to Plate: a history of food and wine in Orange and the district.

While it did pretty much what you would expect - using historic objects and photographs to illustrate how growing, processing, distribution and consumption of food has changed over time - it was curated in an interesting and interactive fashion, encouraging visitors to learn more about the stories of the people of the region. The exhibition starts with the mountain, an ancient volcano, which created the soils and climate that attracted indigenous people, then others from across the world. 

Stories about producing, processing and forces of change run around the perimeter walls, giving space for large farming objects and showcases containing smaller artefacts. A range of farming tools is mounted on simple white backing boards, so the timelessly beautiful shapes of these objects can be clearly seen. 

Curator Sandra McEwan and the museum team assembled an impressive trove of over 200 historic from around the Orange region with enormous variety of size and scale. Ploughs, refrigerators and a rare wheat flail join whisks, butter pats and dainty mementos of dining in a bygone era. 

Central to the exhibition was the concept of food in the home, and this was represented through a stylised 'kitchen' displaying utensils in a pigeonhole format that echoes kitchen cupboards. Some of these cupboards are see-through, and others have solid doors. Each door has a single word printed on the face giving a clue to the use of the object inside, such as grind, whip, cut, beat, squeeze, shape, lift, protect and hold, which sounds either like cookery, cosmetic surgery or a particularly violent poker game.  

A dining table is covered in a series of projections showing changing styles and tastes of home eating from the 1800s to today. One table features a display of seeds and legumes as in a curiosity cabinet, including wheat, wattle, apple, pumpkin, hazelnut, cucumber, kurrajong and kangaroo grass. 

Paddock to Plate tells the story of food and wine production in this beautiful district through the stories of people, place and a passion for produce. Lists of words always inspire poetry in me, so naturally I took myself to the café where I had coffee and cake and thought of my domestic culinary memories.

Pitter patter of kitchen helper;

patty cake with butter pat,

licking clean the whisk and spoon

with mother in the warmest room:

better batter on baking day.

Friday Five: The First Time

Parents record their children’s achievements all the time. Their first smile; their first steps; their first words… it goes on and lovingly on. And then it stops. At some point they stop remarking on their offspring’s milestones, possibly because they don’t know what they are or when they happened.

No one’s suggesting that you sit down at the kitchen table and discuss the loss of your virginity with mum and dad, but there are some wonderful memorable experiences that deserve wider recognition. The first time you drink champagne deserves an honourable mention. I’m talking about the proper stuff. Bubbles are all very well, but champagne is bliss. There’s no comparison. But it doesn’t make the top five, which are...

5 First Time Experiences:

1. The first time you ‘get’ Shakespeare – chances are it won’t be at school. You’re just aware of him as some bloke that other people appreciate for whatever reason and suddenly it hits you – that poetry; that characterisation; that insight; that freedom with language and plot. For me it was the Triumph Theatre production of Richard II at the Phoenix Theatre in 1988 with Derek Jacobi in the title role. I thought, ‘I want to do that; I want to move people as I have been moved’.
2. The first time you go home after having been away for a long time. Flying back to Heathrow makes me blub like a baby. I haven’t lived in England now for over 16 years, but it’s home. There are so many people and places there that give me a sense of security and comfort while conversely filling me with excitement and anticipation. It just feels like home, and nothing makes you appreciate home more than leaving it.
3. The first time you drive your own car. Whether it’s second-hand or brand new (I assume, having never owned a brand-new vehicle), it gives you a sense of independence and liberty and responsibility all in one. You can go anywhere there is a road and enough petrol. That’s power.
4. The first time you vote. Going into the little booth and marking your voting paper and then posting it in the box – it’s all so civilised and you are part of a democracy that people have fought and died for. It makes me feel proud every time I do it.
5. The first time someone other than your family says ‘I love you.’ Don’t get me wrong, it’s wonderful to hear your family say it, and to say it to them, but if you’re lucky you’ve grown up with that unconditional affection and you probably can’t clearly remember the first time it was said or you said it back. When someone unrelated says it to you and you say it back and you know you both mean it, there may not be a better feeling in the whole world.

Lake Hayes Mistake

A couple of weeks ago I had occasion to go to a newish housing development – Lake Hayes Estate – and it got me thinking about homes and communities.

This place was originally established as ‘affordable family housing’ although with an average sale price of $604,000, I’m not sure about their definition of the word ‘affordable’; a vile subjective term anyway.

Some of the houses are well-appointed and incorporate some intelligent examples of design. Others are simply hideous. And they are all lined up in neat little rows with double garages and tidy lawns.

They are surrounded by mountains and sunk down in a dip so you can’t see from the road, which means they can’t see the beautiful lake for which they are named. In fact, many of them can’t see anything except next-door’s fence.

So I suppose their occupants go to work all day in Queenstown, or possibly Arrowtown, while their children are at schools or kindergartens. They come home to their fortress, pull the curtains, and put their feet up, happy in their nuclear, suburban, Stepford Wives existence.

When I was there I didn’t see a soul, apart from the rubbish collector. There is a park where children can play, which is laid with Astroturf and fenced off from predators. There is no café, there are no shops and there is certainly no pub.

When we moved to our house, one of the reasons for choosing the location was so that we could walk to the local village and go to the pub. I realise this may not be everyone’s priority, but what happens when they run out of bread or milk? They have to get in a car and drive to the supermarket. It’s not the sort of place that encourages ‘thinking outside the box’ (another vile expression). Living in one? That’s another matter.

Neither does it encourage community. The propaganda calls it a township, which to me has sinister connotations of segregation and apartheid. There are walkways so you can pop round to your friend’s house, if they live in the same estate as you. As it is not on the way to anywhere, the roads are quiet so the kids could ride their bikes, if there were any in evidence. It is safe and secure and sterile. We used to call these sorts of places cul-de-sacs, or dead ends.

William Morris promoted the idea of community or fellowship – “Fellowship is heaven, and lack of fellowship is hell; fellowship is life, and lack of fellowship is death; and the deeds that ye do upon the earth, it is for fellowship’s sake ye do them.”

But there is no evidence of fellowship here. No laughter or conversation. But wait, I saw one – a tree house in a walnut grove. It was a prime example of youthful enthusiasm and breaking the rules in a totally harmless way. It will probably be removed soon. This is not a place for fun, learning, or exploration.

Sadly these days people are forming ‘communities’ with virtual strangers on their electronic antisocial networking pages. They would rather stay in their house with the metaphorical drawbridge firmly raised rather than meet folk for a pint down the pub. The clean, barren impersonality of Lakes Hayes Estate may well be the way of the future. I hope not. I think it’s a big mistake.