by tashmcgill | May 12, 2016 | Drink, Travel
There is a long road on the southern tip of the Isle of Islay, that edges along the coast from the Port Ellen maltings. With sweet, smoky malt and the salty sea air in your lungs, you’ll take that long road to the legendary ladies of Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg. Follow that road past all three and you’ll arrive at the Kildalton Cross, the oldest known relic of its kind in this part of the world – and part of the reason these ladies of Islay are sometimes known as the Kildalton distilleries.
In a single day on Islay, while the sun was shining and the air was mostly still, I drove the long road. I drove the long straight stretch that reminds of Waipu, Northland through the peat beds of Lagavulin where my sister owns a 6-inch brick of land. I stopped at Laphroaig, I stopped at Lagavulin and I finally arrived at Ardbeg. They sit mere miles from one another, that pass by in a glimpse of green, gray rock, wide skies and sharp corners.
Ardbeg, like so many distilleries, survives through tenacity and partly, luck. Reading the tides, as it were. There was a once a thriving community that lived within walking distance of the distillery but those people, the infrastructure and the school are long since gone. Like so many, to survive has meant sale after sale of the distillery and her stock and near constant reinvention and exploration. The Ardbeg we know today is quite different in approach to the Ardbeg that once dominated production on the island, before the turn of the 20th century. She has lived through two closures until she finally re-opened in 1997, under the ownership of Glenmorangie (part of Moët Hennessey). Upon starting production again, they began to release some of the old stock and invest in new production. This would eventually shape the way Ardbeg was re-introduced to the world as being back ‘for good’.
I say ‘for good’ because part of Ardbeg’s fate now rests in the hands of the Ardbeg Committee, a worldwide fan club of sorts that was started in the year 2000. This coincided with the release of what has become the core expression of the Ardbeg line, the Ardbeg Ten. This malt is sweet and smoky and big, as all the Kindalton ladies can be. That committee receives unique and exclusive bottlings, on which the committee’s feedback influences the release to broader public consumption. I’m a member, along with many other New Zealanders but it’s something special to actually make it to the grounds of any distillery that you know and love.
When you arrive at Ardbeg, the light bounces off the tall copper-painted, still-shaped monument in the forecourt. The bright white Ardbeg ‘A’ logo glows white from the asphalt surface the tiles are embedded in. *The large forecourt is a relatively new development, in time for the bi-centenial Ardbeg celebrations last year. 200 years of a robust and wild spirit was celebrated on Ardbeg Day 2015 with the release of Perpetuum.
The annual Ardbeg Day celebration started in 2012 with the release of ‘Galileo’ at the end of Feis Ile, the Islay Festival of Music and Malt. They need the space on that forecourt because the population of the island swells by thousands for the week-long festival. Galileo was the celebration of Ardbeg’s space experiment, to see how spirit might age different in a no-gravity environment. Since then Ardbog, Auriverdes and Perpetuum have all celebrated different aspects of Ardbeg’s future, flavour and past. Ardbeg Day 2016 is just around the corner on the 28th of May. Mark it in your calendars now.
But this is more than just marketing, I promise. Sure – a limited edition that is guaranteed to sell out within 48 hours around the world (less than 2 hours in Auckland, 2015) is a great way to create buzz. It must be said though, that this unique way of engaging with lovers of Ardbeg is worth pursuing and protecting. After re-opening in 1997, Ardbeg won Distillery of the Year three times in a row. Each of the Ardbeg Day whiskies has made it’s way to my collection and for good measure, I buy a bottle to drink and a bottle to keep. And the road to Ardbeg is worth the drive, to savour the nature of survival.
The crisp white wall of the distillery buildings and the signature name etched along the foreshore stands firm and concrete. I wandered down to the foreshore and skipped stones into the sea, smelt the freshness of the ocean and thought to myself, some things find a way to survive so long as they are loved. I walked through the distillery and enjoyed the Old Kiln Cafe. I enjoyed the Committee Release variation of Dark Cove*, bottled at cask strength. I wandered through the warehouses and breathed the old stone, new spirit aroma of Ardbeg itself, the land, sea and air of the place.
