A mums tomato relish
When I think back to where this sauce began, I don’t think about recipes. I think about her kitchen, the smell of ripening tomatoes breaking down in a huge battered pot, and a woman who could turn ingredients into something that stopped time. She wasn’t my mother by blood, let’s call her my second mum and in her house, food was never just food. It was care, humor, kindness and a quiet authority served on a floral plate.
Her tomato relish was legendary. Every Kiwi family had one, but hers had a a real depth that came from more than ingredients. She cooked by instinct, by memory, by a movement she’d learned from the women before her. She’d pick the softer tomatoes, the ones everyone else ignored, heavy with sun and sugar. The whole kitchen would smell of vinegar and spice and caramel. There was always a pot on the stove, always something being made to feed whoever walked through the door.
As a kid, I put that relish on everything, fresh fish, bacon, pasta, fried eggs, cold sausages from the fridge. It didn’t matter. That sauce made every bite feel better. She taught me that this type of cooking wasn’t about showing off, it was about feeding people because it was the most human thing you could do.
Years later, when I was living in London and working in kitchens, I got the message that she was sick. Cancer. She faced it the same way she cooked, straight on, heroic, zero drama. Before she passed, she sent me an email. No long goodbyes, no sentimentality. Just a recipe attached and a few words: “now it’s yours”.
i’ve carried that email for years. Cooked that sauce in many different variations. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. But every time, it felt like she was there, checking, smiling. Now, after years of testing and tasting, it’s ready. Not perfect, because she’d laugh at the idea of perfection, but honest. Full of heart. Built from memory. This isn’t her exact recipe, that one stays with me and my family. But it’s her spirit in a bottle.
So this is for her. For the women who made do and made sure we never left hungry. For every New Zealand mother who filled jars through summer so her family could taste sunlight in winter. For my second mum, whose hands smelled of tomatoes and soap, who taught me that food is memory.
