About the book

Pav Deconstructed: Pavlova through the eyes of everyday Kiwis is a luscious, hard-cover, coffee-table-style book about pavlova. While it does contain a recipe from the wonderful Christall Lowe, it is not a recipe book!

The idea for the book started ten years ago at a dinner table when a group of writers discovered they all had a pavlova tale to tell. Over the past two years, Pavlova Press has been on a quest for the real pavlova, the one seen on Kiwi tables, and not just through the photos in a cookbook.

Pav Deconstructed brings together experiences and imaginings through poetry, story, and art from everyday Kiwis (and some international imposters) in a collection that shows pavlova is not just a dessert, it is community.

At Pavlova Press we love this idea of community and believe every Kiwi will see a little bit of themselves inside. We have gathered work from over 150 contributors, many of whom have not been published before, and presented it in an anthology unlike any seen before. Part of our ethos is providing a platform for new voices and we believe Pav Deconstructed does just that.

Our vision for this book is to offer something that is uniquely Kiwi and that resonates with our passion for holding on to what is rightfully ours – Phar Lap, Crowded House, the Bledisloe Cup … and pavlova.

Pav Deconstructed can be purchased from pavlovapress.co.nz

 

Excerpted contents

 

‘The Great Pavlova Hunt’

by Justin Brown

 

Do Kiwis still eat pavlova or since Nana died, has it taken a back seat to fruit salads and cheesecakes? Or is it like Karen Walker’s black singlet, just waiting to become trendy again? Do we hold on to a Kiwi icon purely for nostalgic reasons? If the pav is truly our national dish, can it be found in our restaurants? I set myself the task of finding out. My Great Pavlova Hunt began at Bell Pepper Blues, one of Dunedin’s premier eating establishments. Looking at the menu, featuring dishes like ‘Light set raspberry cream cheese mousse, coconut genoise, mascarpone and freshly crushed raspberries’, I wondered if this was the South Island or the south of France. Whatever happened to the banana sundae and a Traffic Light with a Coke spider on the side?

At The Reef, a family-friendly seafood restaurant, the lively nautical theme was probably not a good sign. After all, Long John Silver and his hearties aren’t exactly known for lusting after cream-covered meringues. The menu was easier to navigate – purely because there was less on it and the words weren’t exotic. Still, no sign of our national dish in Dunedin.

Then on to Christchurch, where I tried Langdale Vineyard Restaurant and Piko Piko. Pavlova? Um, no. None from four, and it wasn’t looking promising for the pav. By now, I was convinced the dish was destined for Te Papa. Was the pavlova heading for a similar fate as the trifle?

A trifle is hardly the sweet you’d use to impress Gordon Ramsay at an official dinner. Then again, maybe therein lies its charm. Remnants of sponge, custard and leftover fruit means this Kiwi favourite becomes pig slop after a few days in the fridge. By then, it’s at its best! When my nana used to make it, guests almost had to be breath-tested before their journey home. She must have cleared Whanganui of sherry. No wonder us kids were bouncing off the walls; we were half pissed.

In Wellington, I started with the Matterhorn restaurant – I didn’t stay long, having tried their staff’s patience on more than one occasion when, with other bourbon-filled mates, I’d sung popular songs in the style of the Muppets till the early hours. But there was no pav. After the Matterhorn, I visited the Arizona Bar, a family-oriented restaurant famous for Mexican, Cajun and American-style cuisine. Here was a dessert menu designed to keep a toddler (myself included) extremely happy: ice cream sundaes, banana burritos, pecan pies and rice puddings. Sadly, no pavlova within cooee.

The Queen City was my last hope in the hunt for the lesser-spotted pavlova. At Sky Tower’s Orbit Restaurant and Westhaven Marina’s Sails Restaurant, I found dishes such as mango and white jasmine tea sorbet, avocado parfait, Molly Whoppy cookies, crème brulée and warm chocolate fondue, but I had to conclude the Great Pavlova Hunt had been a dismal failure. It seemed the pavlova was like the kiwi – we know it’s there somewhere, but we hardly ever see one. When I asked family and friends where they sampled the pav, most replied they made their own. Moata told me she had indeed ordered a pavlova at a restaurant at Christmas.  ‘Was it from a classic Kiwi tearoom?’ I asked hopefully.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Mine was from Wagamama.’

 

‘There’s a Pavlova in the Middle of the Table’

by Leanne Morris

 

There’s a pavlova in the middle of the table. To be more accurate, there’s a third of a pavlova in the middle of the table. There were four whole ones when Mum took them out last night for a catering job. Now it’s Sunday morning and this is all that’s left.