For all the energy and enthusiasm of a young distillery reborn (she’s only been open again for just under 20 years, with her ‘Young’ series from the early 1998 distillings still stacked in warehouses for periodic release), there is an ancient spirit on the long road. You’ll meet it at Ardbeg and then you’ll meet it again at the Kildaton Cross.
They reckon the Irish monks arrived and starting making whisky on Islay sometime in the late 14th century, on the run from Nordic invaders. This cross is older than that, carved from stone. The Parish in which the Cross is found dates from around 1580, but the gravestones found within the parish grounds are older than that too. The Cross takes similar form to those found in Iona and so it’s assumed it was carved sometime in the mid-8th century. It was when repairing the Kildalton Cross years ago, they discovered the bodies of a man and woman, below. The man died from terrible trauma. So old, so mysterious, so unknown. What was the story of these people that lived and died on this rugged earth?
There is a sense of mystery about this place and this corner of the island in particular. It can’t help but spill over into the myths and legends of whisky-runners, illicit stills and hiding from the excisemen that litter the history of Islay, and in particular, Ardbeg malt. Caves, pirates, smugglers and risky tales abound. This year’s Ardbeg Day release has been named Dark Cove and embraces some of this darker, mysterious history. But those tasting notes and secrets will be released shortly.
*Dark Cove will be released on 28th May, when Ardbeg Day becomes Ardbeg Night. Subscribe for updates on where you can taste and experience the #ArdbegNight festivities. This year, New Zealand welcomes it’s first Ardbeg Embassy bar, The Jefferson to join the three off-premise locations: Whisky Galore, Regional Wines and Spirits and Sam Snead’s House of Whiskey. The Ardbeg Embassies in Auckland, Wellington and Christchurch will all host events during the day and night.
[et_bloom_inline optin_id=optin_1]
by tashmcgill | May 12, 2016 | Eat, Reviews
Ask me to tell you a story about any of the places I’ve seen in the world and it won’t take long for flavours and ingredients to come tripping off my tongue. Taste (and in particular, food) is such an integral part of how we see the world – whether harvesting fresh turmeric root in New Caledonia, blanching tomatillos in New Mexico, making fried bread in Fiji or digging up tuatuas off the secret spot in my beloved Northland.
Taste and aroma transport me to places I remember fondly and there are few places I remember as fondly as Paris, the week before Christmas. I flew in to a snowstorm that grounded the Eurostar, caused traffic mayhem and transformed Paris into a wonderland of sparkling crisp snow while the clouds overhead evaporated and the skies turned blue. So many changes to travel plans meant four of us bundled into a single studio apartment in the 7th arrondissement, a breath away from the Seine.
When you think of French food, and really, I mean the classic French cuisine which is laden with butter, duck fat, rich ingredients – the beauty of this cooking style is in the technique. I remember this in Paris; no matter which little bistro we ate in or even Fish La Boissonnerie (owned by New Zealander Drew Harre, along with the wine shop on the corner!) – a stunning ingredient might simply be put on a plate, but combine that ingredient with technique and voilà! A memory is made or it is remembered, brought back to mind in living colour.
Last night, I spent the evening in Paris Butter (the restaurant, not the condiment) and I remembered. Firstly, I remembered delicious meals at Vinnies, as I stepped over the familiar V in the entrance tile, from which Paris Butter has been transformed. And then I remembered Paris itself, with the winter light crisp in the air and the delight of the menu du jour awaiting me. I saw executive chef/owner Nick Honeyman in Ponsonby just a couple of months ago and caught up firsthand with his plans to open his first restaurant here in New Zealand. I first met Nick years ago, among a crew of the ‘next generation’ young chefs making an effort to push New Zealand dining forward. He’s driven, passionate and talented. In the five years since then, many of those ‘young’ chefs have gone even further and continued to inspire and delight, including Nick.
