My Mom and Melkkos

My mom, Marie.

A glass of milk. Obviously.

John Lennon's lyrics for Beautiful Boy are especially poignant to me now. 'Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans.' Or as my mom would say 'Man proposes and God disposes. 

I had fully intended being slightly self-obsessed with the launch of my book: I saw myself lapping up the attention (gratefully), basking in the glory (hopefully) and being unbearably smug (just a little bit). I was really looking forward to this whole book-author thing.

But things haven't quite worked out that way. And the reason I'm writing this is so that  you may understand my silence and forgive me for not having gotten back to you or acknowledged your recent kind emails and messages. You see, on the day of my book launch my mom was hospitalized. She had been chemo-weak and sick leading up to my book launch but she was determined that she would be there on the night. But she wasn't. Since the 8 April, she's been in and out of hospital. Those familiar with cancer know how this goes; despair and hope.  Tears and tests. Bargaining. Acceptance. Prayers and practicalities. I have been unable to think of anything else. It has been all-consuming. And some days during the last couple of weeks were harrowing.

It's better now.  My mom is slowly regaining that familiar fighting spirit. That's why I can write this. Because I am less frightened now than I was 10 days ago. Ten days ago I thought I'd lose her.

I can remember two things about this time, the one was making myself melkkos late one night, in desperation, while she was in the hospital having a brain scan and the other was lying on the couch on our stoep one warm night, my head on her lap while she sat up straight. We spent an hour looking at the beautiful silver full moon that night and talking softly. I don't recall what it was we spoke of. Because words didn't matter....

MELKKOS

Ingredients

1/2 cup of flour

1 1/2 tablespoons of butter

Pinch of salt

3 cups of milk

Cinnamon stick.

Sugar

Cinnamon

Method

Mix the sugar and cinnamon to make cinnamon. (Obviously)

Rub the butter and the flour between your fingers until it's all nice and crumbly.

Bring the milk with the cinnamon stick to boil

Slowly, bit by bit, add the butter / flour mixture to the warm milk, stirring gently all the while.

Reduce the heat of the milk, adding as much cinnamon sugar as you like or need.

And simmer for 5-7 minutes, while stirring gently. 

Remove the cinnamon stick from the melkkos.

Serve in a deep bowls with some more cinnamon sugar sprinkled on top.

Soul Food is Heart Food.

(Milk Tart will always be found at any celebration whether birthdays, christenings, graduations or funerals where Afrikaans is spoken. 

May also be eaten for no reason at all.)

My friend (and soul sister) Ingrid Jones (aka Mrs Jones) commissioned me to write something about soul food for the magazine she edits. She knows all about soul, so I'm flattered that she asked me to write this, because she could have easily done it herself.

Sacred Soul Food

Food, in additional to keeping us alive has also become both fashion and high art. But in its most honest form, when it is offered as Soul Food it becomes something else, it becomes the essence of who we are.

I’m not good with foams. Or dots. Or intricately layered towers of ingredients. I appreciate Fancy Food, but I seldom crave it.

I’m also not good with calories. Or steaming. Or carb-free, protein-laden plates. I value Healthy Food but I seldom desire it.

What I am good at is biltong. Syrupy koeksisters. Steaming pots of stew. I understand Soul Food. It’s what my heart recognizes.

There are days when my heart aches and the longing threatens to engulf me. On those days I need cinnamon. Specifically, sweet, milky cinnamon as found in melkkos, pancakes and milk tart. But bizarrely these are also the flavours I crave when my heart busts with joy, when the excitement bubbles up inside me, on days when I feel the urge to celebrate. You see, cinnamon-flavoured melkkos, pancakes, and milk tart are my Soul Food. Along with peppery lamb and green bean stew, pumpkin fritters, slightly spicy bobotie, boerewors, snoek braaied with garlic and apricot jam and nutmeg- infused alikreukel. My love for these foods gives clues as to who I am. That I have an Afrikaner heritage and that I grew up in the Western Cape. Had I grown up speaking Afrikaans in the old Transvaal I may well have added krummelpap into the mix. But I didn’t and so I don’t.

For me, Soul Food is the heart food.  It can best be described as heritage food. It is the food we ate as a child. The food our mothers prepared for us. The food that we want when we need the comfort of home. The food we long for when we long for our mothers. It is the food that defines us, the food that tells others who we identify with culturally, who we are and what we love. It is the taste of our forefathers.

I have some friends who long for fiery crab curries, for piping hot bhaji the way their grandmother makes them, for the comfort of a warm lentil dahl. Friends who dream of bunny chow. Some friends crave chicken livers and per-peri. Other friends speak lyrically of rooti and  denningvleis, of the meditative comfort of making of mince samoosas and of sweet, cardamom-infused boeber. Then there are those that seek the comfort of pickled fish and speak longingly of Gatsbies filled with slap chips. While others speak proudly of real free range, slightly tough chicken, declare their affection for mogodu and who click their longing for umngqusho and umphokoqo.

