What a wonderful sense of adventure and freedom I felt growing up in Auckland back in the day. Our nuclear family consisted of two solo mums and six kids living at the end of a cul-de-sac in Onehunga.
Money was tight. Mum spent evenings bartering piano playing and baked goods for the ballet teacher, in exchange for ballet lessons for me, while holding down a full-time job during the day. She wanted to ensure my brother and I had the same opportunities as the children up the tracks from us.
Our gang of local kids spent afternoons into evenings roaming the streets. Sometimes we got up to mischief, jumping construction site fences or running through the Mangere overpass tunnel. Mainly it was about good clean exploits of kids having fun; going for a dip in the neighbours' pool or climbing trees to fetch loquats.
Weird and wonderful smells filled the various kitchens of our Austrian, Indonesian and Pasifika neighbours. Pastry for strudels rolled so thin as to cover a dining room table. Yoghurt incubating in the airing cupboard. Savoury semolina breakfasts. This was where my love for food began.
There were challenges growing up. Like when I started up in the big city school of Epsom Girls - I was out of zone and didn't know anyone and, coming from a home where money was tight, mufti days were always hard. Or working through university at high-profile Parnell and Ponsonby restaurants. Serving journos, actors and ad men was intimidating for a girl from the burbs. But I learnt that people were people and if you treated them with warmth and hospitality then, for the most part, barriers seemed to disappear and you would open yourself to new ideas and experiences; your world would become a richer place.
