Some years ago while penning up sheep in the yards during shearing, one of the shearers appeared outside the shed for a break. He was a short, stocky man with hands the size of frypans and a perpetual grin that reminded me of a cracked water melon. ‘Hey Nicko, you growing any vegies this year?’ He asked me. As it was during the drought the most I’d managed was a small crop of rocket which was so peppery one leaf was about as much as anyone wanted. ‘No,’ I replied, knowing full well that he had a nice little plot in his garden in Moree. ‘I’ve got some cabbages, pumpkin and swede,’ he told me, dangling a roll-your-own from between his lips. ‘You know I offered it to my new neighbours and the mother said she didn’t have time to cook while the kids aged between ten and sixteen didn’t know what a cabbage was. Everything they eat is takeaway.’

On Sunday night I watched about ten minutes of Junior Masterchief. Apart from being continually surprised by the confidence of the children involved and their abilities; which reminded me of how I felt when I first went skiing and ‘ankle-biters’ were whizzing by, one of the great positives of the show is that it’s introducing a lot of children to different foods. It’s a money spinner for the television station and the publisher of the associated cookbooks yet the real winners are the numerous children who are now pestering their parents in the kitchen. My shearing friend who has since passed on would be pleased.