Category: Big Vegetables

  • The Big Olive, Tailem Bend, SA

    The Big Olive, Tailem Bend, South Australia

    Death threats, fraud and deplorable hygiene standards – The Big Olive is at the centre of the most bizarre and shocking scandal in Australian history, and has become the most controversial roadside attraction on the planet.

    Built on love and good intentions, the decadently-crafted Big Olive has been dragged through the tabloid media, casting a dark shadow across the rugged South Australian landscape.

    The delicious duo stand silent, locked behind a barbed-wire fence, as beautiful as they are shameful. What should serve as a beautiful, bulbous celebration of Tailem Bend’s blossoming olive industry, instead divides and humiliates the locals.

    Pour some wine, bring out the cheese board, and strap yourself in as we explore the dramatic rise and tragic fall of The Big Olive.

    Lie-renzo’s Oil

    It all started so innocently. The Big Olive (which technically should be called The Big Olives, but that’s a debate for another day) was crafted by the oliving legends at The Newell Group, and erected on April 15, 2005. The two olives – one a welcoming green, the other a mysterious, suave graphite – sent shockwaves through the Big Thing community with their eight-metre height and weight of more than a tonne.

    They were conceived to draw attention to a world-class olive oil processing plant that promised to transform the region. There was a sense of hope in the crisp, country air as hundreds of well-wishers descended upon Tailem Bend for the Olives’ unveiling.

    With a bouncy castle and plates of stuffed olives with little skewers poked through them, it was a day nobody would ever forget. Rumours abounded that Jamie Olive-er would be present to whip up a selection of mouthwatering antipasti.

    Life was good. Little did the locals know, however, that a nightmare were just around the corner.

    For not everything was as delicious as it seemed at the Big Olive factory. Shady business deals, grotesque working conditions and substandard products were the oil on which the company ran. And then, in early-2012, the little town of Tailem Bend found its way onto every television in the nation.

    Oils ain’t oils

    Hard-boiled Today Tonight reporter Frank Pangallo broke the outrageous story about what was really going on at The Big Olive, and the country gasped as one. The oil being produced there was, upon testing, not olive oil all. It was of such poor quality as to be unfit for human consumption and should only have been used as lamp fuel.

    Expired bottles of oil were illegally relabelled, meaning they’d hit the shelves three or four years after their use-by-date. Employees who questioned these practices were berated, belittled, and bullied.

    The depths of the depravity were alarming. It was common for production workers, possibly crazed from hunger due to long work hours, to slurp oil straight from a bottle, pop the cap back on and then send it off to the customer. As a result, thousands of Australians may have unwittingly drizzled saliva upon their bruschetta.

    Pangallo, a fearless scribe who has built a career on standing up for the little guy, was the target of brutal death threats. But he wouldn’t back down. He couldn’t back down. The story caused widespread outrage and ushered in a new era of stringent regulation in the notoriously crime-riddled olive oil industry.

    For a company that marketed their products as ‘Australia’s health gift to the world’, the fallout was terminal. The Big Olive Company was fined an incredible $13,000 and the factory, which had promised so much, was shuttered forever. This corruption, this misery, happened under the happy visage of The Big Olive.

    It all seemed like such a waste.

    Olive and let die

    A visit to The Big Olive is a conflicting and, at times, harrowing experience. The monument is well maintained, easy to find, and every bit as mesmerising as the day it was first shown to an awestruck population.

    The olives are massive, delightfully shiny, and incredibly lifelike. I particularly enjoyed the addition of a rustic, undulated stem, which perfectly frames the olives against the dusty backdrop whilst emphasising their immense size.

    Their Rococo-inspired lines and simple, almost austere carapace make them perfect for a fun photo. Like any plump, fresh olive, they compliment, rather than overwhelm, the experience.

    But the fact that they’re locked behind a fence, amidst an incomplete and windswept industrial complex, tosses these olives into a mediterranean salad of misery. Knowing what went on in that factory, the betrayal and the abuse, makes it difficult to truly enjoy The Big Olive in all its majesty.

