‘Welcome to The Urban Ranger Goes Country, coming direct to you from Castlereagh in Victoria’s magnificent western districts.’
Tash made a show of gazing around, her top teeth dug into her bottom lip as though she was finding it hard to hold back her glee. She paused, holding the pose to give her space to fade to her logo and a short video montage of memorable moments from previous episodes, accompanied by the new ‘Goes Country’ theme music. A bit of searching online had unearthed a composer willing to create on the cheap, and Tash had been thrilled with the result. The theme had a modern, feel-good melody that not only fitted her brand perfectly but burrowed into people’s brains—an earworm theme tune. In marketing terms, it was gold.
She sang the last bars to herself, focused on the main camera, and wiggled her eyebrows. ‘Pretty awesome, huh?’
She closed her hands around the heavy pottery mixing bowl on the bench in front of her. When Tash had discovered it at the back of a high shelf in her mum’s kitchen she’d squealed with glee. Another rummage through her utensils had unearthed Nan’s worn wooden spoon. Both finds had felt like a sign as well as an inspiration.
‘This farm has so many memories. It was here, using these utensils,’ she tilted the bowl forward to reveal its slightly discoloured interior and spoon, ‘that my nan first taught me how to make scones. Not those cheat’s scones either, using lemonade or cream or whatever weird things people like to use. We’re talking proper scones. Scones the way they should be made, with butter and farm-fresh eggs.’ She bit her lip again but this time wistfully. ‘Nan passed away six years ago, but since I’ve been home I keep thinking I can feel her. Like … like she’s at my shoulder, peering over, checking I’m doing things the way she taught. I think if she was here now she’d be proud.’ Tash gave a wobbly, self-deprecating smile. ‘I hope so anyway. I loved my nan and miss her terribly.’ She picked up the wooden spoon and toyed with it a brief moment before making a show of scanning the room and locking back on the camera. ‘I’ve missed this place too. More than I realised …
‘We all have memories that we carry around with us and sieve through now and then, but sometimes they get lost, you know? Sometimes you forget things and it’s not until you come across a trigger—a sight, scent or sound, the touch of something familiar—’ she caressed the edge of the bowl for emphasis, ‘—that they return. I’ve been experiencing that all week. It’s been wonderful, truly wonderful, and as this series progresses I hope to explore some of those memories with you, as well as creating new ones.’ She breathed in. ‘It’s a good place for it.
‘Anyway, that’s enough sentimentality.’ She grinned and spread her arms again, waggling the wooden spoon like a wand. ‘Are you ready for some proper country scones?’ She tilted her head as though listening, and winked. ‘Thought you were. Let’s get into it.’
Thirty minutes later a dozen flawless scones were cooling on a wire rack atop the bench. From the first practice run earlier that morning the oven had proved amazing. Thinking the first batch was a fluke, Tash had made another with the same result. Every scone had risen perfectly, their tops a beautiful pale gold. Tash wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do with three dozen scones, but she certainly knew where six would be going.
She couldn’t stop grinning and doing little jigs. ‘Look,’ she ordered her audience. ‘Aren’t they beautiful? And so easy!’ She broke one apart and steam rose from the fluffy centre. Dancing to the side, she snatched up a knife and a porcelain butter dish in the shape of a recumbent Friesian cow, and scraped a good wodge of butter onto the bottom piece. Eyes twinkling, she bit in, laughing when melted butter oozed down her chin.
‘Oog,’ she mumbled, mouth full. Tash quickly scraped up the dribble with her finger and slid it into her mouth. ‘Thorry.’ Another shove and the scone was gone. She chewed, eyes rolling backwards into her head as though in ecstasy, one hand against the top of her chest as if to settle her fluttering heart.
Finally, with a last swallow and run of her tongue over her teeth and lips to check they were clean, she pointed at the screen. ‘You have to make these. Go on,’ she made a shooing motion, ‘do it now. You’ll feel clever and amazing, and most of all, happy. That’s a promise.’
Then she buttered the other half of the scone and, giving a saucy wink, sauntered off camera, biting as she went.
By the time Tash had reviewed the footage and cleaned up it was nearly lunchtime. Not that she needed anything to eat after her scone-scoffing, but she was determined to stay healthy and not fall into the trap of filling up solely on Urban Ranger food, no matter how delicious. In Melbourne she’d always had ready takers for her output. Tash’s colleagues at the printing firm had been delighted to take her leftovers, while Thom just about lived on them. Even Ceci, always mindful of her weight, was good for some.
So far, Tash had only managed to offload her cooking on her family and the Handrecks. Unless she ate it herself (not a good idea) or wanted it to go to waste (total anathema) she needed to find a regular supply of eager eaters.
But that was for another day. With the first video in the bag, it was time to focus on the next element to add value to The Urban Ranger Goes Country website and make it a complete food hub: the kitchen garden.
