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  • With a Little Kelp from Our Friends
  • Word
  • Making wine
  • Photos of ppl
  • Pacific Crest Trail
  • (more) PCT
  • About
  • Contact
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Brae: A Restaurant That Serves Food (Matters Journal) →

September 07, 2019

“If you come to our farm, you're not going to be served poison.”

After dining at Brae and chatting with head chef and owner Dan Hunter at length, it’s this statement about poison that lingers with me. Last year, the restaurant came second to Azurmendi in Spain in the World’s 50 Best Sustainable Restaurant Awards. More recently, Brae was awarded Regional Restaurant of the Year at the 2020 Gourmet Traveller Restaurant Awards. Given the benchmark Dan has set with Brae, his comment seems utterly sarcastic. That Brae has a strict no-poison policy doesn’t seem like anything to write home about. Surely, at a bare minimum, we expect restaurants not to serve poison?

Yet in the modern world, we are constantly dished out processed foodlike products, while most fresh produce has been grown on chemically intensive farms using pesticides, herbicides and fertilisers. In short, most of our food has been poisoned. We’ve consumed artificial, industrial food for so long that it’s now almost unrelated to the real thing. If you ever find yourself, like me, lost in a supermarket aisle, look around. You’re looking at a whole lot of processed foods, 53 percent of which aren’t considered to be core foods that should make up the bulk of our diet.

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Read the full article ↩︎

Source: https://mattersjournal.com/stories/brae
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I could have been on a boat

would have liked to

a boat would be nice but

if I can’t have a boat

I would like to just fall asleep

when my credits roll

to fall asleep right at the end

at that small jut

where the audience thinks maybe

there’s another scene surely

it can’t end now

and they don’t know

or want to but wait

to see if the darkness continues

then music begins from

somewhere behind and

the words rise up

the credits roll

I’d just fall asleep then.

Imagine

having five grand.

(overheard)

When the sun sets

before the night

and I’m riding

down the three-lane

barely lit, moving,

knuckles white

the rushing air from passing cars

to my right;

the curb is always close.

There’s a certain numbness:

winter’s night,

gloveless hands, lost

love, depression –

moving towards the orange light,

near red.

I grip the bars,

shaking,

facing the intersection

and sailing through,

nearly missing.

The sound of a rock

underarmed

into the shallows

is louder than

the sound of a thousand

handfuls

of tossed sand.

The gait of a wingless bird

inside a circle

of hands and feet.

Sometimes I feel like a brick.

A brick in a pavement,

on a wall,

up a church,

inside a chimney.

There are other bricks.