Soul food is the food that gets spoken of when people try and explain who they are in this often divided country. When we need to remember that that which binds is is often stronger than that which divides us. When the young Afrikaans girl tells of the sweetly-sour taste of karringmelk pudding her grandmother made her, and when her Zulu friend recounts how her grandfather drinks amasi. And they realize how similar the flavours are. Or when the milky sweet sameness of melkkos and boeber are discovered. Or when we realize that there are few South Africans who don’t love the taste of charred meat.

And when it comes to memories, it matters not if you remember the first time you slept with a sykous, or how old you were on the occasion of your first weave, or when your first had that bad perm, what matters is what food comforted you when you were sad, what food your mother made you when you were happy. Even the food that you disliked as a child, those same flavours that you now crave. These are the things that define you. More than the hair you have or the colour of your skin or the language you speak at home. Our Soul Food (that which has very little to do with nutrition and everything to do with nurturing) will always remind us of who were are and where we come from. It is the food that we will take with us wherever we go. Because we carry it in our heart.

GLOSSARY (in order of appearance)

Biltong  - A type of cured meat which evolved from the type of dried meat carried by the Voortrekkers. Similar to Aussie beef jerky, but way, way better.

Koeksisters – A deep-fried, syrup-soaked plaited cake. The Afrikaner version is crispy and very sweet while the Cape Malay version, known as koesister is round cake-like and spicier.

Melkkos – A milky cinnamon-flavoured soup thicked with either sago or thin strips of pasta

Bobotie – Spicy mincemeat with an egg-based topping. A lot nicer than it seems.

Boerewors – Traditional Afrikaans sausage

Snoek – A locally caught fish, similar to a barracuda in looks.

Alikreukel – A giant periwinkle. A lot scarcer than it used to be.

Krummelpap – A crumbly porridge made from mielie meal.

Bhaji – An Indian version of vegetable fritters.

Dhal – An Indian dish made from lentils

Bunny Chow – A Durban favourite – a loaf of bread filled with curry.

Rooti – The Cape Malay version of the Indian roti – an unleavened bread.

Denningvleis – A Cape Malay lamb stew flavoured with tamarind or lemon juice.

Samoosas – A fried triangular pastry filled with savoury mince or vegetables

Boeber – Similar to and also the inspiration for melkkos. A Cape Malay milky soup using condenced milk and cardamom.

Pickled fish  - also known as Pickle Fish. In the Western Cape we like to leave out the ‘d’. A fish pickled with vinegar spices and onions.

Gatsby – A sandwich roll filled with anything from chips, to Vienna sausages to calamari, or steak. Originating in the Cape Flats where it’s regarded as messy –meant-to-be-shared food.

Slap chips – What the rest of the world calls French Fries, we call slap (floppy) chips, a ticker cut of chip served with lashings of salt and vinegar.

Mogodu - tripe

Umngqushu – A Xhosa favourite of samp (crushed de-hulled dried corn) and cowpeas  - a type of black-eyed peas.

Umphokoqo – A mielie meal porridge.

Karringmelk – Buttermilk

Amasi – Fermented milk

THIS IS AN UNEDITED VERSION OF AN ARTICLE FIRST THAT FIRST APPEARED IN MANGO JUICE MAGAZINE IN MARCH 2013

The Prayer of the Passion Fruit

I once, stupidly, proclaimed 'If I shoot ever tweet, shoot me.' At the time I had no idea how wonderful Twitter was, how many friends I would find online or how much love and support I would find in cyberspace. So when I received a tweet from Jo Barrow @i_am_jobarrow asking me where she could find a column I had written for Woolworths TASTE in January / February 2011 about granadillas and gratitude, I had to smile because the request came at just the right time.  I knew then that I needed to eat a granadilla and start saying my gratitudes. So I thought I'd post the column for Jo. It appears, along with many others, in my book coming out in April (punt punt, my publishers will be happy) but for now, here it is....

The Prayer of the Passion Fruit

I married my love on the 6 January. Twelfth Night. It was a raucous, happy affair. But we celebrated our wedding with two wedding cakes. Because we couldn’t decide on one. I wanted a plain elegant marzipan white icing fruitcake on which we would put fresh flowers on the day. Jacques, showing an intense dislike for both fruitcake and marzipan, insisted on getting married with a granadilla cake, his favourite : the type with two layers and frosting in between and messily slapped on top. The type you get at church bazaars and aunties’ house. Now I like granadilla cake, my aunty Margie made an excellent one, but I certainly didn’t want that to be my wedding cake, not at our wedding. Not accompanying the live jazz band and gin and lime sorbets. My mom suggested a compromise. His and Her cakes. And so it was that on the night, my cake looked beautiful displayed on the cake stand, a perfect white square, no frills, covered only in fresh full blown roses. Jacques’s cake, on the other hand, made a grand entrance, stealing the show. My mom had bought no less that 17 of those kitschy-cool bride and groom cake toppers and placed them all on the cake along with a handful of sparklers that set the night alight. And most people ate the granadilla version. Including me. I think my cake went home almost untouched and my family ate fruitcake for a year. But it is the granadilla cake we most remember. The flavour Jacques insisted on.