Well-smothered in sunscreen, wearing an old floppy hat and her sturdy elastic-sided leather boots, and with an apple to counter her scone intake, Tash wandered from the cool of the flat across the paved terrace to the garden’s not-very-rabbit-proof fence. During her pa’s tenure, the fence had been straight and secure, and the garden abundant with vegetables and common herbs like parsley, rosemary, oregano, sage and thyme. Legumes had climbed tepee-shaped frames, dangling pods for easy picking. Celery was carefully bound to keep the stalks high and straight, tomatoes were trained tall over trellises, and lettuce sat in weed-free mounds, ready for easy harvest.
Today’s garden was a tangle of foliage, half of it bolted and setting seed. Only the strawberry patch and herb beds were properly maintained, but even they were in danger of being taken over by the mint running rampant from its plot.
The sight made Tash’s shoulders sag a little. Not for the neglect—her parents had more important things to do, and Pa kept them well supplied with produce from his garden in town—but for the effort it would take to get it back up to standard. Still, it would make for good content for the blog, newsletter and her social media, and it wasn’t as if Tash was afraid of a bit of hard work. With her nights free, she could write and edit then, toil in the garden in the mornings when it was cool, and experiment with recipes and film in the afternoons when the light was at its best in the flat.
All it would take was a bit of planning, and a solid picking of her pa’s brain.
As Tash wandered the rows, she realised she didn’t really know where to start. A plot of this size was a far cry from her potted terrace garden in Prahran. Growing things there had been a doddle. Quality potting mix, the right fertiliser, pot-friendly varieties, a watering system and some monitoring, and failure was nigh-on impossible.
Now she was beginning to realise that happy hours playing in the garden with Pa when she was little didn’t necessarily translate into expertise. Sure, she’d absorbed a lot of knowledge but knowledge wasn’t wisdom. She had no idea what crops had been in where, what disease liability that risked, or what nutrients had been leached from the soil. In Melbourne, when a crop was through, she’d simply dumped the soil and replaced it with new mix, but here she didn’t have that luxury.
She paused in front of the herb garden, the most important patch of all. Herbs turned bland dishes into magical ones, loaded with colour, zesty flavour and freshness. She took her phone from her pocket and opened her note-taking app.
‘Do a show about pre-prepared food made to look homemade by fresh herbs. Emphasise how easy they are to grow at home, don’t need a garden etcetera, just a windowsill. Film buying products at local supermarket? Sponsorship swap?’ She paused, rolling the idea around. ‘Maybe not. Something else though? Worth exploring. Ask if anyone friendly with owner. Pa?’
Tash opened the camera on her phone and took photos of the ragged plants and beds, laughing as Coco bounded over with her slobbery tennis ball. She snapped the dog’s pleading gaze and eager gallop through the plants when Tash obliged her with a throw. Then with a sigh, she trudged to the shed for some digging tools and an afternoon of weeding.
By three Tash was hot, sweaty and covered in dirt, scratches and insect bites. The task seemed never-ending. She’d only meant to work on the herbs but clearing one area had made the others appear even worse, and so she’d kept going. Despite her efforts, three-quarters of the garden still remained a jungle. Not that it mattered. There was always tomorrow, and the worse the garden was at the beginning, the more interesting its regeneration would be for her fans to follow. One thing Tash had learned over the past few years was that they adored seeing her tackle a challenge.
Tash eased onto her haunches, tipped back her hat and swiped sweat from her brow. The hours of work had given her plenty of time to think about how she could make the garden as entertaining as possible, while still offering how-to expertise. Entertainment was easy—Tash had proved herself a natural—but expertise was something she simply didn’t possess. The longer she’d churned it over in her mind the more convinced Tash became that she could kill two birds with one stone. And that stone would be her pa.
Bored with snapping at butterflies and snuffling mouse holes, Coco wandered over.
‘What do you think?’ said Tash, ruffling her soft chocolate ears. ‘Reckon Pa might like to be on the net?’
Coco responded with an attempted face lick.
‘Yeah, I know. I need a wash.’ She patted the dog one last time and eased herself upright. Her knees creaked from the effort, reminding Tash of how unfit she was. Another reason to spring into action. Gardening would help wear off the naughty food she’d been eating.
Clean after a shower and re-energised, Tash selected six of the best scones, wrapped them in a tea towel and headed out the door. It was time for some recruitment.
Basil Ranger lived in a weatherboard house two streets over from the Emu Springs Bowling Club, a location chosen not only for its large garden and spacious detached garage, giving him somewhere to potter, but because of his passion for lawn bowls. A late convert, Pa had taken to the sport with gusto, and when he wasn’t in his garden or tinkering in his man-shed, he could be found at the clubhouse, usually in the company of the club captain Michael Harding or Mrs Ellison, the lady president and a rather glamorous widow who Tash was convinced Pa was trying to nudge into an affair.
