Introduction
Far more than simple sustenance, food is – and always has been – central to human culture, society and identity. It bonds individuals and communities together, strengthening collective identities through shared experience and memory. Food can be used to define boundaries between groups by highlighting differences and underlining culinary orthodoxies or taboos, from the foodstuffs consumed, to the manner and methods of dining (Twiss 2007, 1–10). Food also connects us to place. Climate, terrain, soils and seasons all shape the resources, produce and flavours of a region. The material impact that our relationship with food has had on the world is also significant, meaning that it is a subject that archaeologists are uniquely well situated to explore. Changing settlement patterns, domestication of both plant and animal species, environmental degradation, conflicts, migrations, demographic flux, technological revolutions, and evolving gender and domestic roles have all been both driven and shaped by our insatiable hunger, and they have all left a tangible imprint.
This volume draws together a series of chapters addressing the archaeology of food in Australia. It highlights the range of culinary stories the discipline can tell, from deep time to the more recent past. As outlined in more detail below, considerable scholarship has been devoted to the archaeological study of food overseas, but this thematic approach is in its infancy in Australia, a fact that is surprising when we consider the role that food plays in wider national discourse. Twenty-first century Australia is a nation somewhat obsessed with food. From almost every media forum, we are bombarded with discussions of what and how to eat (Bannerman 2011, 49–51). At its most superficial, this food fixation stems from consumer culture and is influenced by changing fashions and fads, however, in other ways it reflects a more profound national discourse. Food is a key component of culture, and for a diverse nation like Australia, it has been central to identity maintenance and construction. While food historians have picked up this gauntlet (see for example, Santich 2012; Symons 1982; Van Reyk 2021) and contributed to thematic discussions and overviews of the development of food cultures, there has been a relative silence from archaeologists in Australia about a subject on which the discipline has so much to offer, and which communities care so much about.
In recent years, we have seen this national food focus in Australia connect directly with debates relating to archaeology and we have witnessed people actively looking to the past for answers. Most notably, we witnessed intense discourse surrounding Bruce Pascoe’s Dark Emu (2018), which re-examined Aboriginal food procurement, arguing that the “mythology” of hunter-gathering has obscured the complexity and sophistication of pre-colonial economies. The book triggered fierce public and scholarly debate, which in turn connected to key issues we are grappling with as a postcolonial society. While much of this discourse was divisive, what it highlighted was the intense interest that wider Australian society has in history and archaeology, and importantly, the relevance of food in these debates. What is clear is that discussions of our gastronomic pasts hold resonance today – connecting with issues such as colonisation, climate change and environmental sustainability.
Looking to contemporary discourse once more, we also see the public’s interest in health and nutrition, and the way in which the past can be used (and abused) by the diet industry in the promotion of products and approaches harnessing the alleged habits of our ancestors. The Paleo diet is the most iconic of these, drawing upon the concept of a supposedly “natural” idealised diet of the past to answer contemporary health issues. As an archaeology volume, this work does not comment on the efficacy of such regimes, but it is concerning to see the Palaeolithic misrepresented as some form of Eden in which our ancestors lived an existence free from concerns around health and nutrition. It also demonstrates a concerning degree of “presentism” in which the complexity and diversity of Palaeolithic food cultures globally are misrepresented. There was, of course, no single “Paleo diet”, and as archaeologists it is our job to reveal the past in all its glorious diversity, rather than to accept these reductive idealised narratives about people who were every bit as complex as we are today. The Paleo diet is the most extreme of these diets drawing on the supposedly “natural state” of the species, but fasting routines, gluten-free diets and a range of other regimes trending at any one time or another frequently use rhetoric around the benefits of a return to our origins. Rigorous analysis of the distant past provides the opportunity to contribute meaningfully, scientifically and factually to these contemporary discussions, but also helps curb the mythmaking.
The other key contribution archaeology can make is to assist in the development of more nuanced discussions of diversity in the past. Australia’s extraordinary range of cuisines, drawn from every corner of the globe, is frequently cited as one of the most significant contributions of multiculturalism, with the range of offerings reflecting the diversity of our communities. The role of food in experiences of migration is a theme that resonates today, with a past that deserves recognition. In recent decades though, the connection between food and multiculturalism has also been critiqued, with scholars such as Ghassan Hage highlighting the othering and consumptive nature of rhetoric relating to so-called “ethnic cuisines”. Hage (1997) argues that ‘‘ethnic’’ food is consumed by the white middle class in restaurants, without truly creating intercultural understanding. In particular, Hage (1998; 1997) criticises this ‘‘cosmo-multiculturalism’’ and the inherently consumptive sanitised nature of the transaction. While being cognisant of this body of literature and the complexity of the issue, archaeology provides the opportunity to critically examine the material markers of change, diversity and migration experiences in the past. To date, archaeological studies of ethnicity have been all too few in Australia, but food provides a critical framework to engage with these discussions and consider experiences of food and community from multiple chapters of our history. Gordon Grimwade’s chapter on Chinese roast pork in this volume (Chapter 6) is an invaluable contribution, highlighting that there are many methodological approaches to understanding culinary diversity in the past more consistently and comprehensively.
While the archaeology of food has received limited dedicated focus in Australia, it has attracted considerable attention from scholars globally. These studies have shown that much of what archaeologists excavate – such as faunal remains, ceramics and cesspits – can collectively tell the story of food culture when drawn together and considered as a whole. The following section will review some of the main focus areas for the archaeology of food globally. It is not intended to be a detailed literature review of all global archaeologies of food (see Twiss 2019) but rather, is intended to do two things. First, to highlight the potential of the subject as demonstrated in global studies and by extension the need to progress comparable research in Australia. Second, it is intended to highlight the disciplinary diversity of approaches to the subject and the need to draw multiple perspectives together to shed light on food and foodways in the past.
Before presenting an overview of the subdisciplines and methodological approaches to individual aspects of food, it is useful to highlight global thematic studies which draw together multiple strands of evidence and perspectives. The work of scholars such as Hastorf (2018), Metheny and Beaudry (2016), Scarry, Hutchinson and Arbuckle (2023) and Twiss (2019), in synthesising multiple strands of evidence on food from diverse sites both globally and temporally, demonstrates the potential for thematic volumes on food. Looking at these syntheses and thematic global studies, two key issues emerge, both of which have a bearing on the current volume and its value.
The first issue that emerges from the global studies is that Australia is rarely if ever mentioned. When we consider the extraordinary length of occupation in Australia – itself a continent – coupled with the many decades of work undertaken across academic and consulting archaeology, the omission of this part of the human food story surely needs rectifying. This dedicated volume on the subject in Australia will begin to correct this absence and, in the process, highlight the many varied contributions that scholars have made to the subject. It will also demonstrate that there are key issues and questions distinct to our shores, which only focused scholarship here can address.
The second issue that emerges from these global studies which is of relevance to the current volume is the value in drawing the contributions of many varied subdisciplines together to better understand the story of change and complexity of food cultures in the past. To understand food in the past, we cannot focus solely on lithics without also considering related categories of evidence, such as hearth sites, hunting strategies, residue and pollen analysis. In isolation, these studies tell us about artefact or evidential categories and typologies, but when pieced back together and viewed collectively, they will tell us about food culture. Archaeologists in Australia have, to date, excelled in the former, but have only rarely rejoined the puzzle pieces and looked at the latter. These global studies also highlight that archaeology is indeed a “broad church”, with researchers spanning from the sciences through to the humanities, all of which have the potential to shed light on the subject. Some of us work in the laboratory, analysing the most microscopic forms of evidence and drawing on the new technologies at our disposal in the twenty-first century, while others interrogate culture and society, seeking answers to questions about the nature of identity, experience and community.
With the potential of this “broad church” in mind, the following section will outline some of the primary categories of evidence, methodologies and approaches to the archaeology of food that have been pursued to date. While many of these are already regularly being used in Australia – as this volume will demonstrate – it is useful to review approaches elsewhere to highlight the progress that has been made and provide a context for the contents of this volume. This discussion also highlights the potential for the archaeology of food in Australia, which is still in its infancy, but it also demonstrates some key differences and unique aspects of our past that require additional focus. The following is not intended to be a detailed review of studies relating to each subdiscipline, but rather, it is intended to outline the diversity of datasets and perspectives, and the many varied tools at our disposal.
The information that can be gleaned from the analysis of plant remains, known as archaeobotany, has grown exponentially in recent years through scientific innovation. Unlike animal remains (such as bones and shells), plant remains do not typically survive as well in the archaeological record. When they do survive, they are often fragmentary or much smaller. This means that our ability to both gather and analyse plant materials is more challenging, but has progressed significantly in recent decades, providing critical insight into the complexity of diets in the past.