Before Jacques, I never much cared for granadillas. As I child the closest I would come to them was eating the granadilla lollies, sold at corner cafes and on beaches in the summer, but even then, I, disapprovingly picked out the tiny black seeds. Older, I grew to like their other name Passion Fruit, mistakenly thinking it to be of sensual origin rather the spiritual one it in fact is. And I have always thought their flowers to be incredibly beautiful. I once visited friends in the Italian Lake District and their garden wall was covered in a creeper laden with blooming passion fruit flowers. I spent a lot of time admiring the intricate floral patterns and delicate markings while contemplating the lost-cause-love who had accompanied me on the trip. Perhaps the granadilla, mysterious in its more exotic setting, was a sign of things to come... A man I would love with all my heart, who I would thank God for, and who would make me love granadillas.

Granadillas also feature strongly in the lives of my parents, who have been married for 43 years. My mom tells me that when she and my dad were courting, she would seduce him with desert of granadilla pulp folded into thick double cream. These days, she makes a less luscious version for them, using low fat Bulgarian yoghurt instead. A case of, cholesterolly speaking, the spirit being willing, but the flesh being weak.

My mother-in-law gave me a recipe for the most divinely decadent use of granadilla. One part fresh granadilla pulp, one can of condensed milk and a tub of thick cream are all folded in together and frozen.

I made this desert for Jacques the night we made the commitment to one another that we would do everything in our power, no matter what it took, to ensure that we had a baby. The night we acknowledged there was space in our relationship for a child and that not having a baby of our own was making us intensely unhappy. On this night the sweetness of the condensed milk granadilla comforted us. On the night I bargained with God…

I also made this desert the night my parents came to dinner, the night I was told that my mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. On this night not even the sweetness of the condensed milk granadilla could comfort me. On the night I bargained with God…

My dad has this thing he does, which he has passed on to me. He starts every morning with an endless list of the things that he is grateful for. It is part prayer, part thanks. I call it The Gratitudes. It is a litany of things to remind us of our blessings; a loving partner, parents, family, a warm bed at night, clean sheets, good food, wonderful friends, a beautiful home filled with laughter, movies, books, medicine, therapy, lemons, salt-seawater, star jasmine, lemon verbena, crushed mint, being able to brush teeth with toothpaste and running water…

The granadilla reminds me of My Gratitudes. There are so many seeds it’s almost impossible to count them. Now as I eat granadillas, each seed symbolizes a blessing. The granadilla has, for me, become a meditative fruit. And so while I eat my morning yogurt with the pulp and a smidgen of honey, I eat the seeds and count my blessings. That way I eat mindfully. So that food does not become my escape, but rather becomes my comfort. And, sometimes, I bite into the seeds. To remind myself. To be sure.

A 2013 Update:
My parents have now been married for 45 years. My mom is still battling her cancer - bravely and stylishly. She is determined that she will live so that she may one day teach our child to dance. We are still battling to become a family. Bravely but not always stylishly. Yet we know, with absolute certainty, that our baby will find his or her way to us. Eventually.

Chocolate + Pedicure = Happy Feet

Almost two years ago I wrote a post on Bastien Gonzales pedicures at the One & Only Cape Town . I reread is this morning.  And I'll post if for you, in case you want to read it as well. And perhaps you should because when I read it I was quite pleased with myself. I liked what I wrote. And believe me after the week I've had in which I panicked, obsessed and hated myself for struggling so much with a piece of writing, I need a little reassurance. And there it was, a funny light-hearted recommendation. Clever me.
(What I wrote two years ago)

Now, I have had many pedicures at beauty salons, and quite a few podiatrist/ chiropodist appointments as well. But have always found that the one was aesthetic (beauty salons and spas) and the other medicinal (podiatrist/ chiropodists). And that there is seldom an overlap. Until my Bastien Gonzalez experience. These treatments, developed by an ex competitive skier and podiatrist to the stars (Don't you just love that expression? Imagine the conversations...'Tell Halle Berry to wait, I'm busy with Eta Carinae now and she's flown in from far.') are curative and aesthetic as well as incredibly luxurious. Therapist, Area Manager and Bastien Gonzalez devotee, