“They’re not the same,” I heard myself saying. Family tradition has it that the first night in the Sounds, we have sausages, Picton sausages. Made by the local butcher, they were always something to look forward to. No idea what the secret was, but they were just so much better than other sausages … it wasn’t just the taste but also the visuals … the way they burst out of the skin, the way the skin browned. We eat with our eyes, don’t they say? Still, things change … the owner wanted to develop the site, so the butcher closed, and now Picton (like so many communities) has no butcher. So, still sausages on the first night, but supermarket sausages, the same you could buy in Auckland or Invercargill no doubt. Now, there’s nothing wrong with Heller’s pork sausages, but THEY’RE NOT THE SAME. Apart from anything else, perhaps, they don’t give that special sense of having arrived somewhere new, somewhere different. And I’ve lamented the lack of the local in our food before.
But, when I heard myself saying “They’re not the same,” I suddenly wondered if I’m becoming one of those grumpy older people who’re always objecting to change. My campaign to save the unsliced Vogel’s loaf being another example? Well, I don’t think I have a knee-jerk reaction to change … here, I’d argue, I’m marking the loss of things that add interest & variety to eating … maybe that’s too pretentious? But preserving choice, isn’t that worthwhile?