Plant remains come in a range of forms, some of which can be collected relatively easily while others require more sophisticated techniques. Macrobotanical remains are remnants of plants that can be detected with either the naked eye or low-powered magnification. These include elements such as seeds, pods, nutshells or chaff. These can be collected by hand if large enough but are also commonly recovered through flotation of soil samples. By studying these palaeobotanical assemblages, researchers are able to gather information on diets from even the most distant periods in the past. The famous Acheulian site, Gesher Benot Ya’aqov (Israel), dating to the early to mid Pleistocene, provided an extraordinary palaeobotanical assemblage in which 129 species of fruits, nuts and seeds (including almonds, figs, grapes, olives, juniper, pistachios, acorns and water chestnuts) were represented. Importantly, the assemblage included toxic species, which required cooking to make them edible, and hard nuts requiring tools to open them. Analysis of the palaeobotanical assemblage provided a rare insight into the diet of early hominins, as well as critical information on their food processing capability and technology (Goren-Inbar et al. 2002).
Microbotanical remains (such as pollens, phytoliths and starches) can also be detected through more complex forms of analysis, providing a more rounded view of the range of species consumed, including those that do not preserve as well (such as tubers). These can be detected through soil sampling on sites, as well as through residue analysis of artefacts (discussed in more detail below). These testing regimes help us to understand the foods consumed, and they can also shed light on how spaces were used for processing, cooking and dining, based on variable concentrations of different substances such as pollen. For example, a storage or food processing area will have comparatively more pollen present than a habitation space (Kelso 2015, 399).
Information that can help us to reconstruct the wider environment and plant species present – even if not directly consumed – can also help us to understand food procurement and harvesting practices. For example, the presence of certain weed species can indicate the development of agriculture in a region, as well as methods of crop-processing such as threshing, winnowing and sieving (Riehl 2015, 31). A key focus for the subdiscipline of archaeobotany globally has also been tracing the domestication of plants (Zohary, Hopf and Weiss 2012). For example, sites such as Franchthi Cave in the southern Peloponnese (Greece) contained extensive evidence relating to the transition to agriculture. Weed species that were indicative of cultivated fields, domestic emmer wheat, two-row barley and lentil seed size increase were key indicators pointing to the shift to the cultivation of domesticated plant foods. The contemporaneous zooarchaeological assemblage also indicated a shift from wild prey to domestic sheep and goats (Hansen 1991).
Animal bones, analysed by vertebrate zooarchaeologists, and shells, analysed by archaeomalacologists, provide a range of information relating to species consumed and also to procurement, processing and cookery. Bones and shells have traditionally been easier to recover in most environments than seeds or pollen, but again, new techniques have unlocked potential avenues in recent decades, allowing for more complex analysis. These developments mean that we have moved beyond simply stating which species were consumed and in what quantities, and can now ask more detailed questions relating to food and foodways. Zooarchaeologists can determine not simply which species were eaten but also factors such as age and sex of animals. This information can help us to understand more about ancient hunting and farming practices. Were older animals eaten to maximise yield? Were young male animals slaughtered, suggesting that females were kept for dairying and breeding? The season in which an animal was killed is also informative. This can shed light on patterns of mobility in hunter-gatherer societies, as well as provide information on farming cycles in agrarian societies.
Importantly, analysis of bones can also show us far more than simply which species were being slaughtered. The morphology and location of tool marks on bones provides important information on hunting, processing and cookery methods. The materiality of the tool (whether stone or metal) and nature of the cutting technique (chopping, sawing, cutting) can be established through analysis of the marks (Fisher 1995). The cuts of meat favoured also tell us a great deal about dining and food cultures. For example, in the post medieval North Atlantic world we notice the gradual shift in elite households from communally shared joints of meat, or cuts suitable for stews, towards individual portions. This illuminates not just what people were eating, but also how dining and cookery practices were changing. American historical archaeologist James Deetz highlights the significance of this shift in butchery, as traditional chopping methods that produced large joints of meat were eventually replaced by sawing methods, so that individual portions of steak and chops and so on could be served. Deetz argues that this change indicates an increased desire to mask the origins of food, as well as an increased emphasis on the individual (Deetz 1996 [1977]). Matthew Johnson similarly observes this shift in a European early modern context, as medieval stews and soups gradually gave way to more differentiated and individualised styles of cooking and eating (Johnson 1996, 175–6). The bones we find on sites can tell us far more than just which species were being eaten; they can also be used to understand significant cultural and culinary change.