Going further for Nick usually means a summer (NZ winter) working in Le Petit Leon, a restaurant in the Dordogne region of which I believe he is now part-owner. Those breaks usually entail a flurry of photos on social media of foraging, exploring and creating from fresh, local produce. So it seems natural that after all this time, his first venture (alongside a business partner and trusted team of kitchen allies) is also French.
French technique applied to beautiful produce and in a lighter, fresher Antipodean style is how I would best describe the thrust of this place. Touches of smoked glass and chandeliers, a rich and warm blue bench seat and warm light diffused through the dining rooms reminds me of Paris in the afternoon light, sitting in St Germain. It’s both old and new, classic and interesting. The design was led by Olga Skorik who is part of the Paris Butter family. I say family because I’ve heard Nick quoted as talking about every kitchen you join is like a family and that tone was evident in the atmosphere last night.
So to the food? I desperately wanted to try the Cloudy Bay clams, served in the style of escargot – but by the time we arrived at our later booking, they were gone for the day. A good sign, I hope for both the clams and the prawn ravioli! Thankfully, the chicken liver parfait was delicious, served with chewy sourdough and crisp pickled vegetables. Some things don’t need to be anything other than classic, they just need to be good and this was, absolutment.
The gin-cured salmon entrée with coconut crème fraîche was delicious and refreshing – something to dance over while I enjoyed the last of my Parisian Sour, a house made variation of the classic featuring plum and Bordeaux. My dining companion also enjoyed the venison carpaccio, which has to be a stellar ingredient at any time of the year but seems particularly suited to autumn, and the punch of smoked shallot, pickle and parmesan.
I had read about the ‘KFC’ dish on the menu – an encrusted confit chicken leg and served on smoked lentils with a tease of truffle. I was always going to order it, because of all the classic French ingredients I love, I have a strange obsession with the Le Puy lentil. I was not disappointed – a dish that might seem rustic and simple at the outset is a paradox. It is that simple (chicken and lentils) and yet delightfully complex. There were elements in the final dressing that I couldn’t quite describe but I could’ve eaten beyond my fill too easily.
Thankfully therefore, we decided to share dessert. We were celebrating a few recent victories and milestones and I do not usually have dessert or go to restaurants in opening week. Having seen the crème brûlée method at play in the kitchen and given it is my friend’s favourite, it had to be indulged in. The deep, dark crust gave way with a satisfying ‘Crack!’ and the cool custard underneath came way perfectly on the spoon. The best thing about this dessert is simply the layers of caramel, toffee, cream and bitter sugar that play on the tongue.
If I was to describe the night in simple, brief words – it would simply be to say this is France through New Zealand eyes. Of course, that would seem to brush over Nick’s South African and Australian heritage as well as his love for Japanese cuisine but there is a piece of home here in New Zealand and also in France, so without labouring the detail, that’s how I’ll describe it. It’s both smart and approachable food, and approachable from a price point too, which I think is a segment of the restaurant business in Auckland woefully under-served.
A booking later in service, in the early days of a restaurant opening is traditionally risky business. The staff finding their feet, floor teams learning their rhythms and the anxious anticipation of how it will all go sometimes collide unexpectedly. Minor bumps aside, the front of house team were nothing but warm, welcoming and attentive and there was a sense of all things in their place. The new fit out has opened up the dining floors to the outside streetview, which dictates a certain sense of relationship to the surrounding neighbourhood and the light, both from streetlamps and the sun. It’s comfortable and inviting, so you should consider yourself invited.
It was brief but nice to say hello as Chef made it out to front of house; an infrequent chance to say thanks and congratulations. Auckland still needs to dine out more to realize the unique and rich food culture we have on our doorstep, and to ensure these talented, remarkable chefs continue to thrive here. I will be going back because that’s what you do, when it’s a neighbourhood kind of place, promising to deliver well turned out seasonal fare.
Paris Butter
166 Jervois Road, Herne Bay, Auckland
P 09 376 5597 or book online
Stay up to date on Facebook
by tashmcgill | May 11, 2016 | Bars
Auckland’s hospo bar institution and legend, Mea Culpa, has recently changed hands. I went to chat with the new owners about what the future might hold for one of Auckland’s most loved late night bars.
