The times when Shane and I do our weekly grocery shopping as a team he tackles the meat section and I dominate the remainder of the grocery store. Shortly after moving to Australia he introduced me to a new category of meat, the marsupial, or macropod to be exact. There isn’t much I leave off my dinner plate but I’m sure you can understand my trepidation.
The meat isle at your local Coles or Woolworths (not to be confused with the US Woolworths) looks something like this: beef, lamb, pork, poultry and mince as in ground meat. Tucked away at the end of the isle, next to the minced dog meats, you’ll find kangaroo in the form of roasts, fillets and even “kanga bangas” (that’s kangaroo sausages for you Yankees). All this might lead the uninformed shopper to believe that kangaroo is crap and you’re better off leaving it for the mutt.
Au contraire! Kangaroo, when cooked properly, is da-licious! When overcooked, it can be a bit tough and gamey and it’s no good as a leftover. But when kept a bit pink in the middle it’s tender, juicy and perfectly tasty. Shane will only eat red meat a bit pink. To quote my high school swim coach he prefers his meal “crying for its mama” so our kangaroo is never overcooked but don’t worry, it’s definitely dead.
The buck doesn’t stop there. Kangaroo is healthy, environmentally friendly and affordable. It’s high in protein with less than 2% fat and in addition to a myriad of essential vitamins and nutrients it has a high concentration of conjugated linoleic acids (CLA) which have anti-carcinogenic and anti-diabetic properties and can reduce obesity and atherosclerosis.
Kangaroos are not farm-raised. Commercial meat comes from the wild and eating kangaroo over other types of meat can help reduce greenhouse gas emissions because, unlike sheep and cattle, kangaroos produce very little to no methane gas. But, I’m going to stop here because I’m no expert in this area. All I know is that it’s cheaper than most meats and in an expensive city within an expensive country that leaves me feeling pretty chuffed.
But when considering the above, it’s surprising that most Australians don’t incorporate kangaroo into their diet. A 2008 survey found that less than 15% of Australians eat kangaroo no more than four times a year and only 50% had even tried it. I can attest to this first hand. Most of our friends and family do not eat kangaroo. Aside from indigenous Australians who have been eating it for thousands of years, it’s a relatively new option in the Australian diet and nationally first became legal for human consumption in 1993. Maybe it’s the thought of eating a national (rather adorable) icon or concerns expressed by animal welfare advocates that don’t agree with the culling of a wild animal or environmentalists who say it will disrupt the ecosystem.
With that being said, you don’t hear much of a fuss about people culling kangaroos; when it’s done humanely of course. Kangaroos are sometimes seen as a pest and many Australians would be lucky to make it a lifetime without destroying one with their car…or should I say, it destroying their car. I once witnessed a suffering, recently hit kangaroo on the side of the road, and based on my personal experience, humane culling would be a much better way to go. Besides, the commercial kangaroo industry is government regulated with a 2010 culling quota of just over 4 million and an estimated total population somewhere around 35 million. Keep in mind Australia’s human population is only 22 million. You do the math.
I suppose asking people to add deer to their grocery list in the US would elicit a similar response, or should I say lack their of. People are happy to stick to their staple chicken, beef, chicken, fish, chicken, pork diet, or sometimes, no meat at all. But, I have to say, I don’t mind adding a marsupial to the menu from time to time.
In case you’d like to learn more, I found the following links particularly interesting:
Eating kangaroos could reduce emissions
Commercial kangaroo harvest quotas
Eating kangaroo - the real Aussie meat
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Ripe for the Pickin'
When Shane and I moved into our rental home three months ago (in fact our third rental home in 17 months) it ticked most boxes. Great proximity to city and beach – big tick for all! Large garage for Shane and his toys – big tick for some. Backyard for Bronson and his massive dumps – he has no idea how spoiled he is tick.
Finding a house in suburban Perth with a yard much bigger than the bathroom can be a challenge but we managed to find one with a yard larger than the home itself. Size aside, it’s rather barren and actually quite dull but not nearly as dull as the “wet areas” aka kitchen and bathroom (now you know who didn’t get to tick any boxes in this process).
Last week while looking out the window of our sad kitchen I noticed Bronson all flustered in the backyard. Something had distracted him from his usual sunbathing and poo sniffing and it was birds. This wasn’t the first time in recent days that he had protected his territory from menacing pigeons and magpies, chasing them along the fence until they moved onto the next yard.
The main feature of this animal show lie in the far corner of the yard - all by its lonesome amongst Bronson’s landmines and dead patches of grass beholds a tree of one of Western Australia’s most precious fruits - the olive. Lucky for me, because I love the damn things. The rogue backyard olive tree in these parts of the country is not entirely unusual. We had a couple olive trees at our last house but I never really gave them a second look. It’s autumn which means olive picking season, the olives are ripe and falling from the tree therefore attracting the attention of Bronson’s winged adversaries. Wait. We have an olive tree. The olives are ripe. I’m letting the birds get first pick. My newfound interest in agriculture told me to take advantage of this situation.
