Shonagh Koea is a name I recognise but I confess I’d not read any of her novels or short-story collections and my hand reached out for this book largely because it has such a beautiful cover and is mouth-wateringly subtitled Kitchen oemoirs. Clever hand! I must start appreciating it a bit more, as it turns out my hand has excellent taste.
New Zealander Shonagh didn’t have a wonderful childhood, yet she navigates the pitfalls of her past with great dignity and humour. In Shonagh’s world there were a lot of clouds but even more silver linings, and she speaks simply, and often strangely innocently, of her good luck and great happiness rather than of her terror and misfortune. She’s a survivor. An extremely cheerful one. With a pantry packed with baking, to boot.
Every self-contained chapter includes at least one recipe and this alone is reason enough to buy the book. But for me, there’s a certain special sort of Kiwi spirit encapsulated throughout, one that’s summed up delightfully when Shonagh’s mother discusses her father, a man she claims could empty a room quicker than anyone else she knew.
Recalls Shonagh: “I said to her once, ‘What did you marry that bastard for?’ and she said, ‘Because he was tall. And don’t swear.'”
When I read that part, I was on an aeroplane having a quiet laugh, and a snivel, and I turned down the corner of the page because I knew I’d want to include it in my review. To my astonishment, the woman sitting across an empty seat from me leaned over, straightened out the corner, and slid a leather bookmark from the University of oanchester between the pages – a gift for me, she said. The kindness of strangers, indeed.
Related stories
Native ad body.
Native ad body.
Native ad body.