We used to say if on a bad day you ended up at Mea Culpa and on a good day you started there, then everything was going to be okay. Mea Culpa (Mea to her friends) is the cosy bar just shy of the Ponsonby and Franklin Road corner. Here I’ve celebrated victories and commiserated on heartbreaks; my own and others at the end of this narrow bar. My preference is always the far end, close to the whisky shelf and where former owner Tim would happily spend a bit of conversation. Not just Tim, but Calem, Craig, Cam, Hannah, and Kate… and so it goes. A long list of Auckland’s shining stars of hospitality have tread the narrow path of the Mea backbar.
But as all things do, they change and the era that saw Mea Culpa win numerous industry awards from those who love and claim her has passed to new, industrious hands. I popped in to have a chat to Jason and his (new) motley crew of drinkslingers.
I arrive while Jason is unpacking a few whisky bottles to the top shelf and so we’re off to a good start and while it’s a lovely distraction, it’s not really whisky that I want to talk about. I’m interested in the future of a bar that has been known and loved by Auckland hospitality folk for more than a decade.
In fact, Jason (or Montreal as he’s occasionally known) has been drinking at Mea for over ten years, alongside many of Auckland’s finest bartenders and hospitality personalities. It’s just that kind of bar that features approachable conversation, a great selection of beverages and good quality chat. Why wouldn’t you want to buy it?
Montreal is emphatic that the incumbent quality of Mea Culpa won’t be lost. ‘This is somewhere you go to have a great drink and you’ll have a great chat and meet someone else along the way. The ideal scenario is that all 15 seats get to meet each other over the course of an evening. This is a place where you meet people,’ he says.
Whisky Sour… with pinot noir soaked cherry.
So far it sounds like the Mea that I’ve always known and loved. A place that oozes with genuine warmth, where bartenders are always happy to see you and engage in some friendly conversation but never at the cost of the quality of the cocktail or drink in front of you. It’s the perfect place to drink sans company, because the personality behind the bar will ensure you make friends, should you so desire.
It’s clear the intention is to maintain this friendly balance between neighbourhood local and bar nerd haven. In nearly the same breath as describing the lock’and’key cabinet that is soon to arrive for housing the real bar-geek memorabilia, Jason is sharing his philosophy of conversation and community, ensuring people meet one another in friendly and casual ways. It’s a philosophy that business partners Ben and Darren agree with. As we speak, Darren is tending bar, bringing that philosophy to life with a couple of American tourists and highlighting other local hotspots.
There’s something delightful about the openness with which Jason and Darren share the love of hospitality that has drawn them out of regular 9-5 gigs (Mea joins the family of Revelry, just a little more south on Ponsonby Rd). Both Gav and Jonny from Revelry will now share duties at Mea, which makes it a family affair, beside a second full-timer, Jeremy. The pedigree is high, with more than 25 combined years in some of the world’s best bars from the United Kingdom, Melbourne and further afield behind the bar.
Revelry has embraced a global cocktail bar trend towards great storytelling – this will continue at Mea Culpa, including bringing variations from that global experience to Auckland. And why not? Mea Culpa is exactly that bar – where conversation is a story starter and stories feed the crowd all night long. I’m excited to see cocktail bars in Auckland following international trends of investment in stories, ingredients and presentation – it can only be better and better for the industry and therefore the punter long-term. Bring on pine tinctures and recycled organics.*Point of order: Mea Culpa’s robust reuse-recycle programme will remain intact.
And I’m excited, as always to discover rich new talent behind the bar. Darren and Jonny are currently competing in Diageo World Class; another indication of the seriousness with which they take their profession. Rightly so – Mea Culpa has won Outstanding Bar at the Lewisham Awards (voted by industry) twice in the last three years.