    The factory tours are long gone, as are the oil tastings and cooking classes that once made it a highlight of any trip through South Australia. Sure, it’s possible to lean against the fence, guzzling olive oil from a bottle, but it’s just not the same.

    Hopefully one day the facility can be taken over, revamped, and re-opened. It’s time for The Big Olive to once again stand proud alongside The Big Pelican and Map the Miner as an Aussie icon. The Big Olive is a wonderful attraction and deserves to be seen and enjoyed in all its sumptuous glory.

    I guess you could say olive them so much it hurts!

  • The Big Spuds and Forks, Trafalgar, Vic

    The Big Spuds and Forks, Trafalgar, Victoria

    Howdy pardner, this is your old friend Biggie the Kid! Your regular host Bigs Bardot is struggling through a low-carb diet, so it’s up to me to tell you all about the Big Spuds and Forks. Just look at my tough-guy hat and genuine 18th-century baby blue short-shorts – yee-haw!

    Every man comes to a fork in the road at some point in his life, so gather round as I tell you a tale of love, loss, and Big Things.

    I was moseying on through the badlands of Trafalgar, on the trail of ol’ One-Eyed Willie, when I spotted something that dang near made my heart leap out of my chest. No, not a discounted Louis Vuitton clutch bag with a pearl clasp and space for a whole box of bullets – five gigantic taters, each just as round and beautiful as a junebug on a hot summer’s night.

    But what was that over yonder, ya’ll? Pokin’ out of them there taters? Dadgum! If it wasn’t five enormous forks, then my name ain’t Biggie Charlene Kid!

    My trusty steed and confidant Liberace didn’t need much convincin’ to gallop on over for a gander, and soon I was fraternising with the spuds in a robust yet respectful way. Sure I might be the fastest undresser in the west, but I’m also a gentleman, y’hear.

    What a Spudmuffin!

    These here taters live right outside the famous Spud Shed, where you’ll find more starchy tubers than you can shake a rattlesnake at. Oh, and the quince relish is truly a thing of beauty – just like my ol’ mama used to make.

    A passing injun told me the sculpture was erected in 2008 to celebrate the Year of the Tater, and was originally on display for them there city slickers in the Big Smoke – y’know, pardner, Melbourne. But maybe that injun had been indulging in some Big Smoke of his own.

    As he rode off into the sunset, the injun told me a fanciful tale about another prodigious potato. Basking in the sunshine of the far-flung settlement of Robertson, this one’s supposedly the size of a house and worshipped by the natives. Dang injun, I thought he’d start tellin’ me about massive Sprouts, Pheasants, Chickens and Dogs.

    As Liberace and I swaggered out of the badlands of Trafalgar, on the trail of ol’ One-Eyed Willie, I lit myself a cigar and stared out at the bleeding sunset. “There are two kinds of people in the world,” I sighed. “Those with guns and those that dig giant statues of taters with forks stuck in them. And I ain’t got me a gun.”

    Please note; in the interests of transparency, I should reveal that it was actually me – the inimitable Bigs Bardot – who wrote this entry, in character as a bit of fun. Teehee – fooled ya!

  • Arthur Sprout, Coldstream, Vic

    Arthur the Big Brussels Sprout, Coldstream, Victoria

    Brussels sprouts; two words that strike fear into the hearts of children. The bitter, chartreuse vegetables have been responsible for countless dinnertime meltdowns and turned generations of youngsters off their greens for life. But one gentleman has risen up against the hatred, with a cheeky smile and a zealous thumbs-up as his only weapons.

    Arthur Sprout, who stands sentinel in front of Adams Farms, has dedicated his young life to giving the despised veggie a friendlier face. The Yarra Valley’s most unlikely sex symbol has been turning heads and smashing prejudices since 2015 – and he’s slowly winning the war against anti-sproutism.

