It's all about the old recipes

Whenever I grab my mum’s recipe book, down from the old kitchen cabinet, I am instantly taken back to my childhood. To the ‘80s. To my teens. To that little house at Brogo. To family meal times around our kauri pine table. To birthday parties and family feasts. To milos on the porch and an extra sneaky bickie from the tin.

I’m taken back to the afternoons after school, when I’d arrive home ravenous, to the smell of Mum’s baked goodies fresh out of the fuel stove. Back to that kitchen. That precious, simple little hub in our tiny cottage. The kitchen where my mum spent much of her time preparing food for us to enjoy. The very kitchen where I tried to cook gravy for the first time, with my dad’s very bad instructions (he, also, had never cooked gravy before) – lumpy and tasteless with only room for improvement. Where I would run my finger around the edge of a freshly iced chocolate cake before anyone noticed. Where I’d sneak to whenever I heard the roast being served, just so I could be the first to scrape that black, salty, sticky residue from the pan before anyone else could get their fingers on it. The kitchen where I’d sit, looking out to the green hills and Mumbulla Mountain ever so close, where I’d chat with Mum about my school day or some little horsey drama I’d had that afternoon.