Food will be enlivened and refreshed – the advantage of having a big sister kitchen up the road, and the cocktail menu will change out regularly in a ‘pay homage then twist’ routine of cocktail classics. The team promise to deliver their fair share and some of bartending geekery, scouring old cocktail books for recipes worthy of rejuvenation and the best local, delicious ingredients that can be found. Current favourites include the Sherry Negroni or Darren’s World Class entry ‘the Wilde Rover’.
If Mea Culpa has been a hospo bar for the last ten years, then certainly being part of the Revelry family can’t hurt. Revelry boasts an impressive internal training programme including in-house competitions that ensure the team are on the sharp edge of ingredient preparation, invention, innovation and presentation, which in the case of Mea Culpa works out well. The pinot-noir soaked cherries adorning the Whisky Sour this week are to die for… and easily foraged from your local Nosh market. Hipster keyword = check. Delicious drink-enhancing ingredient = check.
It’s always a pleasure to talk to an owner who loves what they do and sharing it with people. It’s obvious that Mea Culpa has passed into the hands of passionate people. It’s also obvious that under their guidance, Mea will continue to be the place bartenders and hospo crew call home late nights and after hours. And for the regular punter, there’s this assurance.. never forget the bars with the most bartending nerdery are the ones most excited to take you on a journey and teach you everything you know. In a strange twist of affairs, the places that may seem the most intimidating almost always house the most welcoming of staff.
I recommend visiting at least one a week for the next month to experience the joy of the classic it, twist it menu variation but most importantly to make new friends with Darren, Jeremy and Jonny. Jason says he may even make a special appearance from time to time, alongside some other very special guests. Which makes the moment really – because what is Mea if not the very place that guests become family and so it goes.
I’m personally excited for the new lease of life behind an institution and that Mea Culpa (my fault, literally) rests in the hands of people who are professional and passionate. I visited mid-week and returned for the weekend ‘Welcome to the Neighbourhood’ celebrations. I smashed the ‘Five Brothers’ Manhattan variation (using Rittenhouse Rye) which I loved for its perfect balance. It’s a drink that Gav brought with him from Orchid, in Aberdeen. I look forward to the new team learning my name and pushing the boundaries of creativity and imagination.
But mostly? I look forward to breathing easy and knowing this Ponsonby Road institution and home away from home, is only going to become more special in the near future.
by tashmcgill | May 8, 2016 | Tasting Notes
There are many women without whom, the world of whisky as we know it, would not be the same. Bessie Williamson from Laphroaig, Elizabeth Cumming from Cardhu and one of my personal heroes, Margie Samuels of Markers Mark.
But there’s one you may not be so familiar with, whose story crosses oceans and social norms of the time and endures through a surprising but lasting legacy. Her name is Jessie Roberta Cowan, but everybody calls her Rita.
Masataka and Rita, father and mother of Japanese whisky
There’s a little more history and future history you need to know. Just after the end of the First World War, there was a young Japanese man who want to make whisky. Masataka Taketsuru would make his way to Scotland, where he would study chemistry in Glasgow and apprentice under the master distillers at Longmorn (Speyside) and eventually Hazelburn (now closed, in Campbeltown) distilleries. Eventually, the work that Masataka did in establishing Japan’s first true whisky distillery at Yamazaki would result in the Taketsuru Pure Malt (aged 17 years and named for Masataka) winning the World’s Best Blended Malt award at the World Whiskies Awards in 2015. The Yamazaki 18 year old won the Best Japanese Whisky award that year.
But what happened in between? In 1918, the Cowan family took Taketsuru in as a lodger and their daughter Jessie (known as Rita) fell in love with him. They formed a deep, strong bond and married just two years later. It was shortly after they married, Masataka was ready to return to Japan, with his English bride in tow.
As most things do, the dream of opening his own distillery took another decade to come to life. As Masataka was getting ready to start his distillery in Yoichi, the earliest beginnings of what would become Nikka, Rita’s role became vital. She provided not only emotional support but also financial during the hardest times. It’s said that through the networks she established teaching English and piano lessons, she helped find the investors that would form the company with Masataka. And throughout, even during the Second World War she embraced Japanese culture, speaking only Japanese and remained with Masataka, despite some hostility. Many Japanese people and the authorities made life challenging during that time, but Rita persevered. Even the distillery workers spoke on her behalf and defended her to those questioning whether or not she may have been a British spy.