From the late twentieth century on, the range of techniques available for the study of human remains and waste increased, meaning that we can now understand the food stories of both individuals and populations more than ever before. This capability ranges from extraordinary opportunities to capture information on an individual’s consumption at a moment in time, to large datasets allowing us to look at change in a population over long periods of time. For example, bog bodies from north-western Europe reveal ritual meals consumed prior to human sacrifice. Analysis of the stomach contents of Tollund Man, the bog body from Early Iron Age Denmark, shows that in the hours before he was killed, he ate a porridge containing barley, pale persicaria and flax, and probably some fish (Nielsen et al. 2021). Examinations of the 5,300-year-old frozen mummy known as the Tyrolean Iceman indicated that he died with a full stomach, having dined on grain and fatty species of wild game such as deer and ibex shortly before his death (Gostner, Pernter and Bonatti 2011).
Analysis of skeletal remains provides more information relating to the food story of individuals over a longer period. Stable isotope analysis of bone or tooth enamel provides extraordinary information about the food stories of individuals and populations over time. Through stable isotope analysis, archaeologists can determine at what age a person was weaned, where they moved over the course of their life, and what staple foods underpinned their diet in different phases. This allows us to understand an individual’s life story, but when looking at larger datasets, we can also begin to understand dietary change and patterns of migration for populations over long periods. For example, analysis of stable isotopes from Mesolithic cemeteries in coastal France indicated that the women represented had generally consumed less fish in the early parts of their lives than their male counterparts. One theory around why this may be the case is that women were moving to the coastal region from further inland upon marriage (Schulting and Richards 2001). Isotopic analysis of later medieval skeletons from Whithorn Cathedral Priory (Scotland) on the other hand demonstrated that high-ranking clergy and bishops consumed considerably more fish than the lay community. This can be interpreted as evidence demonstrating adherence to religious dietary restrictions and the maintenance of fast days (Müldner et al. 2009).
The formation of bones is also indicative, with diets either lacking or overly rich in essential nutrients having an impact on the formation of human skeletons and growth rates. Harris lines (thin encircling lines near the ends of arm and leg bones) can indicate periods of malnutrition during childhood (Waldron 2006). Equally, bones can be used to demonstrate signs of excessive food consumption. Analysis of skeletal remains from medieval monasteries indicate that the chubby Friar Tuck character was not without some factual basis. Arthritis in key joints suggests obesity, and a medical condition known now as DISH (diffuse idiopathic skeletal hyperostosis) triggered by overeating and a rich diet has been detected across multiple sites, pointing to a lush lifestyle and abundant food (Rogers and Waldron 2001).
Dental health also has much to reveal. Like bone formation, dental hypoplasia (pitting or grooves of the teeth) can be a sign of malnutrition (Sutton 2015, 383). Food consumption also influences the oral microbiome. Higher sugar consumption promotes the growth of bacteria, increasing the risk of cavities (Warinner et al. 2015). As with stable isotope analysis, looking at large datasets over time can help us to understand changes in diet, as well as health outcomes in populations over time. Cavity-causing mouth bacteria increased during the Neolithic period in Europe with the introduction of agriculture and increased consumption of carbohydrates. There was an even more marked increase in cavity-producing bacteria during the early modern period, when refined grains and sugar became yet more prominent (Adler et al. 2013). Wear on teeth is also significant, with grit in grain processing contributing to distinctive patterns of tooth wear while other foods lead to scratching or pitting. Dental calculus is also an extraordinary resource, trapping evidence of health issues, past meals and parasites. For example, phytoliths and starch grains were extracted from dental calculus at the Palaeolithic site Shanidar III (Iraq), indicating that Neanderthals prepared and consumed wild barley and other species over 44,000 years ago (Henry, Brooks and Piperno 1999).
The study of human faeces is equally telling. Cess pits, coprolites and the contents of preserved intestines can be analysed using a range of techniques. Faecal material can tell us about the foods being consumed, but also the underlying health of individuals. Botanical and faunal specimens of partially or undigested food can often be retrieved directly. Pollens and phytoliths can also be recovered and chemical analysis undertaken to detect proteins. Parasites can be identified, telling us about health and hygiene, as well as providing information on cooking practices, and particularly the consumption of raw or undercooked food (Sutton 2015, 375).
