When people ask me what it was like to write my recipe book, I often pause before answering. Because the truth is I didn’t write it so much as I remembered it. This book was not born from a neat plan or a publishing checklist. It arrived slowly, like a familiar road unfolding kilometre for kilometre. A long way home on a dusty road.
It Started With Memory, Not Measurement
Recipes lived in my life long before they lived on paper. They existed in kitchens filled with steam and stories, in handwritten notes tucked between cookbooks, in the quiet rhythm of feeding people you love. As I began writing, I realised that every recipe carried a memory with it — of my grandmother’s kitchen, of early mornings on the farm, of kitchens and cafés in foreign countries and of the red dunes in Botswana where food was how we gathered, survived and celebrated. Capturing those moments felt far more important than perfect quantities. I wanted the reader to feel something before they ever cooked a dish.
Writing Between Life’s Demands
This book was written in the in-between moments — between farming responsibilities, legal and business deadlines, family life, bowls and the ordinary chaos of living fully. Some days I wrote with clarity and confidence. Other days I doubted everything: Does this story matter? Does this recipe belong? Is anyone going to care? Was this not done before? Is it original enough? Will I sell any copies? I learned quickly that writing a recipe book is as emotional as it is practical. You are constantly deciding what to include, what to leave out and how much of yourself you’re willing to put on the page.
Letting Go of Perfection
One of the biggest lessons was learning to let go. Not every recipe could make it into this edition. Not every memory needed explaining. Some stories were better felt between the lines rather than told outright. I had to trust that authenticity mattered more than polish and that honesty would resonate more deeply than perfection.
Collaboration, Trust and Courage
This journey also reminded me that books are never created alone. From photographers to editors to friends who tested and shared recipes, shared encouragement, or simply asked, “How is the book going?” — every voice mattered. Most of all, it took courage to say: This is my story. This is my voice. This is enough.
What the Book Gave Me in Return
Writing this book gave me something unexpected: perspective. It helped me see how deeply food is woven into identity, place, and belonging. It reminded me where I come from and why I cook, write, and create in the first place. This book is a tribute to my grandmother. To the landscapes that shaped me. To the people who sat at my table. And to the long, winding road that brought me home.
If You Read It…
If you cook from it, I hope you linger. If you read it, I hope you recognise a piece of your own story. And if it inspires you to gather people around a table — then it has done exactly what it was meant to do. Because in the end, this recipe book was never just about food. It was about remembering who we are.