The journal
Notes from the kitchen & the pots
Everything I'm figuring out, written down as I go. Burnt loaves, dead seedlings, the odd small win. Short and honest — the way I'd tell a friend.
Kitchen6 min
Why my first four loaves were bricks
Four dense, sad little bricks before anything rose. Here's exactly what I was getting wrong — and the three things that finally fixed it.
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Kitchen5 min
Rebuilding gado-gado 18,000km from home
Half the ingredients I grew up with aren't on the shelf here. This is how I rebuilt one of my favourite dishes from what I could actually find.
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Garden4 min
What actually survives a Taupō winter on a windowsill
Coming from a warm climate, my first winter was a graveyard. Here's the short list of what kept going — and what I've stopped bothering with.
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Kitchen6 min read
Why my first four loaves were bricks
I really thought bread would be the easy part. It was not. Four dense, sour little bricks before anything close to a loaf came out of my oven.
When I moved here I decided I'd learn to bake real bread. No recipe from home, no starter, no clue. The first loaf came out looking like a river stone — and weighing about the same. The second was worse, because I'd “fixed” the wrong thing.
The three things I was getting wrong
My starter wasn't ready. It was bubbling, so I assumed it was strong. It wasn't. A starter that doubles reliably in four to six hours is ready; mine was limping along and I was rushing it. Once I started feeding it at the same time every day and waiting for that real dome, everything changed.
I was scared of a wet dough. Coming from drier doughs I kept adding flour until it felt “right” in my hands. Wrong instinct. A slack, sticky dough is what gives you an open crumb. I learned to trust the stickiness and use wet hands instead of more flour.
I under-baked, every time. I'd pull the loaf when it looked golden and gorgeous. Too soon. A properly baked loaf sounds hollow and reads over 96°C inside. My pretty pale loaves were gummy in the middle.
The loaf that finally worked wasn't the one I did perfectly. It was the one where I stopped panicking and just let it take its time.
If you're starting out
Weigh everything. Keep one variable at a time. And write down what you did — because the batch that finally works is useless if you can't remember how you got there. That's half of why this journal exists.
Next time I'll share the exact everyday loaf I make now, the one that survives a Taupō kitchen that's cold in the morning and warm by lunch.
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Kitchen5 min read
Rebuilding gado-gado 18,000km from home
Gado-gado is home in a bowl for me — blanched vegetables, egg, tofu, a peanut sauce with real depth. The problem was finding the pieces of it in a small New Zealand town.
The first time I made it here it tasted flat and I couldn't work out why. Slowly I realised almost every ingredient needed a decision: use it, swap it, or go without.
The swaps that actually worked
Palm sugar → brown sugar with a little molasses. Not identical, but it brings back that dark, round sweetness the sauce needs. Don't use plain white sugar — the sauce goes thin and one-note.
Kecap manis → soy simmered with the brown-sugar mix. If your shop doesn't stock it, you can build a passable version. I now make a small jar at the start of the week.
Fresh tofu → the firm blocks from the chiller. Pressed well and fried hard, they're honestly great. The fried shallots on top I refuse to compromise on — they're worth making a big batch.
Cooking here isn't about recreating home exactly. It's about getting close enough that one bite takes you back — and being okay with the gap.
The greens are the easy part now, because most of them come off my own windowsill. Which, funnily enough, is how the garden half of all this started.
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Garden4 min read
What actually survives a Taupō winter on a windowsill
My first winter here, I killed almost everything. I'd never gardened through real cold before, and I planted like it was still warm. Lesson learned, expensively.
This is the short, honest list — what kept going on a cold windowsill with not much fuss, and what I've given up on until spring.
Keeps going
Coriander — loves the cool, actually bolts less in winter. My most reliable pot by far.
Spring onions — nearly unkillable. Cut what you need, they keep coming.
Mint — slows right down but never dies. Give it its own pot or it takes over everything.
Not worth it (for me, for now)
Basil — sulks and blackens the moment it's cold. I grow it in the warm months and dry the rest.
Chillies — technically alive, produced nothing all winter. I stopped fighting it.
A windowsill of three things that thrive beats a whole shelf of things slowly dying. It took me a dead season to believe that.
The wins are small and that's the whole point. A pot of coriander you actually cook with is worth more than a photo-perfect setup you're anxious about.
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