As mentioned above, a range of scientific methods can be used to detect traces in artefacts, soils and human waste, indicating the presence of various categories of foods from the past. Residue analysis allows us to determine foodstuffs present at a site, as well as the tools and techniques used to process them. Lipids (fats, waxes and resins), along with other organic residues, can be absorbed into soils, hearths and vessels, or found on the surface of stone tools and other artefacts. Analysis of these can indicate the presence of various plant and animal products, including milk, particular species of meat and fish, alcohol and beeswax. This technique has been used on sites from diverse periods and locations. For example, lipid analysis has demonstrated that ceramic pots stored a range of foodstuffs including meat and dairy products in Indus settlements during the Mature Harappan period
(c. 2600/2500 to 1900 BC). The same technique has also shown that a meal of corn and meat (likely venison) helped feed colonists facing starvation in early modern Jamestown, Virginia (Straube 2001).
Testing of soils within sites can also hint at the functions of areas and help us to understand how and where food was prepared and consumed. For example, chemical analyses of floor samples taken from the medieval site of San Genesio in Pisa, Italy, confirmed the use of the building as a tavern. There, testing aimed to detect phosphates related to organic material, fatty acids and protein residues. The concentrations of these phosphates indicated that the site was likely a tavern rather than a domestic space due to the vast quantities of food being prepared and consumed on site. Further analysis of concentrations across the site indicated the locations of kitchens, dining and storage areas (Inserra and Pacci 2011).
Artefacts themselves are of course a critical resource. The form and fabric of artefacts indicate the requirements of past peoples in food procurement, processing, cookery, storage and dining. What can the form of a stone tool tell us about whether it was used for cutting, scraping or grinding? Was a ceramic vessel used for storage, dairying, cookery or serving? Was a dish utilitarian, or was it a fashionable item used in table service? Can the shape of a bottle tell us what it once held? Looking more closely again, beyond form and fabric, the past uses of an artefact also leave traces. Patterns of use-wear, visible to the naked eye or microscope, can assist in finding answers to these questions. Does a stone tool show patterns of wear suggesting it was used to grind grain? Does a blade show chips indicative of chopping through bone? Does a dish show signs that cutlery was being regularly used? Vessels may also show characteristic signs of exposure to heat, indicating that the item was used in the process of cookery. Importantly, analysis of indicative markers may also be able to determine if its use changed over time. Retouch, repair and other varied signs show that objects could have had multiple uses simultaneously, or over their lifecycles.
Artefacts, and especially those associated with food preparation and dining, should not simply be analysed scientifically but also need to be understood culturally. What do specific forms say about cookery and dining in the past? This has been a core focus for post medievalists interrogating the shift from communal to more individualistic norms in the early modern period. Already touched on in relation to butchery practices, this shift was also characterised by a proliferation of goods in kitchens and dining rooms in the wake of incipient capitalism. There was a shift from dining in a relatively public hall where participants are seated on benches, drinking from a shared tankard and eating primarily with hands and limited cutlery from communal dishes, to a markedly different experience. A relatively short span of time sees the emergence of the private Georgian dining room, with its separate chairs, individual place settings and proliferation of highly specialised vessels and utensils, such as gravy boats, asparagus tongs and oyster forks. The identification of these artefacts not only tells us what people were eating and how, but also demonstrates a shift in the experience of the meal that is connected to wider socio-political, economic and ideological change (Johnson 1996; Leone 1999, 211; Shackel 1993).
Finally, it is also necessary to consider the importance of buildings and cultural landscapes in the story of food – site types that have been the key focus for the discipline since its development. While the focus of the archaeology of food can often prioritise the micro, it is critical to recognise that buildings, landscapes and settlements can also be understood through the lens of food. What does the location of an early hearth next to a river tell us about food practices in a hunter-gatherer society? What does soil sampling tell us about environmental degradation caused by clearance and farming? What can settlement patterns and field boundaries tell us about development in agriculture? How does the changing place of the hearth inside a house influence and in turn reflect changing cooking practices? How was space being used on allotments to grow vegetables and keep chickens or pigs? What does the location of markets, shops and inns tell us about food distribution in an urban centre? Archaeologists have pursued such questions across a range of sites and time periods. Among the most famous case studies is the extraordinary information yielded for Herculaneum and Pompeii, where the complexity of food distribution in these urban centres has been illustrated in detail. Bakeries with large brick ovens have been found across the cities, some of which boasted their own flour mills. Shops lining the streets have been excavated, some of which had vending counters inset with large storage jars for serving food. Restaurants have been identified, marked by the presence of built-in tables and benches (Allison 2015, 39). Collectively, these sites highlight a complex distribution network and culinary culture. While Pompeii and Herculaneum provide a level of preservation rarely encountered, by analysing sites and landscapes with a view to understanding food production and consumption, archaeologists can add people and experience back into their interpretations of the past.
