The discovery in the '80s of the farmed rabbit made my cooking a great deal happier, as the results were far more dignified. Somehow that memory and my lack of success to create something delicious turned me away from cooking rabbit. ![]() I eschewed cooking wild rabbit after I found a cigarette butt in the cavity of one when I used to buy them from the long-lived, but now long-gone, stall at the Vic market. It is as if they all say, "We are the face of self-sustainability, are you up to it?"įor some reason rabbits seem to have been a symbolic thread through my cooking years. Every morning as the rabbits grew they unknowingly teased me. The rabbit children grew like topsy, the father was removed and the mother was left with what I quietly referred to as two logs of rillette. ![]() Since the rabbits were given in the same cage, and the damage had already been done, I waited patiently for a month and, sure enough, the mother pulled the fur from her belly, made a soft white nest and gave birth to seven pink hairless kits. First the cats, then the dog, make the tea and then out into the yard to set the geese and chickens free and, now, feed the rabbits. But, it was a story heard and a little misinterpreted, and some weeks later for my birthday, I was presented with a pair of meat rabbits, alive.Įach and every morning the routine is the same. I think I wove a little story, talked a little rubbish and then slid into a comfortable silence while rolling the day's bread. Last year, I was happily chatting about the day, long past my restaurant days, when I would keep rabbits. You must always be careful of what you wish for, especially in an open kitchen.
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