Surrounding the pavlova is a third of a sponge cake already cut up, nearly half a trifle and a wee bowl of fruit salad with the banana pieces starting to go a bit yuk. But the pavlova is the prize pickings. A half would have been better, more to go round. Mum probably doesn’t want any, after making them all, so that leaves five of us for breakfast. And the slow and sleepy will miss out, so that’s Dad eliminated. Down to four. The mission is to put the first-in-first-served principle into action and do it before the big sisters find out the size of said pavlova leftovers. This will involve sneakiness, stealth and diversions.

Since Mum has left everything out on the table, there’s no need to mask the noise of the fridge door opening; it is still the era of glass milk bottles, and those things rattle and could send an alert to the sisters. The trick is getting past the obstacle of the cupboard door that sticks to get to a bowl, before tackling the slow opening of the cutlery drawer and removing a spoon with the aptitude gained from Jenga playing. There are noises emerging from the two oldest sisters’ bedroom. No need for the grab and hide yet. A slice of sponge on a plate if they are still sleepy enough won’t raise suspicions. I grab two plates. No cutlery – too hard to hold, and dropping it would be disastrous.

They can eat with their fingers. I casually enter the hostile zone and slip the sponge cake under their noses. It works! I slip out of the room smoothly. In the hallway, I feel a chilly stare boring into my back. The last sister is up, standing at our shared bedroom door with a look of, you’d better not be doing what I think you’re doing without me. Ah, well, my attempt was admirable, but since I’ve been caught the best option is to turn the enemy into a co-conspirator.

I give a resigned nod that she understands clearly, and we quietly make our way back to the dining room. She gets her own plate and spoon, and I slide the pavlova from the middle of the table towards us. We both look at the yummy mound of deliciousness, oh so worth it. She cuts, I choose the right piece and place it on my plate. She gets hers and we quietly slip outside.

There is no pavlova left in the middle of the table.

 

‘Perseverance’

by Carolyn Fredrickson

 

In 1959, my mother received a Kenwood benchtop mixer as a wedding present from her parents. My grandfather had been about to head to England on a chemistry scholarship when the Second World War intervened and he was put to work as a baker in Palmerston North. He stayed in that trade until his retirement and knew the value of a Kenwood. The Kenwood is loud and prone to moving across the bench. It has a lovely opaque glass bowl that Mum always warned us could not be replaced. The wires of the balloon whisk are perfectly spaced for licking but can beat egg whites into a solid mass, almost like polystyrene. When my mother moved into a retirement home, space was tight and the heavy mixer became a liability.

Ownership passed to me, as I was the only one of my siblings who would accept the responsibility of producing crunchy but chewy pavlovas.

Not long after I inherited the Kenwood, my son, Ollie, told us he was off to an American university to study. This time there wasn’t a war to take the experience away from him. As part of his preparations I suggested that I show him how to make a pav. I told him it would be the perfect dish to take to any occasion, inexpensive and a fine representation of Kiwi cuisine. He wasn’t keen.

I encouraged and coerced, but no. Imagine how delighted I was when halfway through his stay I heard a ‘ping’ on Messenger.

Good morning Mother darling, can I please have your pavlova recipe? I have a Friendsgiving on Sunday. XX

I didn’t hold back. I sent the recipe along with links to videos on how to separate the eggs and how to beat the whites. I sent endless tips like giving the bowl a wash with a little vinegar to remove the grease. I explained about drawing a circle on baking paper to guide the shape. Old eggs are best, I said, and absolutely no stray egg yolks. The small face of Ollie on my phone told me that my messages had been seen, but he gave no response. I waited overnight, checking for an update.

Finally, a photo came through, dark and difficult to see. I tapped and spread the photo, enlarging it to look more closely. An abundance of whipped cream was dotted with raspberries and even a few of the precious mini chocolate fish he had taken over months before. The pavlova – for that’s surely what it must have been – was square shaped, which seemed unusual, flat and suspiciously soft-looking.

It was all eaten, he reported.

Well done, I said. It could become your signature dish perhaps?

I’m not sure I’d ever make another one. I have a pretty decent blister on my thumb.

A blister, why a blister? I asked, and then watched the screen for a response.

Well, Mother, he said, I only had a fork.

 

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Pav Deconstructed editors

Kathy Derrick, co-founder of Pavlova Press, writes flash fiction and novels. For Pav Deconstructed, she decided to let loose her inner artist, with mixed results. She intends to return to writing.

 

Claire Gordon’s career choices have ranged from stockbroking fund manager/director in London to mental health counsellor in her beloved Far North. Art and photography have kept her relatively sane, and this has been her focus over the last decade – as well as time spent with her family, dogs and Kaimanawa horse.

 

Jac Jenkins, co-founder of Pavlova Press, wandered many a winding road before returning to her home ground of Northland. She and her partner, Alistair Tulett, now farm in the Hokianga, where she has learned how to fix fences and, perhaps, how to stay. Wherever she goes, she writes.