Lincoln Chapman pens story from Wild Pork & Watercress by Barry Crump

At Tihoi Venture School, the students read Wild Pork & Watercress by Barry Crump as part of their English class. Lincoln Chapman creatively writes from Ricky's perspective in an assignment:

Walking into the cosy kitchen, the smells wafting through the air, enveloping me like a warm, fluffy blanket. The whistling of the kettle pierced the silence, and Aunty Bella’s voice came through the steam, “Good morning, Ricky!”

“Good morning,” I’d say back.

This was every cold morning, and it was comforting to know that there would be a routine. Most days, I’d sit at the old, rickety table with a book or two. Angrily, Uncle Hec would stomp in with his long johns on, slump into his seat, demanding a cup of tea and grumbling about this or that. The beaten, stained cup, once white, would arrive in front of him, steam billowing up into his face, making him look somewhat mysterious.

Bustling around the kitchen, Aunty Bella would be a hive activity, yelling orders like an Admiral on a naval battleship. The ancient stove echoes with its many pots and pans, clanging and banging together, the lids rattling and steaming, about to explode. Those pots and pans must’ve been through the wars the way they look. Millions of red chequered tea towels littered the room - a minefield in a devastating battle. The already clumped kitchen seemed to shrink every time Uncle Hec used a new dish, squeezing us in like a boa constrictor.

Amidst the chaos, the smells of the fresh cream from Sally the Cow, mixed with the rolled oats and sweet sugar, perfect orange eggs, flawless toast, and mouth-watering wild-pork bacon captures our attention and momentarily distracts us from the morning commotion. What seemed like an eternity later, we finally ate. Devouring our meal with voracious appetites, filling our stomachs with food, our mouths gaping black holes consuming everything that came close to it. And then, sometimes, a juicy, dark, luscious blackberry pie would appear from the night before; the rest of the cream from breakfast smothering it like a mountain of fog. Those were good breakfasts. Real good. Reluctantly, off to work we would go, Aunty Bella chasing us out of the kitchen. Uncle Hec first and then myself, as I grimace inwardly from a burnt tongue resulting from hastily sipping my sweet, chocolatey milo. With bellies full and spirits lifted, we head off onto the farm, leaving behind the comforting chaos of the morning kitchen scene.