“If you’ve got PKU and you think you have to live a small life, tied to a kitchen scale and a calculator — I’m here to tell you: you don’t. You can live big, chase your dreams. You can live the dusty, sweaty, wild life if you want it. You just might have to pack extra mushrooms.”
@The.cabbagepatch.cowgirl
Not Everyone Here Runs on Beef: Living with PKU on a Cattle Station
When you picture an Aussie cattle station, chances are you’re thinking of sizzling steaks at smoko, dust-covered boots, and hard working ringers whose diets consist of a lot of beef. And yeah — there’s definitely a lot of that.
But at our station, nestled deep in the red dirt and spinifex of the Kimberley, there’s also zucchini and mushrooms crackling on the hotplate next to the steaks. Not everyone here runs on beef.
My name’s Tilli Tasic. I’m 22 years old, and I live and work on a remote cattle station in Western Australia. I’m a horse rider, fence fixer, and cattle chaser — and I have PKU.
For those who don’t know, PKU (phenylketonuria) is a rare genetic condition that affects how my body breaks down protein. I can’t eat high-protein foods like meat, dairy, nuts, or even most grains. That means no steak, no bacon and egg rolls, no sausage from the killer, and definitely no licking the spoon when someone’s making a cake with real flour.
So yes — I work on a Wagyu beef station and I can’t eat beef. Go figure.
So why do it?
Because I love it. The life, the land, the animals. Just because I can’t eat what we produce doesn’t mean I can’t be part of it. I still get stuck into mustering, drafting, feeding out, and everything else that keeps this place running. I know how important good food is and I take pride in helping raise cattle that are healthy, well-treated, and respected right through to the end.
When we do a killer (home kill for the crew to eat), I still help and I really enjoy seeing the process from the very start to the meat getting cooked. Helping skin the animal, learning all the different cuts and helping hang the meat to dry overnight is something I really enjoy, even if I can’t eat any of the end products.
The challenges are real
I won’t pretend it’s easy. PKU takes constant management at the best of times. Out here, smoko on a mustering day usually means ribs from the latest killer cooking over an open fire. The smell of fresh beef you’ve raised and cared for yourself is incredible — and for me, that’s the hardest part. Some days it’s pretty defeating, standing there knowing I can’t eat the very thing we all work so hard to produce, especially when I’m so passionate about the cattle and the job.
The crew know I won’t be tucking into a big steak, and they look out for me in their own ways. They’ll remind me about my formula, or pull me up when I get too close to the bacon or steak — “just having a smell.” They also know I’ll be the one checking that someone remembered to bring the PKU-safe bread rolls.
Food takes planning. When we’re out at camp and cooking for ourselves, I’m always thinking about what I can make with whatever supplies we’ve got. I’ll help whoever’s on cook-up come up with an idea that works for me.
Smoko and lunch look a bit different on my plate compared to everyone else’s. The crew might pack leftover steak or a ham-and-cheese toasty. Mine will usually be a Tupperware of salad with roast sweet potato, or a gluten-free salad wrap with my PKU cooler by my side.
It’s not that I feel left out — it’s just that the challenge never really switches off. The smell of steak on the fire will always test me. The formulas and planning will always be part of my day. But with a bit of effort and the crew backing me in, I find a way to make it work.
There’ve been plenty of times I’ve felt frustrated or even a bit embarrassed. Like when someone new turns up and sees my plate piled high with veggies and salad, and I have to explain — again — why I’m “vegan but not vegan.” Sometimes I say I’m allergic to protein, sometimes I just stumble through it, because honestly, I still haven’t worked out the best way to describe it. Or when we’re at camp or a rodeo and everyone else is tucking into meat, while I’m crouched over a pot of strange-looking pasta that smells like plastic but keeps me going.
Over time, though, I’ve learned to own it — and so has the crew. They don’t treat me differently. Sure, they’ll tease me when I’m crunching through lettuce leaves or eating a whole carrot, which is how I ended up with the nickname Cabbage Patch. But it’s all in good humour. Mostly, they’re curious. A few have even tried my food and admitted it wasn’t half as bad as it looked. Others have been brave enough to try my formula — and usually don’t make it past one mouthful before gagging and spitting it out.
One thing PKU definitely affects is my energy. I get gassed quicker than most of the crew, and it shows on the big days. When we’re running panels, I can usually hold my own for a while, but eventually I burn out faster than the others. Sometimes that means I swap onto a different job, something that doesn’t demand as much brute strength.
But it doesn’t mean I sit out. I still take part in everything — drafting, branding, mustering — whatever the job is, I’ll be there. When we head to rodeos, I campdraft and sometimes steer rides and join in like anyone else. I just have to manage myself a little differently, pace my energy, and be smart about when to push and when to step back.
At the end of the day, PKU might change the way I get through the work, but it hasn’t stopped me from doing the work.
Why I want others with PKU to know this:
I always knew PKU could put limits on me — but I’ve also learned it doesn’t get to decide what I can or can’t do. Working out here has proved that. I’ve learned how to work the yards, galloped after mobs of cattle, learnt how to ride a motorbike, tried my hand at welding, castrated and branded weaners, fixed busted fences, and even driven right across the country. And I’ve done every bit of it with PKU tagging along with me.
It’s not always perfect, but it’s possible. And more than that — it’s worth it.
If you’ve got PKU and you think you have to live a small life, tied to a kitchen scale and a calculator — I’m here to tell you: you don’t. You can live big, chase your dreams. You can live the dusty, sweaty, wild life if you want it. You just might have to pack extra mushrooms.
If you want to get in touch or follow my pku station journey go follow @The.cabbagepatch.cowgirl.
