I CAN’T THINK OF A more beautiful upbringing than the one I had in the rural township of Wairoa in New Zealand. My grandmother Jean lived across the road, while Nan and Pop were only one minute away. Mum and Dad worked really hard and unintentionally surrounded me with enough food knowledge and common sense to survive like a Doomsday prepper. I know how to make bullets from scratch, change car tyres, drive a hay truck, crutch sheep, make a hāngī (hot rocks buried in a pit oven for cooking food), tie rescue knots, sharpen a knife, hunt, fish and dive for food, and practically anything else you might need to do in an emergency.
I’d always dreamed of owning my own restaurant with [husband] David by my side. In my make-believe utopia of what I thought it would be like to work for myself, I’d get all the ingredients in, cook a few meals, arrange flowers, maybe walk the prom after yoga. But Kai happened so fast, it was like getting thrown down the motorway in an old baked bean can. So there I was, 32 years old, negotiating a lease on a restaurant in the middle of a global recession. I didn’t have a clue. I also didn’t have any savings. I mean nothing. I remember crossing the bridge, looking up at the sky and saying to my Grandmother Jean up there in the clouds, ‘Gran, if you can make this real for me, this would be my one wish.’ It’s all a blur now, but by the grace of the gods and everyone’s help, we opened. I was working from 7am to 12am, crying into the batch of scones I was making, losing my hair and living my dream. Through recessions, pandemics, births, deaths, celebrations and commiserations, Kai has been our constant for 14 years. I open the door to walk back to my house at the end of the night, look up at the North Star I love so much, turn the corner to hear the Irish trad music coming from the Crane Bar, and know I’m where I’m meant to be. I’m home.