these things are...

these things are a minted memory

Bum up, attempting to dead lift a crate of potatoes, that’s how I first saw Yuri Hulak. It was 8 in the morning, a reasonable time to scout out the best produce, and the trendy Eveleigh Farmer’s market, in Sydney, Australia, was alive. In the disused railway yard under a large tin roof, fifty or so stalls were set up to sell; all except one. The man wearing grubby overalls worked alone, and though he smiled broadly with his mouth, the smile didn’t reach his eyes. The manager of the market scowled at the unloaded truck that should have been “outta there” half an hour before.

I wandered passed stalls selling glass bottled milk, micro-herbs in paper bags, and coolers packed with steaks of red kangaroo meat, but my attention kept on being dragged back to this man in the overalls. And so, I marched over, stood on an empty crate (which he used quite often, I later found out, as a makeshift soapbox), and shouted over the potatoes, “do you need help?” He stomped over. With a toothy grin that extended into his eyes, he replied, “my slaves are in chains today”.  This was the first of a year’s worth of Saturdays in which I worked alongside Yuri. Together we unloaded the truck, unpacked the crates into rustic baskets and, while he stood in front of the stall, entertaining the passers-by, I kept the produce piled high and haggled over prices with bargain hunters.

Dancing a jig on a crate with his accordion, wearing a wide, floppy hat, he would advertise his heirloom fruit and veg with cries of “sweet King William Pears” or “pesticide free lettuce”. When he wasn’t on his crate, he was handing out chunks of apples and raw corn, wildly breaking the corn in half, kernels flying everywhere. I took it upon myself to monitor his giveaways, for in his enthusiasm to please his audience and promote his tasty produce he would forget that his and his family’s livelihood relied upon the fair sale of his produce. When people complained about “extortionist prices” of garlic, he would retort that this wasn’t the nasty, tasteless stuff imported from China, instead it was home grown in local soil. He would encourage the daring to nibble on a fresh clove. I tried it once.  It was a surprising mixture of hot, pungent, sweet, and earthy, and my fingers were stained with the smell for the rest of the day.

For ten Australian dollars customers could handpick a big-paper-bag-full of produce, and the competition to nab the best always involved elbows and strategically placed prams. Sometimes there were complaints about the bruises, bumps or irregular shapes of the fruit and vegetables, and we firmly reminded the customers that the produce was biodynamic. Dug up from the earth with Yuri’s own hands, the produce wasn’t dewy with pesticide, but intensely real. Amongst the produce were bouquets of aromatic, green peppermint that enticed the noses of customers, who brought their owners closer to the stall.

Of course, mint isn’t available all year round. Yuri is a devout follower of the seasons and in winter it is not available. Overall, seasonality is a good thing, because it reminds consumers that food doesn’t grow on supermarket shelves. Every Saturday, the wealth of produce would differ. If customers asked why there weren’t lettuces he would truthfully tell the tale of an unforgiving frost, and would direct them to another farmer’s stall. Yuri’s hard efforts on his rural NSW farm have paid off, and now he supplies his lettuces and herbs, including peppermint, to Billy Kwong, a restaurant owned by one of Australia’s most sustainable chef-restauranteurs, Kylie Kwong.

Three years later, peppermint still has the power to transport me back to hot, sweaty, Australia. I have started growing it on my balcony in Italy, and in the slow evenings I make tea. I hand-tear leaves into a mug, and add boiling water. When the water hits the peppermint pieces, they uncrinkle and release a sweet, almost spicy, aroma.  A lot of people add honey to this drink, but I find that it dulls the natural pepperiness of the herb. Instead, I like the accompaniment of lemon juice. I carefully sip the warm liquid, enjoying the simultaneous sensation of mint filling the nostrils and my tongue twitching as the tastebuds identify the sourness of the lemon. As it passes to the back of the tongue, the mint’s sweetness permeates through the sour, and then I let it trickle warmly down my throat, satisfied that what I am drinking is good for me. Sometimes, a mint leaf accompanies the liquid and gets struck to the roof of my mouth. It sits there like a furry creature, until I pry it off with my tongue and chew on it, filling my mouth with a spicy, bitterness. On balmy post-market afternoons, I would drink this mint tea, and though my forehead dampened from the warmth, I would be revived and ready to pack up.

(Source: mintedmemory)