A winter’s tale: First frosts and fickle fruit
Sunday, 3 May 2026
Mike White is a senior writer and columnist.
OPINION: My partner stood in her dressing gown at the kitchen bench and gazed out the window at the frost.
“So, about muesli,” she said, with a tone that was a mix of inquiry and concern.
Thus was raised one of the great seasonal issues: When should one transition from the summer joy of muesli for breakfast, to winter’s hearty staple of porridge?
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In a world at war, with polarised populations and oil shocks and environmental catastrophes, such questions may seem trivial.
But, let me assure you, breakfast is not a trifle in our household.
In general terms, breakfast is a bit of a conundrum. As hungry humans, we happily vary our lunch, we wouldn’t dream of having the same thing every dinnertime, day after day, but we unquestioningly eat the same thing every morning.
“The tyranny of breakfast,” pronounced my friend Jeremy, a man who eschewed any morning straitjacket, and was very happy chewing on fresh pizza bread from the bakery as he headed to work.
He’s absolutely right: Our lack of breakfast variation is confounding. But I guess the time between getting up and getting off to work is limited, so we opt for the easy.
For years and years, porridge was the unchallenged, unconquered breakfast king for me.
Oats soaked overnight, nuked in the microwave with raisins, it was cheap, simple, and sustaining. It was humble and hearty. And it was a base for a roster of fruit, from feijoas to tamarillos to plums to the ever-reliable rhubarb.
Last year, flush with strawberries, we dabbled with muesli over summer, thinking it seemed a better seasonal fit. But the bought stuff was sweet and not so cheap, and it just seemed a bit of a soulless rort, spruiked by a few freeze-dried raspberries buried in the depths of the packet.
And then my sister raced to our rescue, sending us a big bag of her homemade “granola”.
Well, that was a fabulous revelation.
So, inspired by her example, my partner became the muesli queen this summer. Each batch contained toasted treasures, even including poppy seeds she carefully harvested from the flowers that popped up in our vege garden in a wave of delicate colour.
She found a big roasting pan at the tip shop. She found an excellent Tupperware container there too, which was just like the one her family used to store their muesli in when she was growing up.
And so, summer has been a magnificent delight of morning muesli teamed with fruit from our trees, and the overhanging branches of our neighbour’s plum.
But, as my partner looked out over the back garden carpeted in frost, the coffee machine burbling in the background, the fire being resuscitated in the lounge, she was having doubts about our breakfast choice.
The change of seasons is marked by many stark moments and difficult decisions: Daylight saving putting an end to evening barbecues; storing the sun umbrella in the garage; dithering over whether we need to put on sunscreen any more.
Instinctively, we resist, cling to summer, pretend its actually not that much different to January.
We impose arbitrary demarcations: Our neighbour insists they’ll never light their fire in March - it’s just a psychological thing. But if April 1 is the slightest bit chilly, the log burner will be roaring in a flash.
Frost is an immutable flag on the year’s calendar, an undeniable reminder that times have changed. It’s the seasons’ way of bludgeoning out of us any fanciful whimsy about a lingering summer.
It smothers the lawn, and ices what’s left in the watering can. It bedraggles weak-spirited plants, who instantly drop their leaves, like meek soldiers abandoning their weapons and hoisting a surrender flag at the first shots from enemy trenches.
We had spied the forecasts, seen the predicted temperatures dropping into the blue, and figured frost may arrive while we were sleeping.
So, before bed, we pulled out all manner of old sheets and rolls of protective cloth from the shed, draped them over vulnerable vegetables, and made the garden look like a camp of makeshift shanties for the destitute.
It appeared to work the first night, most of the covered plants being spared.
But the second night slayed them. The follow-up frost wriggled through gaps, snuck up from the soil, and mugged the last of the summer’s goodies.
The tomatoes hung wilted and wizened. The basil plants looked like they’d been at the epicentre of a nuclear explosion. The spindly potato tops drooped and stared back at me, as if ashamed at their easy capitulation.
So summer ended. Not with a bang but a wither.
The sun, too late to the party to be of any use, wanly struggled up over the hill, whispering, “Oh, sorry, did I miss something?”
We stood at the kitchen bench surveying the almost instant destruction wrought in the garden overnight.
“Maybe we should have porridge tomorrow?” I said.