Tash knocked on the front door and stepped back. Visiting her grandparents at the farm or later, Pa in his flat, Tash had never bothered to wait—she’d simply barged in and flung herself into the arms of whoever appeared first. Adulthood had made her more conscious of respecting privacy. That, and once accidentally catching her Pa in the nude. There were some things granddaughters weren’t ever meant to see.
She regarded the front yard with amusement. Where other houses had neatly mown lawns and standard garden beds, Pa’s house sported a patch of pasture separated into three zones by a ringlock fence. In the enclosure next to the drive, a sprinkler was turning lazily on the well-foraged grass. The middle enclosure was lush with new growth, while in the enclosure abutting the boundary, a fat ewe grazed.
The front door opened revealing the tall figure of her pa in a stockman’s shirt, a pair of faded shorts and bare feet. Despite the daggy outfit, his full head of thick wavy silver hair was slicked back with Brylcreem, his jaw was clean-shaven and he wafted the comforting scent of freshly applied Old Spice cologne. Tash immediately wondered if he was entertaining, or expecting to.
‘Flossie!’ Pa exclaimed, using the nickname he’d had for her since childhood. ‘What brings you here?’
Tash held up the tea-towel bundle.
Pa’s eyes widened, his nose twitching like a rabbit. ‘Are they …’ He regarded her hopefully.
She nodded. ‘They are.’
He slapped his hands together with glee. ‘I was about to move Munch but that calls for a cuppa.’
Tash glanced at the aptly named sheep, head down, stuffing herself. ‘I think she’ll survive.’
Leaving her thongs at the door, she followed him to the kitchen at the rear, casting sneaky glances through open doors along the way for any hints of a female presence. The rooms were clean and neat as usual, and Tash couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment. She’d revered her nan but it had been six years now and everyone needed a bit of love, and the thought that her pa might be lonely pained her.
She prepared the scones while he made a pot of tea, and they vacated to the sunroom that overlooked the back yard.
‘It looks like the Garden of Eden out there,’ Tash said, opening the screen door and peering out. ‘Is that …’ She squinted, counting a sprawl of large green watermelons, and gave up at seven. ‘How many melons does a man need?’
‘Beauties, aren’t they?’ he said cheerfully, regarding them with pride. ‘Sweet too.’
‘I bet.’
‘You can take one home with you, if you like.’
Tash’s brain immediately started scanning through watermelon recipes. ‘Think I will.’
She joined him on a three-seater cane sofa. Pa bit into a scone and made a noise of appreciation.
‘Just like your nan’s.’
Which, for some reason, made Tash choke up. She slurped at her hot tea to ease the ache in her throat. She hadn’t been lying to the camera when she’d said she felt like Nan had been watching her. It sounded silly, but there was a definitely presence in the air at the farm. ‘Thanks.’
Tash turned the mug in her hands and put it down, aware her grandfather was watching every move. ‘So I was thinking …’
Pa raised an eyebrow and took a sip of tea.
She sighed. There was no point farting about, she needed to ask. ‘How would you like to be a consultant on The Urban Ranger?’
‘A consultant?’ He shook his head. ‘You know I’m not much of a cook.’
‘I meant with the garden.’ She twisted to face him better, propping her elbow and leaning her head on her hand. ‘It’s a bit of a mess and I honestly don’t know where to start. I’ve no idea what’s been planted where, what nutrients have been used up, or what crop rotations are needed to reduce disease risk. Urban Ranger fans expect expert information, which is where you come in. I don’t know anyone more expert than you.’
‘Will you put me on the telly?’
‘On the net? Only if you want.’ Although Tash sincerely hoped he’d agree to it. With his zest for life, sense of humour and homespun wisdom, her Pa was sure to be a hit.
He stroked at his chin as though giving it deep thought, but Tash could see from his sneaky sideways look that he’d already decided. ‘What’s in it for me?’
‘Fame?’
He laughed. ‘This old bugger?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
That made him blink. ‘I would?’
‘You would.’
The twinkle in his eye revealed how much that appealed.
‘Pa, Coco’s new Facebook page had twelve hundred fans within two days of going live. Imagine what a silver fox like you could achieve. Plus, you know what you’re talking about. And take it from me, people find that very appealing.’ She let him mull on that for a moment. ‘I’ll do the work. All you have to do is show me what to do, and share a bit of your wisdom.’
‘How much time would it take?’
Tash shrugged. ‘Couple of hours twice a week? It’ll depend. More initially, given the work that needs to be done. I imagine,’ said Tash, leaning forward to pick up her mug with deliberate nonchalance, ‘that with all that fame you’d become quite the toast of the club. Mrs Ellison is bound to be impressed.’
He shot her a look. ‘Cheeky.’
‘Romantic.’
‘Huh, that you are, Floss. That you are. All right.’ He held up a finger. ‘But only on the proviso it doesn’t interfere with my bowls.’
Grinning, Tash held out her hand for him to shake. ‘You’re on, Pa-Star.’