    Arthur’s sanguine posture speaks volumes, yet this sprout-going chap is a man of few words. Thankfully fellow Brussels sprout activist Bruce Adams – the owner of Adams Farms and the man who brought Arthur to life – is more than happy to tell this sproutlandish story.

    Twist and Sprout!

    The seeds of Arthur’s journey were planted a few hours north of his current location. During his regular pilgrimage to the Big Strawberry at Koonoomoo, Bruce was struck by an idea so marvellous he needed to have a good lie down afterwards.

    “I thought, ‘Oh, maybe we should have a Big Sprout,’” Bruce told a dumbfounded journo from The Monthly. Most of us have had the same idea, but Bruce actually made it happen. Sadly, it wasn’t all smooth sailing, with anti-sproutites doing whatever they could to get in the way.

    “There were a lot of issues with the council,” Bruce explained. “Not in relation to his height, but with where I could put it. I wanted it at the front of the property but they wouldn’t let me put it there. They wanted it back further. They wanted it way back ‘cos they basically said to me in the end, ‘You can have it but we really don’t want people to see it.’”

    Arthur – named after Bruce’s father – was unveiled during the 2015 Sprout Fest, which is like Woodstock for fruit and veg fanatics. Featured artists included Ba Na Na, Carlos Sultana and Canned Beet.

    As a result Arthur stands a good way back from the main road, giving him an unassuming charm and heart-warming shyness that needs to be seen to be believed. With his farmer’s hat and rustic overalls, he’s one of the best-dressed Bigs in Australia.

    Most importantly, ‘the Muscles of Brussels’ is winning over the locals, one sprout at a time.

    Out and About with Arthur Sprout

    My date with Arthur was a bittersweet experience, as it brought back memories of tear-stained dinner parties with my abusive stepfather Craig. As he and the rest of the family tucked into delicious fried chicken, Craig would load my plate high with uncooked Brussels sprouts and not allow me to leave the table until every single morsel had been consumed.

    Often I would pass out from sheer exhaustion, unable to bring myself to gorge on my waterlogged tormentors. I would wake in the dead of night, the house silent and the unwanted spouts edging ever closer. Their tiny leaves seemed to mock me.

    In retrospect it was probably Craig’s way of forcing me to run away from home, which I finally did at the tender age of 24. I’ve never been able to look at a Brussels sprout since.

    And so it was with deep reservations that I rolled into rural Coldstream, unsure whether I was ready to face my fears. Would I break down in tears upon seeing the giant sprout, as memories of my abusive stepfather washed over me? Would I become enraged at the thought of a youth shattered by this bulbous vegetable?

    After seeing Arthur’s cheerful face and roguish gesturing, my troubled soul was put at ease.

    It was as if decades of fear and loathing were lifted from my shoulders, and I felt nothing but love and admiration for him and his kind. I was reduced to a blubbering mess and, after a cuddle, even purchased a small tray of well-priced and beautifully-presented sprouts.

    Without the shadow of my stepfather brooding over me, I found the spouts to be surprisingly nutty and very moreish, especially with a generous dollop of mango chutney.

    Craig, it seems, was just a crap cook.

    That’s Sproutstanding!

    After saying my goodbyes to Arthur, I kissed his rubenesque thorax one last time and turned to leave. Just then, a hotted-up Kia Rio rolled up to the farm and paused beneath the shade of a poplar tree. As the engine continued to cough and wheeze, one window slowly rolled down, and two acne-riddled faces, punctuated by the deadest eyes I’ve ever seen, pushed their way into the dying sunlight.

    “Go back to where you came from, Sprouty!” screamed one of the hate-filled youngsters.
    “Yeah, go back to Belgium, where Brussels sprouts have been cultivated since the 13th century!” warbled his mate.

    “Actually,” I shrieked, hurling sprouts at their hotrod, “there’s scientific evidence that the Ancient Romans propagated a similar vegetable 2000 years earlier.”

    “Go back to Ancient Romania then, Sprouty!” yelled the hatemongers, their malicious diatribe hanging heavy in the air long after they had peeled out of the carpark.

