On my way to see an event at the Edinburgh International Book Festival back in 2003, I was randomly attacked on the street. Particularly if I’m going to the effort of baking, I want the results to reflect that time and energy, to inspire me to create more and to make the people I’m feeding feel spoiled. Personally, I’ve always found the recipes come out just a bit blah, a bit dry, a bit underwhelming and I just Want More. Yes, it’s basic and it’s meant to be, I get it. Recognisable moments/places/events are captured with such wit and brevity, packing an immense punch into a relatively short book. It’s definitely a “laugh or else you’ll cry when you think about it” kinda buzz, but it’s also bloody funny. For a long while, this book took up residence in the glove box of our car, which I think initially was by accident, but then became a feature, coz ooooh, how relevant it is as we journey around the motu. Two Hundred and Fifty ways to Start an Essay about Captain Cook, by Alice Te Punga Somerville. I’m endlessly fascinated by where the invisible lines are in our minds between what is religious experience and what are chemical processes that make us act in certain ways this book captures that uncertainty so beautifully. It’s a haunting, but real, story, told with utmost aroha for the characters. The first book that ever made me cry (and one of only maybe a handful ever) was The Insatiable Moon by Mike Riddell. To get to the end of the recipe and find leftover items that have NEVER been mentioned again since the ingredient list … The Worst. Let’s be real, most normal humans don’t actually read the recipe through properly before starting the process at best, you read the ingredients, maybe prep, maybe ignore, then bowl straight on in. It’s a crime against language toĬreate a cookbook that has not been edited or proofread thoroughly. From left to right: the book HJ Kilkelly wishes she’d written and the book she thinks we should all read. I never get past the first or second page, and quite honestly, as much as I want to understand this book and its place in the world, I don’t know if I will ever get there. I don’t pretend exactly I just make out like I’m going to get around to reading it one day. I feel like the worst human for not having read this book. The writing opened me up to the world of our atua wāhine, a distinct departure at the time from the more commonly told stories focused on tāne (Maui, I’m looking at you). The illustrations moved me in a way I hadn’t really encountered before, sparking a lifelong love of Kahukiwa’s visual storytelling. This book has been with me since I was a teenager, struggling with all the things I couldn’t name about who I was. Wāhine Toa, by Robyn Kahukiwa and Patricia Grace.
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