Making rēwana is about more than just a recipe – it’s a journey of patience, care and persistence.

A subtle smell is filling our living room as my son crawls around playing with his nana. It has the familiar scent of freshly baked bread, with a slight hint of sweetness. In the oven, a boule-shaped loaf of rēwana is almost ready. The lid is off and the crust is becoming a perfect shade of brown. 

I open the oven door, pull the burning hot cast iron dutch oven out and put it on a wooden chopping board. My stomach is already rumbling as I carefully take two sides of the baking paper on which the golden loaf sits and sling it out of the big yellow enamel pot I hope to pass on to my son one day. Before letting the bread cool on a wire rack, I lean in to listen and tap the bottom of the loaf. It sounds hollow, which is a sure sign the bread is cooked as it should be. 

Lesson #1: Looks can be deceiving

After a while, I cut the boule down the middle of the overly exposed middle score. Inside, it isn’t the prettiest loaf I’ve made – one of the scores was too deep and the crumb is slightly uneven, with larger air pockets near the edges. Undeterred, I slice an end piece off and paint it with an unhealthy amount of butter. Surprisingly, this is one of the tangier and more complexly flavoured loaves I have baked. The crust is crispy and chewy. There is just the right amount of sweetness and saltiness to complement the signature tang of rēwana. Looks can be deceiving.

While I can’t recall my first ever taste of rēwana (also commonly written as rēwena), I can remember it being a staple at many marae and Māori households I used to visit with my father growing up. There would often be a loaf of rēwana sitting on the table alongside the meal. It’s the perfect vessel for soaking up the flavour-packed juices of a boil-up and fish heads, or drizzling with golden syrup or lathering with jam for a simple sweet treat. However, in recent years, rēwana seems to have taken a backseat in te ao Māori, with fried bread becoming the more popular choice. 

Lesson #2: Feel the fear and do it anyway

As an avid home cook, I have long made a point of avoiding baking. I’ve always perceived it as being too much of an exact science for someone who usually operates by sight, taste, feel, and listening to my ancestors. However, I’ve since come to learn that feel is particularly important in baking bread, especially with how variable conditions can be and how that impacts the final product. It also helps that rēwana is quite a forgiving baked good.

Until recently, the majority of my recent rēwana experiences had been limited to the sadly subpar $8 loaves from the Hangi Shop in Ōtāhuhu. While I didn’t catch the sourdough bug through the Covid pandemic, I did finally discover the joys of baking bread over the recent summer break – pretty much by accident. At the end of last year, desperate to create a thoughtful secret Santa gift, I decided to make my colleague a kūmara rēwana starter bug.  I chose to use purple kūmara for the bug, hoping to give it a point of difference and authenticity over the more commonly used potato. After realising I probably made a bit too much for one bug, I split it into two, deciding to give rēwana a go – blissfully unaware of what would ensue.

Lesson #3: Trust your gut

As mentioned above, baking bread is very instinctual. What does the dough look like? How does it feel? What are your ancestors saying to you? After a few loaves, you start to get a feel for what the dough should feel like, how long it will need to proof for, and how much sugar and salt is right for your taste.

Lesson #4: It’s good to care for something other than yourself

It didn’t take long for me to realise that by creating a rēwana bug, I had made a commitment to caring for a living organism. It was yet another thing I had to remember to feed, water and keep warm alongside my son, dog, cat, and myself. The first few days after making the bug were relatively uneventful, besides me feeding the bug a couple spoonfuls of flour and sugar every day, and falling into the rabbit hole of dos and don’ts of rēwana.

Lesson #5: Patience truly is a virtue

By day five, the bug was starting to form small bubbles and become visibly active. It was time to bake. With no special secret rēwana recipes handed down to me and so many different suggestions on the interwebs, I did what any reasonable millennial would do – I asked ChatGPT for its ultimate rēwana recipe.

After making my dough, I waited for it to double in size, also known as the first proof. The dough took over 24 hours to increase in size and my patience was wearing thin. It was good enough for me. I punched it down, shaped it into a round boule and left it for a second proof. Again, the second proof took a long time, and I eventually couldn’t wait any longer. I scored the dough, put it in the oven and hoped for the best. After 35 minutes, I had baked my first ever loaf of rēwana. 

Unfortunately, it was far from the best loaf of rēwana I had ever eaten, but it wasn’t a complete failure either. The bread didn’t rise as well as it probably should’ve and the tang was subtle at best. After running some quick Google diagnostics, I realised that the bug probably wasn’t as active as it should’ve been and my proofing needed to be somewhere warmer.

Lesson #6: Nothing is perfect, that’s what gives us character

Approximately three weeks have passed since I made my first rēwana loaf and I have made a few since. I have come to realise that no two loaves are the same. One day your bread might be crispy with uniform air pockets and another day it might have large air pockets and be dense in the middle. Each loaf is unique to its circumstances and that’s what makes it interesting – looking at the bread tells you the story of its journey.

Lesson #7: To grow, we have to make sacrifices

The key part of rēwana is the starter bug. When caring for your bug, it’s important to make sure it has enough space to grow. Often, that can mean discarding some of the bug so you can feed it more. It’s a good analogy for the sacrifices we have to make in life. At times, we have to let go of what no longer serves us so we can keep moving forward.

Another practice I have learnt is tearing off some of your dough and feeding it to your bug before baking your bread. It’s the circle of life. Give and take.

Lesson #8: Everything has mauri

Some starter bugs have been passed down through multiple generations of a family. Just as with my dutch oven from The Warehouse, I also hope my son will one day inherit my kūmara rēwana starter bug. Hopefully, it’ll teach him some of the lessons it has taught me. These things have mana and mauri. They have their own life force and that deserves to be respected and nurtured. 

Lesson #9: Love is the most vital ingredient

Breadmaking often reflects a person’s mood and energy level because it requires patience, creativity and effort. If a loaf is over-kneaded, it might suggest a day of trying too hard or overthinking things. If it’s burnt, the person might’ve had a rough day, full of distractions or stress. If it’s a tasty loaf with lots of time and effort clearly put into it, then the person is probably feeling good. It’s highly likely you will be able to feel and taste the love.