    The impregnable Arthur Sprout, as always, simply fired back with that machine gun smile of his.

  • The Big Cauliflower, Waterloo, NSW

    The Big Cauliflower, Waterloo, New South Wales

    Cauliflowers are the sexiest and most sophisticated of vegetables, so of course there’s a massive one living in the trendy inner-city suburb of Waterloo. The Big Cauliflower lurks above the historic Cauliflower Hotel, where it’s happy flower all the time!

    The Hotel dates back to 1862, but the vast veggie isn’t that old. In fact, he looks quite fresh! The original publican, a Mr George Rolfe, built his pub with money he made from selling cauliflowers. He painted one on the side of the building, and the name stuck.

    These days the pub is a hip and happenin’ place with an extensive wine selection and mouthwatering modern American food. It’s the sort of place salad-vertising executives love. Nothing, however, overshadows the real star attraction – the Big Cauliflower. He has a good head on him and looks very much like the real deal.

    The Big Cauliflower isn’t much of an attention-seeker, and is content to sit up there on the roof, people-watching. It makes it difficult to take a photo with him, but after dodging traffic I was veget-able to grab one! I’ll hang it on my kitchen wall, next to my snaps with the Big Potato and the Big Pumpkin.

    Cauliflower Power!

    At the conclusion of the photo shoot I swaggered into the pub was and gleefully ordered a cup of their famous cauliflower beer. The barman looked at me as if I’d beamed down from space and told me they didn’t have anything of the sort, and never had.

    A couple of tough-looking tradies with cauliflower ears even suggested that my kind weren’t welcome there. Discrimination against those with a penchant for oversized produce is alive and well in Sydney, unfortunately.

    Not to be intimidated, I ordered a cup of Resch’s and dunked a generously-proportioned cauliflower in it. The concoction was lumpy, chunky, and smelled like a homeless man’s underwear, but I forced it down. The tradies soon revised their opinion of me, cheering me on as I downed cup after cup of lukewarm cauliflower beer.

    I ended up becoming physically ill and was forcefully ejected by a burly security guard, but it was worth it because I wasn’t going to let them think they’d won.

  • The Big Potato, Robertson, NSW

    Some think he looks more like a Poo-tato than a Potato, but I reckon he’s a real spud-muffin! The 10-metre-wide, four-metre-tall Big Potato was carefully crafted in 1977 by local farmer Jim Mauger, and stands in starch contrast to the rural village of Robertson that houses him. 

    Modelled after the delicious Sebago variety of spud, the beguiling Big Potato was designed to house a vegetable museum that, tragically, never eventu-tatered. Wipe away those tears because there are plenty of takeaway shops in town, so you’ll be able to find some potato scallops to study!

    The best place to gobble your lunch is right next to the Big Potato, because his admirers recently chipped in to landscape the park he lives in, and he’s now wedged between some delightful picnic tables. It’s particularly fun to watch the endless stream of spec-taters stopping by for selfies!

    Right next door is the ravishing Robertson Supermarket, which offers a wide range of Big Potato magnets, stickers and tea towels. I bought a scrumptious Spud t-shirt that I wear several times a week – we’re a mash made in heaven!

    He’s for sale… and cheap as chips!

    If this is spud at first sight, I have some wonderful news – The Big Potato can be yours for the bargain price of $920,000. That’s right, his current owners, Heather and Neil Tait (yes, that’s their real names! If only everyone in possession of a Big was forced to have a related name!) are looking to bake someone’s day by sending this potato to the market.

    Imagine living inside a giant potato – wouldn’t it be a lux-tuber-ous existence! You’d also be perfectly positioned to make regular day trips to Yerrinbool’s amazing Apple, because it’s a short drive away.

    Astonishingly the Big Potato isn’t heritage listed, therefore it could be demolished by a cold-hearted developer. So come on, Big Thing fanatics, let’s pool our money and buy. I therefore raise my hand to be the care-tater.

    There’s no sprout about it, this potato is a gem!