Tuna Mornay makes me weep. Not because I consider tinned tuna a form of cat food. No. It’s because, when I stumble across the ingredients scribbled on a greasy, butter-smudged page stuffed inside my recipe book, I’m shunted back in time. 

Suddenly, it’s 14 years ago. I’m a nervous new mum keen to create something wholesome, tasty and soft for my new-to-solids six-month-old. I’m judiciously following the failproof instructions (melt butter, stir in flour, cook for one minute, remove from heat, add in cheese and tuna; serve warm). Even though I loathe tuna, this recipe is my antenatal group’s ‘go-to’ – so I’m selflessly testing the temperature of the fishy goop on my wrist (gross), dolloping heaping, lukewarm spoonsful (eeewww) into my son’s bright yellow, Bob the Builder dinner plate, and succumbing to tears of joy as he shovels the gooey muck into his toothless, grinning mouth (hallelujah!).

Tuna Mornay is one of many hand scrawled recipes on stained scraps of paper crammed inside the bursting-at-the-ring-binder recipe book I brought with me when I returned from the United States to Aotearoa nearly 25 years ago. Originally a photo album comprising 20 removable pages protected by plastic sleeves, there is no order to my cookbook’s chaos, no A-Z alphabetisation, no attempt at cuisine-by-theme. 

My recipe book is shambolic. It’s also, as I rediscover whenever I spend far too long searching for that elusive Flourless Chocolate Truffle Cake recipe (I know it’s in here somewhere!), a culinary travelogue, a sofrito of life, richly infused with people and places, whānau and friends.

When I first started my bespoke recipe book – back then, a compendium neatly contained within its front and back covers – it was simply a way to bring to my new home the tastes of my old one: the Fresh Pesto recipe that my mum and dad whizzed up each summer from their capacious garden of basil and garlic in rural Vermont, USA; my mother’s low-maintenance, high-impact Rice Pilaf that brought comforting carbs to every mid-winter roast dinner; my sister’s Garlic Shrimp with Lime Juice and Chilli Pepper; my dad’s Hippie-Days Granola filled with oats, wheatgerm, coconut, and maple syrup. 

But over the years my treasured tome has become far more than just a collection of home cooked comforts. My recipes feel like old friends, trusted companions who have been with me when times are challenging (nothing beats the break-up blues like a hearty helping of Triple-Cheese Lasagna) and celebratory (pop the champagne and savour this silky-smooth Tiramisu!). Hoping to woo a romantic interest? Look no further than Moroccan Fish Stew with Cinnamon and Ginger. Offering succour to a sick friend? Chicken Soup with Matzo Balls is Jewish penicillin in a bowl. 

Speaking of Jews, my cookbook keeps me close to my own cultural roots and traditions. My family and I call ourselves Jew-ish. We rarely attend synagogue, only occasionally observe Friday night Shabbat, and openly extol the virtues of bacon-wrapped shrimp. Yet, I feel a deep connection to my Jewish relatives, past and present, as I gather the ingredients for the annual Passover Seder plate. Taking centre-stage on my dining table (itself draped in a faded blue tablecloth hand-embroidered by my late Great-Aunt Ruthie), the Seder plate boasts such edibles as a hardboiled egg, a sprig of parsley, and a blob of horseradish (I know this because I ask Google the same question every year: “What goes on the Passover Seder plate?”.)

For the past few years, I’ve taken it upon myself to continue my Cuban-born Aunt Dora’s Passover tradition of making Flan – essentially, a Crème Brulée on steroids that calls for seven eggs, seven tablespoons of sugar and, when it comes to flipping the pan and releasing the river of caramel over the baked eggy loaf, seven helpings of hope. 

Both my grandmothers feature in my recipe book. Just before I returned to New Zealand in August 2000, I sat with my maternal grandmother, Grammy Lawes, at her kitchen table in the Vermont farmhouse she had lived in for more than 60 years. I’d spent the previous few months supporting her through chemotherapy for lung cancer. Before we said what we both knew would be our final goodbyes, I carefully wrote down her every word as she dictated the steps to making her own mother’s banana bread. 

Today, even though I know by heart Grammy L’s Banana Bread, I always have the recipe in full view on the kitchen bench as I go about my baking. That way, I hear her sweet, tinkling voice reminding me of her Number One Rule: add ingredients in order.

My long-deceased paternal grandmother, Grammy Older, is top of mind every winter as citrus hang heavy on Auckland’s trees. My own Meyer lemon tree is abundant this year, so I have been baking up a Grammy O’s Lemon Bread storm. Just as Grammy L’s one-bowl banana bread recipe reflects her practical, no-fuss approach to life on the farm, Grammy O’s lemon bread, like the urbane, sometimes sharp-tongued nonagenarian she was, exudes sophistication. I admit I was afraid of this recipe for years, thanks to the involvement of several pots, a sugary syrup glaze, and grated lemon zest. Now, when I make the sweet yet tart recipe on chilly Sunday afternoons in Tāmaki Makaurau, I simply miss my grandmother. 

My recipe book is also a festival of multiculturalism, a melting pot of diverse spices, seasonings, and traditions. Whenever I make Nee’s Dahl, I’m transported back to my postgraduate years at Edinburgh University, sharing a tiny kitchen and late-night dinner parties with Neeraj, my Indian flatmate who whispered her mother’s culinary secrets to me as we cooked vats of fragrant yellow lentils, Potatoes with Amchur and Coriander, and her famous Banana Curry. Lately, I’ve been showing my tuna-loving teen how to make Nee’s Dahl, knowing that once he masters this aromatic (and affordable) offering, he’ll be welcome in any kitchen he enters.

Sometimes, as I riffle back and forth through page after chaotic page of my cookbook, searching for that mouthwatering Risotto with Chicken and Chorizo dish or that cockles-warming Minestrone Soup recipe, I can hear my mother’s admonition – “Why don’t you organise your recipes?” 

And while I occasionally envy the cool grey plastic box that sits discreetly on her kitchen bench, filled with well-behaved, alphabetically ordered recipes transcribed neatly onto 7.5cm x 12cm lined index cards, I’ve never seriously considered making the move from cookbook chaos to calm. I know that if I did, I’d likely never venture beyond the P for Pesto, the R for Rice Pilaf, or the T for Tiramisu. 

Which means I’d never relive the joys of weeping over the wonders of Tuna Mornay. Even if it is best served to a cat.