We have a couple friends with olive farms, both of them about a 3 hours drive south of Perth. Last year we helped out at one of these farms the day after an 80’s themed party at the other farm (but that’s a whole other story). Our hangovers, and the innate desire to just get home on a Sunday afternoon after a weekend away, prevented us from being much help. However, my boozy brain did absorb a couple facts about olives. Although there are different varieties of olives, it’s not based on color. A green olive is just an olive that isn’t yet ripe. Once it’s ripe it goes black (or purple) and in order to eat it, it must first be fermented to get rid of its naturally bitter taste. Also, the first press of an olive is extra virgin olive oil and subsequent presses are just plain olive oil, essentially.
Recalling last year’s lesson in olives I decided to ask one of these olive farm friends for advice on how I can get my olives from the tree to my mouth. In order to protect his privacy I’ll refrain from using his real name and will refer to him as Munch. Over Skype chat Munch told me to put the olives in a container filled with brine (which is a water consisting of 10% salt) and store them in a cool place such as the garage. Top up the brine weekly and you’ll have edible olives in, oh, about 2 months. What! Two months?! Despite the time factor, I was game.
On Sunday Shane went to the footy with his dad and I picked olives. With a plastic food container in hand and Labrador defender of the olive by my side, I went out for the first batch, slowly picking olives by the handful. Up to this point, Bronson had neglected to take cue from the birds and eat the olives himself. But, like a small child, he mimics his parent’s every move and seeing me take interest in the tree peaked his curiosity to what lie on the ground beneath it. No is not a word in his vocabulary and I wasn’t about to spend my peaceful olive picking time prying olives from his massive snout so I just let it go. Besides, isn’t he supposed to possess this canine instinct that tells him what plants of nature are edible and which are poisonous?
During the final batch, I went outside to gather up a few more olives. Between the kitchen and the back door I nearly walked into a regurgitated mess of olives. Bronson must have heard my WTF! and appeared looking at me like, “oh yeah, forgot to tell you about that.” If he’s lucky, he’ll get a taste of the real way olives are meant to be eaten…but he’ll have to wait another 6-8 weeks to find out.
Finding a house in suburban Perth with a yard much bigger than the bathroom can be a challenge but we managed to find one with a yard larger than the home itself. Size aside, it’s rather barren and actually quite dull but not nearly as dull as the “wet areas” aka kitchen and bathroom (now you know who didn’t get to tick any boxes in this process).
Last week while looking out the window of our sad kitchen I noticed Bronson all flustered in the backyard. Something had distracted him from his usual sunbathing and poo sniffing and it was birds. This wasn’t the first time in recent days that he had protected his territory from menacing pigeons and magpies, chasing them along the fence until they moved onto the next yard.
The main feature of this animal show lie in the far corner of the yard - all by its lonesome amongst Bronson’s landmines and dead patches of grass beholds a tree of one of Western Australia’s most precious fruits - the olive. Lucky for me, because I love the damn things. The rogue backyard olive tree in these parts of the country is not entirely unusual. We had a couple olive trees at our last house but I never really gave them a second look. It’s autumn which means olive picking season, the olives are ripe and falling from the tree therefore attracting the attention of Bronson’s winged adversaries. Wait. We have an olive tree. The olives are ripe. I’m letting the birds get first pick. My newfound interest in agriculture told me to take advantage of this situation.
We have a couple friends with olive farms, both of them about a 3 hours drive south of Perth. Last year we helped out at one of these farms the day after an 80’s themed party at the other farm (but that’s a whole other story). Our hangovers, and the innate desire to just get home on a Sunday afternoon after a weekend away, prevented us from being much help. However, my boozy brain did absorb a couple facts about olives. Although there are different varieties of olives, it’s not based on color. A green olive is just an olive that isn’t yet ripe. Once it’s ripe it goes black (or purple) and in order to eat it, it must first be fermented to get rid of its naturally bitter taste. Also, the first press of an olive is extra virgin olive oil and subsequent presses are just plain olive oil, essentially.
Recalling last year’s lesson in olives I decided to ask one of these olive farm friends for advice on how I can get my olives from the tree to my mouth. In order to protect his privacy I’ll refrain from using his real name and will refer to him as Munch. Over Skype chat Munch told me to put the olives in a container filled with brine (which is a water consisting of 10% salt) and store them in a cool place such as the garage. Top up the brine weekly and you’ll have edible olives in, oh, about 2 months. What! Two months?! Despite the time factor, I was game.
On Sunday Shane went to the footy with his dad and I picked olives. With a plastic food container in hand and Labrador defender of the olive by my side, I went out for the first batch, slowly picking olives by the handful. Up to this point, Bronson had neglected to take cue from the birds and eat the olives himself. But, like a small child, he mimics his parent’s every move and seeing me take interest in the tree peaked his curiosity to what lie on the ground beneath it. No is not a word in his vocabulary and I wasn’t about to spend my peaceful olive picking time prying olives from his massive snout so I just let it go. Besides, isn’t he supposed to possess this canine instinct that tells him what plants of nature are edible and which are poisonous?
During the final batch, I went outside to gather up a few more olives. Between the kitchen and the back door I nearly walked into a regurgitated mess of olives. Bronson must have heard my WTF! and appeared looking at me like, “oh yeah, forgot to tell you about that.” If he’s lucky, he’ll get a taste of the real way olives are meant to be eaten…but he’ll have to wait another 6-8 weeks to find out.
standing tall and proud
on the tree
sampling the produce
off to be fermented
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