I walked backwards into a rather strange man in a supermarket last weekend.
I felt like a confused dill - unfamiliar supermarket shopping fuddles my brain.
Just when I'd gathered myself and was examining the contents of Tennessee ribs versus the lemon lamb, I felt a pat on my bottom.
I was at my very vaguest.
Shopping in a foreign supermarket, on different shores among rows of food that overwhelmed my senses.
Gruyere, Tilsit, fresh ricotta, figs, salamis, taramasalata, fresh quiche, terrine and all manner of chocolate.
I was in Devonport.
I could smell the salt in the breeze and the demeanour of the residents was pure laid back, outdoorsy weekend-loving Tasmanians.
I figured there was no more pleasant way to do my weekly forage.
The pat on my bottom was my husband's signal he'd spent long enough waiting outside the grocer doing his crossword.
I, on the other hand, was just warming up.
My recycled plastic bottle trolley and I were wending our way through my aisles of dreams.
"I'm all over the place and not finished," I said.
The "all over the place" struck fear into my husband, who before you might say "it's only a supermarket" turned on his heels and left me to flap about in delirious gourmand confusion.
"I saw that," a lovely woman alongside said.
"30 years. He's my Zorba," I said.
"Oh, that's lovely," she said. "People don't even hold hands any more".
Earlier Zorba had availed himself of a surf swim at the Bluff.
He walked back across the mown grass, smiling from ear to ear having surprised himself.
Turned out, while he was swimming, a small crowd gathered, and flags were assembled.
Striding out of the waves, Zorba cut a striking figure in his aqua shorts.
His wide swimmer's shoulders, wider 'Greek' belly and hairy Irish legs were capped by the broadest, happiest grin.
He'd emerged from the surf to a cheering crowd.
It turned out, Zorba was first ashore in the annual Devonport Pub to (surf) Club swim.
Zorba waved to the crowd but chose not to run through the finish-line flags.
He let his fans down gently, as he was followed out of the waves by a legion of men in wet suits - the real competitors.
Even earlier, on the drive to Devonport, we shared amusement at the absolute shite promotion that is "For Age''.
As if it wasn't dopey enough that the design gurus chose a font that makes the word forage appear as 'For Age', they've now added photographs to their forage folly (apparently a state-wide campaign for food and wine tourism).
I know a few handy dandy photographers - in fact a truck load.
They are talented, passionate Tasmanians of all ages with an enviable sensibility for our people and place.
Whoever took the picture for the 'For Age' promotion wasn't a Tasmanian - I'd bet my freezer of blueberries and raspberries that the picture was a (cheap) file picture or taken by some interstate 'talent'.
The picture, to promote NW Tasmania's food region - wasn't chocolate, raspberries or cheese but a truffle.
I love the mystery of truffles in Tasmania - they lend themselves to all sorts of pictorial storytelling, innovative branding or savvy marketing - sadly none such imagery was on the 'For Age' billboard.
Predictably, the picture was of a young blonde in profile with a giant black truffle pushed up her nose?!
Suggestion - what about a tight shot of a truffle-hunting dog among the trees with truffle bulging through dark, rich soil and leaf. Romance. Food? You're welcome.
Anyhow, a little further down the road the solution to food promotion in the NW jumped out at me.
The giant spud? Could we not convert the giant spud, which has always looked like a friendly, smiling and waving turd into a giant, friendly smiling truffle?
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