From Garlic to Plums

It's been a little difficult to get information out of Tasmania recently.  Apparently the flying monkeys we use as couriers are being shot down and eaten by half starved locals desperate for protein.  Experiments with flying jellyfish have so far been inconclusive.  The last message I got from my Tasmanian correspondent was actually tattooed onto the flesh of an asylum seeker that was washed up on a Sydney beach.

The effects of seawater and an inappropriately placed Celtic tribal tattoo made it a little difficult to read but apparently the strains of garlic farming are weighing heavily on the shoulders of my correspondent.  The spirit is willing but apparently the flesh has broken down into fits of hysterical tears.

It's a hard life for those who work on the land.  Unsheltered from the elements (even the radioactive ones) they break their backs and ruin their health so that those of us in the cities can enjoy the fruits of nature without ever having to encounter nature.  With the sweat running down her face and her muscles screaming for release my correspondent has apparently been working all the hours that the weekend brings alternately planting and digging up garlic depending on the time of year.

Even in the times between planting and harvest there is no relief.  The waiting, oh my god the interminable waiting, creates a nervous strain that bears heavily on muscles still ravaged from the planting (or harvesting).  Then there is weeding and persuading obese cattle that they might live a little longer if they didn't eat the frigging garlic.  Yes life is tough for those who commute to the land on weekends.

Out there in the country (about an hours drive from Hobart) no mistakes can be made.  If one plants when one should harvest one looks like a little bit of a prat.  Mother Nature doesn't take prisoners and the tears of those that failed wet the floors of welfare offices all over the Apple Isle.  Only the tough survive down here; garlic is a cruel mistress and it would appear that my correspondent has had enough.

So now she's growing plums.  Or to be more accurate she is standing nearby while a tree in her backyard grows plums.  Or to be even more accurate still, she is standing nearby while a tree in her backyard grows a plum.

Nature normally goes for bulk.  Seahorses expel literally millions of young in the hopes that a few of them survive.  Fruit trees normally have fruit weighing down every branch in the hopes that some escape the attention of hungover backpackers paying for their holidays.  Every now and then however you get something that goes for quality rather than quantity.  The plum tree in my correspondent's backyard has apparently put all its creative and reproductive effort into producing a single, magnificent plum.  It was the size of an apple, shiny, appealing, a plum for the ages.  And from the use of the past tense in the previous sentence you can probably guess what happened to it.  My correspondent says it was delicious.  Meanwhile the plum tree is learning that seahorses aren't as stupid as everybody thinks.

While my correspondent waits for the next plum to grow I hope her muscles and morale heal to the point where she can journey down to the garlic patch again.  It's not that I'm so crazy about garlic I just want to know how Mr Moo is getting along.