Rationing the rillettes

There's a jar in my fridge that I gaze longingly at every time I open the door. It's packed with slow-cooked soft pork, salt and pepper, and the flavours of rosemary, thyme and garlic. Seams of pork fat fill the spaces between the pork.

I have surprisingly good self-control when it comes to food, and I've been spreading this batch of pork rillettes out for weeks. Also, because it takes about three kilos of pork belly to get three tiny little jars. But it is one of the most delicious pork dishes I've eaten.

My recipe is a combination of ideas from Maggie Beer, Matthew Evans and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. Their rillettes also include rabbits and ducks, but we don't have rabbits at our place (except for one massive pet buck, who is not going in to a jar) and I'd have to use about 10 Indian Runner ducks to get enough meat off them. But we have easy access to pork.

Take a pork belly - a whole one will weigh about 3kg - and cut it in to good-sized chunks, a bit like toast soldiers. I've tried two different cooking techniques: firstly in the oven at about 120 degrees. This batch had little crunchy bits through it, and a bit more of a crackling flavour. Secondly, I've used a slow-cooker. No crunchy bits, but a much smoother texture.

Choose which method you'd prefer, and whether you want to clean your oven or wash up a cooker. Chop up a couple of cloves of garlic and some rosemary and thyme sprigs and put them in with the pork.

The idea is to cook the pork for so long that the fat melts and the pork falls apart when you touch it. In the oven that's about four hours. In the slow-cooker I kept it going for ten.

When it's falling apart drain off the fat (keep it!) and let the meat cool a little so you don't burn your fingers - or mouth. You now need to break the pork apart so the bits are small enough to be spread on biscuits or bread. You can use two forks, or, as I prefer, my fingers.

Break it all up and then add as much salt and pepper as you think necessary. You'll probably need more than you think. I squelch this in with my hands too.

Sterilise some jars (150 degrees for 15 mins) and pack them with the pork mix. Pour some of the reserved fat over the top and make sure it seeps into the cracks.

My favourite way of eating rillettes is with cracked pepper Savoy biscuits, but crusty bread or toast is pretty good too.

A time for ham

When you look through our lounge window there are pigs as far as the eye can see.

But come Christmas that view will change.

It’s such a busy time of year! So first we must apologise for lack of blogs. We’ve been planting trees, fencing more pig paddocks, digging up the winter pens ready for turnips, planting berries, sowing veggie seed, and most importantly organising the Christmas hams.

We’ve been looking at the pigs trying to work out how to take the legs off while leaving the bellies and loins to run around a bit longer.

We haven’t found a way of amputating legs that meets our animal welfare standards.

So because of that, as well as hams we’ll have some extra fresh cuts available closer to Christmas – maybe a free range roast would suit the table?

We’re doing about 200 hams this year, in two sizes: whole back legs on the bone and small banjo or picnic hams from the lower end of the front leg.

We’ve also been busy sorting out packaging for our bacon. It looks a bit different to what you see in the supermarket, it’s from the rolled shoulder.

We’re also trying out streaky bacon from the belly for those who like a little extra richness. You'll start to see it in delis soon.

We’re taking orders now for Christmas fare. If you’d like to know more you can send us an email. We’ll let you know when we’re sold out.

P.S. We've had a major computer crash too, to add to the excitement. If you were on our distribution list, or would like to be, please send us a note.

Piggy love

A farmer for a day

There was a time when your ‘country cousins’ were actually blood relatives. They had a farm way out the bush somewhere, kept a few cows and pigs, and you went to visit them during the holidays when you were kids. You collected the eggs, played in the barn, and ate vegetables for tea pulled from the garden.

But with farms becoming larger and 85 per cent of Australians now living in urban areas, the chances of being related to a real farmer are pretty slim. Country cousins are now the tiny twigs of the family tree, and the gap between people from the city and people from ‘the bush’ is getting wider.

Does it matter if town kids haven’t visited a farm? Does it matter if they don’t know the difference between a boar and a sow, a heifer and a steer? Will their life be worse if they haven’t held a warm egg straight from a chook’s bum?

They'll probably still grow up to be good wholesome people without these experiences, but there is a thing called Nature Deficit Disorder – it describes the human cost of being alienated from nature. If children don’t get regular contact with the environment they can have trouble concentrating, get anxious, become depressed, and get fat. We all know that, but now there’s a name for it, and a movement to get kids playing more outside.

We had a great response to our request for volunteers to help us plant 600 native trees in a shelterbelt. More than 30 people rocked up, most we’d never met, wearing gumboots and carrying digging gear. And perhaps that’s an indication of the desire of people to get outside and get their hands dirty. One’s man’s work is another man’s novelty nature experience.

Guy gave them the full tour of the pigs, while Eliza cooked up pork shoulders and bellies, and as lunch was digesting the kids all had a cuddle of a piglet. Now that’s paddock-to-plate education.

One tree planter told us we’d ‘restored her faith in community spirit’, and it was lovely to hear the sounds of strangers chatting and laughing, birds calling, and stakes being hammered in.

Thank you to all our volunteers, we hope you can continue to be involved in the farm and watch your trees grow.

On a cold and frosty morning

As the sun peeped out from behind Mount Dial this morning we met our first calf born on the farm. 'Licorice' had given birth to a heifer overnight.

Licorice (nee Allsorts) is a cow Guy reared a few years ago, and we saved her from being choppered. She's a cross between Jersey, Ayrshire, and Friesian - that means she's a super milk producer.

She's been teasing us for a few days: sticking her tail out, starting to make milk, and spending time by herself. All signs of an imminent calving. But she strung it out, increasing the anticipation.


It's truly amazing how much life calves have when they're born. This one was jumping around as I took photos, and wanting to investigate beyond the gate, with little thought of mum.

Puss also thought it important to meet the newest member of the family. She knows about piglets, but calves? They'll take a bit of getting used to.