It comes as no surprise that I am a homebody.

Even when I first moved to Melbourne for university, was living in halls with 400 people and the constant promise of another night out, another party, the allure of the invitations faded fast. I still went, still drank too much and slept too little, as most are won to do in their first year of university (particularly when living 700km away from home), but the glitz wore off. Not that there was much glitz – mainly boxed wine and the cheapest vodka we could find – but the sparkling city lights and repetitive party playlists were all the glamour that I needed.

Towards the end of my first semester, I slowed, started spending more nights in. I completed my Bachelors with majors in English literature and creative writing, so it made sense to spend those Friday and Saturday nights reading. Memories of those pleasant nights, tucked up in a blanket, burning contraband candles (fires catch easy in buildings from the 1800s, apparently) and drinking cup after cup of tea, stand out to me more than any night of partying and drinking.

Now, in my early twenties, I’ve all but given up those nights. My body can’t handle hangovers. I’ll drink a gin and tonic with a friend, stopping at one, or might have a couple of glasses of red wine when I’m cooking dinner, but I don’t drink anymore, not like I used to.

I still read, though. Oh, how I still read.

The Reader’s Pantry grew out of the need for a place where I could share my thoughts on the books I was reading. I spent three years talking about books at university. The year before that, I had worked at a bookshop. Before that, I was in high school, where my focus was always on English, resulting in a double major in the subject, thanks to my hometown’s absolutely excellent school system.

After I graduated, I lost that place to talk about books. I missed it more than I thought I would (by the time I finished my degree, I hated reading) and so I created this blog to serve the purpose I sought. 

TRP also gave me the chance to read the books that I really wanted to read. Studying English academically, while fascinating, certainly restricted my novel options, and I found myself reading dry white male after boring white male after overly lauded white male. Everything had to be “literary.” In creative writing, we were dissuaded from writing anything that wasn’t “literary.” It was suffocating. And TRP gave me the chance to move away from all that, to read the books, the writers, the stories that I want to read, and to talk about them to anyone who wants to listen, not just the same stuffy students and professors.

The time to slow down and read the books that had amassed on my shelf, the books that I actually wanted to read, helped me slow down the rest of my life, too. It helped that work was scant (unsurprisingly, waving around an English degree doesn’t inspire much in the heart of employers) so I had more time for the other things I loved, and the space to do them in. I had the room to embrace the beauties of staying in, of lazy evenings with homemade hot chocolate and a good novel, Friday nights spent cooking for friends and family with a few good bottles of wine between us, not each. And, unsurprisingly, I loved it. I found my happiness in two places: between the pages of a good book, and in the kitchen.

I have always been a keen eater. As a baby, my parents called me Fang. There wasn’t a thing I wouldn’t sink my teeth (or gums) into for the first few years of my life, until I went through the fussy kid stage. There were a few sad years without salmon, bacon, or tomatoes, but I would happily gorge myself on French blue cheese when I was six years old, and one of my fondest memories is the first time I ate grilled octopus, cooked on the barbecue at a family friend’s Christmas Day lunch before I could even see over the kitchen counter.

I love what a good meal can do. The conversations it can create, the friendship, the camaraderie, the love. I don’t think anything else inspires the same amount of love as a home-cooked meal can. My food philosophy, as is my life philosophy, is only love. I cook with love. I cook with habit, familiarity. I love the ritual behind food; the kneading of bread, floured hands and the workout that only dough can give you.

I believe in simple, flavoursome food that is true, cooking with seasonal produce. Eating well is about respecting the ingredients, eating the foods that make you feel your best, in all ways. It is about sharing these meals with the people who are important to you, the people you love, the people you want to love. I believe food tells stories in a way that we can use when words aren’t enough.

And really, that is what I am all about. That is what The Reader’s Pantry is all about. Stories, above all else. And this is where I tell them. My stories about other stories, my stories about the foods I love to make, the people I love to make them for.