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March ( autumn time in NZ) meant mushrooms. They had to be picked in dewy grass of early morning, before the sun reduced their fat white freshness. I remember some hazards here - large cows, fresh cowpats, and eventually an angry farmer. This last we considered quiet unreasonable; mushrooms were wild things and therefore should be free to all - but we didn't stop to argue. Summer meant plums for jam, perhaps surplus from the he neighbours trees. There was a feeling of bounty in bucketful's of fruit, and adventure in trying for the ones left in the difficult top branches. Picking blackberries, and coming home with blackened hands, and not forgetting to mention the mouth as well. and if you lived near a beach there was some sort of seafood, all year round. I remember the cockles, collected by the bucketful, thick underfoot in the soft mud, with no worries about polluted harbour water then an even now. We could feel them with our toes in the shallow water of the retreating tide, and competed to find the biggest ones. They were eaten hot in white sauce on toast, or cold with a dash of vinegar on thick bread and butter. Treats they all were, not because of the cost but because they had to be waited for, none of them was found in the local shops. Special foods each in its own season, but accepted as our everyday right as New Zealanders. My enjoyment of cooking is based on savouring these special foods, each to its natural season, when its at its best. Recipes
Measuring up
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