Crabb - My two heavens: a life in French food, from Martinborough to Montjaux

We started. Talk is not the same thing as starting. Talk is cheap. Talk is easy.

Ideas have a life cycle of their own. Some start as dreams and stay that way, withering on the vine. Others grow and ripen, and mature into plans. And when plans are put into action thats what we mean when we say that an idea has been brought to fruition.

During the 12 years that we were taking long annual holidays in France, Stephen and I would often talk about what it would be like to have our own place there. Imagine we would say to each other as we biked past ancient chteaux, or sat on a grassy bank under the shade of an ancient oak, eating baguettes and creamy, stinky cheese, glasses of cheap vin rouge in our hands. Imagine we would say as we hiked through ancient villages, thrilling at the history, stopping for croissants au buerre and caf au lait. We fantasised.

Then, at some stage, we started to think about buying a house in France more seriously. We began to hear of other people who had actually done it. Wouldnt it be cool? wed say to each other. And then, at another, later point, our language changed from that of fantasy to that of possibility: You know, we actually could!

Jo and Stephen against the world, we say. Its always been Stephen and me. People tell us were joined at the hip. They say when one of us goes, the other will be only a few hours behind.

Weve been together for more than 30 years, and, given that at the time of writing were both just over 50, thats pretty good going. We met in Christchurch in 1982, when I was 21 and Stephen was 22. He was in the final year of his Fine Arts degree at Ilam, and I was halfway through my Economics degree. He has never stopped making art he paints these days, and has achieved a degree of recognition. He usually has two exhibitions a year, at Bowen Galleries in Wellington and Orexart in Auckland. I completed my Economics degree, but decided the economists life wasnt what I wanted. Instead, I embarked on a life in food, first working my way up through restaurant and hotel kitchens, then training in London under a chef whose credentials included working with some of Frances very finest chefs, and finally immersing myself in menus when I became my own boss back in New Zealand. Stephen and I eventually sought a change of lifestyle and shifted to Martinborough, where we opened that towns first real caf, Caf Medici. When we had to sell the caf, we set up Carme cooking classes, based at Palliser Estate in Martinborough.

Stephen has always been there. His suggestion for the title of this book was A Tale of Two Kitchen Sinks, as neither of us cares to think about how many dishes he has done in the time that we have been together. These days, hes always standing right behind me while I do my cooking classes, playing the expert theatre nurse to my surgeon. Tongs, Stephen, I will order peremptorily, holding up my hand. Hell have been holding them ready, and will have pressed them into my palm before Ive finished asking.

Everyone has their dreams. Everyone says, Wouldnt it be lovely if ? One day, Id like to The difference is that Stephen and I do the things we dream about. We travelled the world, we started a caf, we founded a cooking school, we bought a house in France. None of these things is an uncommon dream, but the difference is that we followed them through, we brought them to fruition. Aspiration will come to nothing without perspiration: we put the work in. Even more fundamental than that: we started. Talk is not the same thing as starting. Talk is cheap. Talk is easy.

Perhaps it has to do with self-belief, which is something people either possess or they dont. I have my parents to thank for my self-belief. They said to me, You can do things. You can do things, if you want to. And if you want to, just do it.

Stephen and I had adventures. Then, nearly 20 years ago, we moved to Martinborough, a small town in the Wairarapa that has become famous for its wine production in particular its pinot noir and associated industries, such as its restaurants and producers of gourmet foods, notably olive oils.

Martinborough is only an hours drive north of downtown Wellington, over the rugged Rimutaka Range. But when you descend the tortuous hill road into the Wairarapa, its like entering a different world. Approaching from Featherston, through sheep and dairy farms, you crest a small ridge with a fringe of pines on its summit, and the plains surrounding Martinborough open before you: a patchwork of green and gold framed by the sere, dry hills. Since the 1980s, vineyards have stretched across the dry river terraces to the foot of three hills that Maori call Nga Waka-o-Kupe, the upturned canoes of Kupe. The district wears a gown that changes colour with the seasons, as though by magic.

Martinborough is small and out of the way, yet such is its reputation that the world passes through it. If you were to hang out in the Martinborough square for long enough, sooner or later youd see just about everyone youve ever heard of.

For 11 years we ran Caf Medici, and it was more successful than we had dreamed it could be. It became a regional institution with the first really good coffee in the Wairarapa, and, of course, we made beautiful food: home-made breads and other baking, fresh salads and tasty lunches.

In the meantime, we continued our love affair with France. Wed gone there for the first time in our early twenties, and had returned many times since. In 2005, we bought our own home there a gorgeous, very old stone house in Montjaux (pronounced mon-zhoh), an ancient village in the dpartement of Aveyron in the south of France, the part that gets called la France profonde deepest France. Now, between our cottage in Martinborough and our little stone house in France with our 10 months cooking (me) and painting (Stephen) in New Zealand, and our two months of holiday in France we enjoy an endless summer. We do, indeed, live the dream.