Why I Care About Kitchens
Kitchens have always been more than rooms to me. They’re where the real stories collect, the funny ones, the heavy ones, the ones that get told again and again until they become family legend.
One of my favourite memories as a kid was staying at my Nan’s place in Onehunga in the 80s. Winters there were freezing, and the kitchen was no exception. We’d get up in the morning and sit together at the table with our breath fogging the air. She’d make me porridge with butter, brown sugar, and milk. Sometimes it was Weet-Bix softened with hot water from the kettle before pouring the milk over. Those simple breakfasts were comfort, survival, and love, even when our hands were too cold to hold the spoon steady.
It was the kitchen where one brother stole my entire birthday dinner, sneaking out in the night and eating all the chicken burgers before I even saw them. Another would come home and make custard with a whole two-litre bottle of milk — that was just his afternoon tea. The same brother would also pull out a ruler to measure dessert, making sure he always got the biggest piece. And the youngest eventually took over the fridge completely with his Coca-Cola addiction and a pile of pizzas, like it was his personal vending machine.
Later, when I trained as a chef and worked in professional kitchens, I learned timing and technique. I also learned the hard way that curry powder on a high shelf with a loose lid is basically a weapon, one slip and I had it in my eyes. Another time I tried to pull out a full chafing dish of stew that hadn’t been set in the trolley properly, and it tipped forward straight down my front. Professional kitchens taught me discipline, but also pain tolerance and how to laugh it off.
But what stuck with me wasn’t fine dining. It was the chaos, the hunger, and the way food migrates with us. Recipes carry across oceans and get bent by whatever ingredients are on hand. They hold both sides of a family, my mum’s ways of cooking, my dad’s tastes, the things that came from one side or the other and collided on the same table. Food changes as we move, as families mix, as new lives get built, but it still holds memory in every bite.
Every kitchen has its stories. Some are hilarious. Some are heavy. Some are both. Smells linger longer than words. Grief and joy often sit on the same plate.
That’s why I care about kitchens. They’re not just where food happens. They’re archives, places that record who we are, what we carry, what we lose, and what we pass on.
Counter Narratives is about treating kitchens that way: as living collections. I want to sit with people in their own spaces, to cook, to eat, to photograph, to listen, and to keep the stories that might otherwise slip away.
Donate here to get people’s stories and recipes shared wider than their own kitchens! https://www.thearts.co.nz/boosted/projects/counter-narratives/
About the author
Hayley Walmsley (Ngāti Kawau, Ngāti Tautahi, Ngāpuhi, Ngāti Porou) is a Māori artist, writer, and curator based in Ōtautahi. She works with photography and text to explore food, memory, and belonging. Counter Narratives is her latest kaupapa-based project, gathering stories in kitchens and at tables in Ōtautahi.
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash