A sun-bleached blonde in denim and worn Blundstone brogues, Paulette has a deep knowledge of indigenous plants—kangaroo apple, sagg, murnong—used for traditional remedies. She admits to seed catalog lust; Quarantine Tasmania harshly restricts the import of new varieties to prevent a fruit fly incursion. But the limitations also led Paulette to focus on local plants, like her pots of sheep's sorrel, peppery shepherd's purse, and sow thistle. A jar filled with genuinely ugly yellow-and-black dent corn kernels sits on a garden table, where we drink verbena tea and eat shortbread cookies she baked for the occasion. Paulette mentions that their youngest daughter, Heidi, is participating in the Huon Agricultural Society Show's floral contest for the first time—her entry is a huge euphorbia bloom atop a headless teddy bear. Older sister Elsie has bought a clutch of quail by raising and selling her own radishes. A hen and her brood scatter as we leave the yard. Matt, who worked for Burgess before becoming a full-time farmer, hands him plastic containers of radish flowers and baby red orach leaves, which later ride on my lap back into town, lighter than a baby chick. It occurs to me that if a young couple is willing to crawl in the dirt on their hands and knees to pick chickweed and shungiku chrysanthemum, then the worms are come by honorably.