Rita stayed and so did Nikka. The import ban of the War meant a boom for Japanese whisky and the distillery became very successful. Now, Japanese whisky has a well-earned place at the table for whisky lovers and shares a certain sense of determinedness with it’s Scottish ancestry. There is a shared story between these places and it centers on shared love – of malt and between a man and a woman.
Rita died in 1961 at the age of 63. Masataka lived another 18 years before he was buried beside his wife in August, 1979. But the mother and father of Japanese whisky live on in memory. The Japanese whisky business continues to boom and worldwide demand for their spirit is greater than ever.
So this is it. The Taketsuru Pure Malt (a non-age statement version). And here’s to drinking to a legend and a woman behind the bottle who loved and persevered. Happy Mother’s Day, Rita. Thanks for the malt.
There is a portion of this blend aged in sherry casks for richness, which comes through on the nose
Nose: There is a portion of this blend aged in sherry casks for richness, which comes through on the nose immediately. Then fruit – those typical sherry characteristics of plum and raisin, with the lighter notes of green apple, honey, cereal. There’s a hint of charcoal.
Palate: Sherry fruit, of course, that develops into chocolate, coffee and a hint of light cream and smoke at the end.
Finish: Smoky, grainy (the barley appears) and with a hint of that coffee bean.
by tashmcgill | May 8, 2016 | Family, Monologues
Here’s the deal, Kid. I thought you’d be here by now but the truth is, you may never arrive at all. But I’m still your mama – fiercely, entirely and utterly yours. So I wanted to tell you a few things so you’d always know. Like how I want to love you so well and walk with you through all your failures. How I want to teach you everything I’ve learned while waiting for you and how I’m trying to be the best I can be for your sake. This is for you, kid – love from your Mama.
Dear Kid,
I’ve been waiting for a while to write these things down. Hoping I’d have the chance to tell you face to face one of these days. But ‘one of these days’ seems to be getting further away. There was a time I hoped you’d be five or even ten years old by now, though in hindsight, I’d be a better Mama now than then.
I say ‘I would’ because there’s no guarantee that we’ll get the chance to meet, kid.
Yeah, let that sink in a minute. It’s not how I wanted it to turn out either. I’m sorry, my darling. If you make it – if the universe conspires our way and I play my part and do my best, if love sends me a chance that I don’t fuck up and that man who is kind, strong and true loves me and wants you…then, maybe.
Kid, there are so many ifs in this world. So I’ll tell you now, so you’ll always know.
I will love you fiercely and as well as I can. I won’t make promises I can’t keep about nappies or organic food, how design perfect your nursery will be or how well-accessorized your buggy may be. But you’ll be fed, clothed, bathed and loved. It’s how I love you that will make the difference.
I will learn how to love you and give you the chance to learn to love me. I’ll help you love and understand your Dad and he’ll probably help me out a lot too. I do want to promise you, that I’ll do my best to model partnership with your Dad and to love him deeply. I want you to grow up knowing what real love looks like, feels like, sounds like and that you came from it.
I can’t wait to see who you’ll be and I’ll do everything I can to celebrate that. I will never ask you to be less of yourself. I will do my best to help you navigate the world as you are.
I want to be that Mama that you can laugh with all the time, a trusted place for your secrets, the Queen of spontaneous adventures. I want us to be late home because we had to stop to watch the sunset. For our backyard to always be ready for a sleep out under the stars. I want to share my love of traveling and adventure with you – teach you how to travel light through life and how to find your way home always.
Oh, I hope you get to see the world with big wide eyes and to embrace the wonder I have at the stars and the moon. I want all those things for you and then, I want to walk you through every crisis and every failure. I want to help you learn how to pick yourself back up and what it really means to be resilient (because that was the toughest and loneliest lesson for me). I know you’ll have times of loneliness that I can’t fix, but I want to walk through it with you. And I will try, with shaking hands and tears and self-control, to embrace your rebellion when you need to find your independence.