Despite this international interest in the study of food, to date, no major works have been published addressing the archaeology of food in Australia. Australian archaeologists have tended to focus on either site-specific analyses, or distinct categories of evidence (such as those outlined above), but they have not yet contributed substantially to the developing picture of Australia’s gastronomic past. While Australian archaeologists frequently discuss components of the broader subject, such as meat consumption or table settings (see for example, Davies 2006; Gibbs 2005a; Howell Muers 2000; Lampard 2006; Lawrence 2001; Lawrence and Davies 2011, 281–306; Lawrence and Tucker 2002; Simons and Maitri 2006), comprehensive archaeological studies of Australia’s culinary past drawing multiple strands together have not yet been attempted. Consequently, while historians have addressed Australian food consistently (Bannerman 1996; Bannerman 2008; Beckett 1984; Fahey 2005, 2002; Gollan 1978; Santich 2011, 2012; Singly 2012; Symons 1982), archaeologists have been somewhat silent on debates that they are well placed to contribute to. This means that while food historians have articulated one part of the culinary narrative of the nation, the archaeological picture has yet to be established. Issues of particular relevance in food history scholarship have included the degree to which colonists consumed native foodstuffs (Bannerman 2006; Blainey 2003, 206–8; Craw 2012; Fahey 2005, 88–9; Santich 2011),
a subject that archaeological data should be able to contribute to as just one example of the many lines of potential inquiry. Despite early investigations of this subject at Wybalenna, for example, limited scholarship has progressed on these critical questions (Birmingham and Wilson 2010).
To begin this conversation, this book draws together a range of chapters addressing the archaeology of food in Australia – from deep time to the recent past. It showcases the many varied approaches to the study of food here, from the archaeological sciences (such as zooarchaeology and archaeobotanical analysis described above), through to historically grounded explorations of material culture and kitchens. The chapters collectively demonstrate the vast range and breadth of archaeological food research being undertaken here, and in doing so, they address critical questions about diet, cookery, dining and food culture over many millennia. As these chapters demonstrate, archaeology has the potential to answer a range of questions about food and foodways, from the most basic issues such as dietary composition and food processing, through to more complex issues relating to identity. So, archaeology can carry us from a simple understanding of what people ate, to a more nuanced understanding of what their patterns of consumption said about them as individuals, their identity, and ultimately, their worldview.
The first chapter in the volume, by Tim Owen, presents an overview of Aboriginal food cultures, continuity and change during the Holocene in south-eastern temperate Australia. While subsequent chapters look more closely at specific regions, time periods or evidential categories, this wide sweeping overview starts the book with a big-picture approach. In doing so, the extraordinary depth of Aboriginal occupation and food cultures in Australia are recognised from the outset. Owen’s chapter also examines how the complex relationship between Country, climate and culture shape food and foodways, moving beyond the simple economic and technological models that have predominated in archaeological discourse to create a more nuanced understanding.
Moving from this high-level context, India Ella Dilkes-Hall, June Davis and Helen Malo then provide an overview of the role of archaeobotany in the study of food in Australia (Chapter 2). As has been outlined above internationally, information obtained from archaeobotanical assemblages contributes greatly to our understanding of diet, subsistence, resource use, environment and climate in the past. The chapter is also a critical reminder that a considerable proportion of Australian Aboriginal diets in the past stemmed from plant foods – a reality that is to some degree obscured by the relative durability and visibility of bone in the archaeological record. This chapter provides a brief overview of Australian archaeobotany before focusing on research in the Kimberley region of Western Australia, which has revealed a rich and complex record of Aboriginal plant use spanning over 47,000 years of occupation.
