Farmer Unknown

In coastal WA, we ducked into a supermarket to restock the basics. It was bright and cold inside — aisles of packaged food gleaming under fluorescent light. The boys wandered ahead, holding apples and cereal boxes like they were artefacts.

“Dad,” Arlo asked, turning a packet over in his hands, “who makes this stuff?”

I hesitated. Because the real answer — the honest answer — was a story not of nourishment but of efficiency. A story of factories, fillers, preservatives, boardrooms, and supply chains designed for profit, not vitality.

Choni touched my arm, reading my silence. “We’ve forgotten where food comes from,” she whispered. “We’ve forgotten who grows it. And what it costs them.”

Outside, as we loaded the caravan, a dusty ute pulled in. A farmer stepped out, shoulders heavy, boots coated in the evidence of a hard season. He grabbed a few essentials — bread, milk, a bag of spuds — and disappeared without anyone noticing he was there.

The contrast hit me with force.
Here was the person who fed this community.
And here was a community who would never know his name.

Somewhere along the line, reverence had been replaced by convenience. Food had become a product, not a relationship. Gratitude had become optional.

But the boys — without instruction — placed the apples they’d chosen into the front seat of the Land Cruiser and said, “These feel good.”

Maybe that’s where it starts.
With small choices.
With remembering that every meal is a miracle of soil, labour, weather, and care.
And with telling the truth:
The real cost of food isn’t on the label.
It’s in the hands of the people who grow it.