I guess what I’m saying is, I’ll try to give you just enough but not so much that being your Mama is more about me than it is about you. I want to be good but I’m not perfect. You’ll learn that but the point is I’ll try. I’ll try not to control you, shape you too much to my liking, I’ll try to engage with you as a person and teach you what discipline you need but to always explain ‘why’.
I dream of the day you will explain parts of the world to me that I don’t know, because you see it differently. And my joy will be that I taught you to see, not what to see. You will be so different from me, kid – but I hope you get the parts of me I like most.
Like dinner parties, books and lazy Saturdays, pyjama days, eggs-in-a-basket, beaches, day-dreaming in the clouds, stopping to drink in all the senses. I hope you love to snuggle and hug your whole life long. Otherwise know I will always be chasing you for kisses and cuddles. Of course, the parts of me I like best are my love of physical touch, the storytelling, the music and creativity, the deep well of laughter and wild abandon and the empathy and compassion. I hope you get some of that – it’s the stuff I’ve learned how to navigate best. But then, your Dad will have a lot to teach you too. I promise to make space for him. In fact, I hope there are times when he is your whole world.
Of course, I want our house to be that house where all your friends come after school and to have parties for the sake of parties. I want you to grow up knowing the love and strength of family that is both blood and choice. You’ll have a dozen aunties and uncles who will love you as their own, I’m sure. And my darling, some of them will be weird. That’s important, because the weird ones are the good ones. I won’t be everything you need in life, neither will your Dad. You’ll need your weird aunties and uncles, your friends too, to help you learn how to be, how to live and how to navigate the world. You’ll need them to talk to when you’re mad with us – which is bound to happen.
It’s hard to talk you and not think about your Dad, so I’ll say this. No matter what happens to he and I, in the long road of life – I’ll have the best relationship with him that’s possible at any time. You’ll see us fight, no doubt, but I plan for you to see us make up too. To know what healthy communication looks like. I hope you’ll see us love more than anything else, to team up for you and beside you and for each other. I really want for you to see that grittiness is okay. It’s real and achievable. That real is the very best thing because you get to define it yourself. Of course – these are lessons that I’m still learning, kid, so I’m letting you know in advance.
It takes a lifetime to learn to be yourself and I won’t get to see it all, kid but I will do my best to set you up on the right path. Not a path that leads to a particular destination of being a ‘this’ or a ‘that’, but the path of learning. Learning how to learn, learning how to be, learning how to love well. Before I go, I plan to see you a long way towards being yourself.
I hope you’ll benefit from the lessons I’ve learned while waiting for you. You see, that’s what I’ve been doing. I know that I’ll only do my best by you, if I’m the best version of me there is. The truest version of me there is.
So I wake up each day and focus on being as healthy and strong as I can be physically. I want to climb mountains with you and throw you in the air and make love to your Dad for my whole life. Oh wait… you probably didn’t want to hear that last part. But it’s true. I want you to grow up in a world of positive, life-giving beautiful touch – a house that thrives on the vital energy of life.
I wake up each day and look to strengthen my mind. I’m still becoming myself and learning to have my own voice after all these years. I’m taking down decades of barricades at the moment and it’s for you as much as myself…. I want to love you in my full voice, kid. I’ll keep working on it, whether you arrive or not. When you get here, you’ll bring a bunch more lessons with you, I’m sure. I will try to prepare myself in advance.
So I wake up on Mother’s Day, kid – and I’m thinking of you. If you don’t ever make it, it’s okay. I promise. Everything I’ve learned waiting for you, I needed to know anyway. But I wanted you to know, kid, that I’m your Mama through and through. Even the idea of you is a gift I’m glad of, a point in the compass that guides my way. I’ve been your mother my whole life.
Rest easy, kid. Maybe soon. Keep an eye on the stars and the moon – I watch them too, and I believe in magic.
Love,
Mama.