Staying on the theme of individual food types, Morgan Disspain, Tiina Manne and Ariana Lambrides examine the importance of fish over many millennia in Australia (Chapter 3). Beginning with evidence of fishing just to the north of Australia 42,000 years ago, and ending with data relating to early nineteenth-century colonisation, Disspain, Manne and Lambrides provide a critical overview of what the archaeological record tells us about the role of fish in Australia’s past, and the methods used to analyse assemblages. As well as highlighting the historical significance of fish as food, the chapter also provides information on past native fish populations. These records provide invaluable data for conservation biologists and fisheries, highlighting the contribution of the research to wider conversations around sustainability.
On the subject of staple foods and their relation to diet and identity, Tanja Nussbaumer and Melanie Fillios examine the colonial reliance on and relationship to introduced meat species, and sheep specifically (Chapter 4). Their chapter argues that the preference for consuming mutton over more readily available native species, such as kangaroo, was a way of maintaining ties to British heritage and social identity. It also examines how the subsequent intensive sheep husbandry resulted in devastating and lasting environmental consequences – impacts intrinsically linked to colonialism. This theme of environmental destruction and the role of archaeology in examining change over time is a resonant one throughout multiple chapters, highlighting the role of the discipline in contemporary discourse around sustainable food futures.
The next series of chapters then look more closely at the connection between food and place. Kimberley Connor considers food experiences in that most iconic of Australian historical sites – the institution (Chapter 5). The chapter considers the use and abuse of food in institutions, providing an overview of the current state of research on the subject in Australia from the convict rationing system to Aboriginal missions and quarantine stations. It considers both the role of food in violence, coercion and control, as well as the power of illicit food practices in resistance. Importantly, the chapter argues that, as with other aspects of Australian culture and society, institutional experiences of food in the colonial period have had an impact on the development of food and foodways more broadly.
Gordon Grimwade’s chapter then examines the importance of roast pork for Chinese diaspora communities in the nineteenth century and the role that it played in maintaining culture and connections (Chapter 6). Looking at purpose-built ovens from sites across Australia and New Zealand, Grimwade explains the process of roasting entire pigs to perfection over several hours, drawing on archaeological evidence, as well as observations from contemporary practice. Importantly, the chapter moves beyond a geographical and morphological overview and considers what their distribution tells us about the wider community at the time and cross-cultural shared culinary experiences. Grimwade’s chapter provides not just a critical contribution highlighting the diversity of Australia’s community in the nineteenth century, but it also demonstrates the multiple approaches to the archaeological study of ethnicities in Australia. While urban historical archaeology has primarily focused on assemblage analysis from stratified deposits, and thus struggled to pursue the study of ethnicity consistently, Grimwade’s chapter demonstrates that a landscape approach and wider scale can provide alternative pathways for representing diversity in Australia’s past.
Following the theme of place and experiences of cooking, Jacqui Newling provides a critical overview of historic kitchens, detailing how ovens, appliances and techniques changed over time (Chapter 7). In addition to expanding our understanding of Australian kitchens and experiences of food preparation, the chapter provides a context for archaeologists that will help to make meaning of historic assemblages. Understanding the experiences, challenges and material culture of kitchens should provide context for assemblage analysis. The chapter approaches the kitchen itself as an assemblage, with an aim to provide an understanding of cooking facilities and culinary material culture in domestic settings, as well as a detailed discussion of how they were used. Like Grimwade’s chapter, it also encourages archaeologists to think more broadly about the boundaries of our datasets and discipline, and to situate our assemblages within place more meaningfully – be it the pig roasting oven of a goldfield or the open hearth of a historic house.
Picking up the theme of objects in the kitchen, E. Jeanne Harris, Bronwyn Woff and Peter O’Donohue provide a detailed review of the historic bottles regularly found on Australian historic sites (Chapter 8). In doing so, they explain the history and importance of food preservation technologies in the colonial period. The only focused study of an artefact type in the volume, this chapter demonstrates the importance of close and deep consideration of artefacts commonly found on sites and provides a framework that will assist archaeologists in assessing the significance and meaning of assemblages and the range of questions they can and should be asking.
This series of eight food stories from Australia’s past have been selected to help open the door to so many more and to so many questions. The great depth of time and diversity in Australian archaeology, when coupled with the broad range of skills in the discipline, present unbridled potential for further research. A key aim of this volume is to create an opportunity for consulting and university-based researchers to come together to showcase this potential and to encourage more work along this line of inquiry. These thematic discussions provide a means and mechanism for the discipline to enter the public discourse more actively, contributing to questions of place, identity, postcoloniality, health and sustainability.
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