Top 5 things I would include in a letter to my 16 year-old self

List by Tosca

"I'm writing this on the first piece of paper I could find. It's the kids notepad - yes you have three of them (kids, not notepads...)..."
- David Arnold in Dear me : more letters to my sixteen-year-old self edited by Joseph Galliano

I spent Tuesday evening reading a book I randomly picked up from Manukau Library's display shelf. Some of my best finds happen that way. The book was Dear me : more letters to my sixteen-year-old self and is a collection of letters by celebrities who wrote words of advice, assurance, humour for their 16 year old selves. Some are funny, some are blunt, some are truly sad. All are quite poignant and touching. (Wait. Do those mean the same thing?) My favs were those written by Jodi Picoult ('He won't remember hurting you. But when you write, you will always remember what it felt like to have that bandage ripped off your heart. And that's why, when people read your stories, they'll bleed a little on the inside'), Amistead Maupin, David Arnold, Gillian Anderson (P.S. Follow your dreams not your boyfriends') and Alan Rickman ('Make your own unique messes, and then work your way out of them'). They all made me teary eyed and a little wistful. They also made me wonder what I would write to myself if I had to. If I'd have known at 16 what I know today...what kind of person would I be? One I'd like? One I could live with? I mean, think about it, if we could send our 16 year old selves a letter with a heads up about who to love/not to love or what opportunities to grab/ignore, then I'm not fully sure we'd any of us be the people we are today. And, speaking for myself, I'm actually ok with who I am. I don't regret anything I've done. It's more a case of regretting chances I hadn't taken, or things I hadn't just gone out and done without all of the planning and lists and angsting. If I could, though, if I could somehow write a letter to myself without adversely affecting time and history (think Bradbury's 'butterfly effect' here, people), this is what I'd tell myself...

Honourable mention:

You were born to read. Your love of Austen, Dickens, Ludlum, Plato et al. at 9 years of age is not weird. In fact, read more. It's your ticket in life. You won't believe me but you will find a profession full of people just like you. It will all make sense later :)

Mum and dad were wrong. You *can* get a job being fluent in Māori, with a nose piercing and a tattoo. Cut them some slack. They just worry about you and are incredibly supportive whatever you choose to be in life (except possibly a serial killer but we've never tested this so I can't say it with any certainty, just a niggling suspicion that it is the case)

You've always believed that the people you choose to surround yourself with can say lots about your values and ethics. Stick with that, and temper it with a little more forgiveness (honest forgiveness not just lip service) and a little less grudge holding

That boy? And I know you know the one. He's a total frog. Kiss him, anyway, because he's not worth feeling like you can never open up to people again. Mark the experience up to 'just one of those things' and move on. At 16 you shouldn't be thinking about 'happy ever after,' anyway. Worry about finishing your assignments on time, instead. It'll stand you in good stead later in life, trust me. In a few years you'll twice consider marriage, but remember that if you can look at the mother and see the daughter twenty years on, then the same could be said of fathers and their sons as well

5 cookbooks with tips for cooking roasts

List by Tosca

"As for those grapefruit and buttermilk diets, I'll take roast chicken and dumplings."
- Hattie McDaniel

So...Christmas has come and gone. Somewhere around 8am on Sunday I found myself sitting in the middle of a lounge strewn with discarded wrapping paper, watching while Miss 7 tried on earrings and Mr. 1 zoomed around on his toddler-size skateboard eagerly clutching a toy car in either hand. I suspect that if not for the two of them it may have ended up feeling like just another day. I would like to be all virtuous and say that I slaved over a hot stove all day but that would be a blatant lie. Instead, we had brunch, mooched around for a couple hours, had a celebratory glass of wine (or two), and then everyone took nana naps. Such is life in your mid-thirties, apparently. Eventually, somewhere around 2pm, we realised that somebody was going to have to cook or we were all going to starve (although not really but it would sure feel like it). Ugh. Luckily, I drew out actually getting to the kitchen for so long that my sibling and her husband volunteered. Nice save, what? It has just occurred to me today, though, that that means I will be cooking New Year's lunch. Turnabout is fair play and all that. Huh. I've checked the freezer and we have a very large chicken, and lamb. Roast it is, then. Only, it's been over ten years since I had to cook a roast anything, and I'd like to do something a little flasher than just shove them in the oven. I'm just not quite sure what. Rosemary? Thyme? Garlic? White wine? Orange juice? Gah so much to decide. So, I did what I usually do...requested some books. Seriously, that's my answer for most things I want to try. In this instance, I'm fairly certain this selection of titles will give me some ideas for where to start with cooking a roast. Hopefully. If you're looking to find your way back to cooking like I am (only probably with a lot more skill and a lot less haphazard luck) then feel free to use these books as suggestions. I took my cooking skills for a test drive on Tuesday night and made dinner: roasted lamb chops with herb potatoes. Nobody gagged and nobody suffered food poisoning, but I didn't count it a successful evening until I noticed that nobody had asked for bread. I'm not sure if it's a Kiwi thing or a Māori quirk that bread and butter be at every meal. Either way, it bodes well for this Sunday :)