Manaia Brookes
Writes the long pieces, presses the apples and quietly rewrites everyone else's first drafts. Lives by the wharf with two dogs and a cast iron pan.
A small whānau of cooks, writers and growers who keep the notebook moving, week to week. Most of us live within a short walk of the harbour. None of us belong to a chef brigade — we just like quiet kitchens, careful sentences and the occasional shared cup of tea.
Everyone on this page cooks each dish at least once before it appears. Quantities, swaps and timings are agreed at the table.
Writes the long pieces, presses the apples and quietly rewrites everyone else's first drafts. Lives by the wharf with two dogs and a cast iron pan.
Tests every recipe at three different scales. A patient hand with bread, ferments and anything that wants more time than the clock allows.
Carries the camera into orchards, allotments and the back of growers' utes. Writes the small place notes that anchor each entry.
Looks after the back-step māra kai garden and visits the suppliers we list by name. Brings in the asparagus and tells us when to stop forcing the rhubarb.
Runs the small Saturday workshops at the wharf hall, and quietly answers every booking note that lands in our inbox by Monday morning.
Writes the Sunday letter, replies to reader corrections and keeps the recipe index honest. Makes the best pot of Te Tai Tonga tea in the building.
Eight chairs at a time. Use the tabs to flip between the season's slots. All prices include GST and ingredients.
A four-hour visit; an everyday sandwich loaf to take home in a brown paper bag.
Five short dishes built around the season's first asparagus from Tai Tapu.
Two seasonal jars, one labelled lid, plenty of small notes for the cupboard.
A short, sweet session — three ways with the season's first strawberries.
Three quiet pots and a long lunch; recipes you can rebuild from a Tuesday pantry.
Cuts to ask your butcher for, plus the long way to make a Sunday-style supper.
Mandarins, lemons and last year's mānuka honey. A bright morning out of the cold.
An afternoon of scones, oat biscuits and one tin of lemon shortbread.
Short Sunday session for younger cooks (8 — 13), with grown-up helpers welcome.
Two doughs, three sauces, and a quiet outdoor oven at the back of the hall.
A warm winter lunch session; everyone leaves with one labelled jar of soup.
The quiet weekday rhythm that keeps each Sunday letter honest.
Harata visits the local growers and the basket comes home before lunch.
Anaru drafts a recipe, often with one ingredient less than planned, around six o'clock.
Manaia reads the draft, removes adjectives, and asks one good awkward question.
Sione re-cooks the dish, takes one image we like and three we don't keep.
Liana reads it as a first-time cook would. If a step is unclear, the day starts again.
Te Atawhai folds the recipe into the Sunday letter and onto the site, before lunch.
"Mahi tahi — we work as one. Six people, one bench, a long shared cup of tea. The journal is what's left on the page when the dishes are done."
From the kitchen teamWe collaborate with small Aotearoa market gardens, makers and home-cook writers. Tell us what you're working on and we'll write back from the kitchen.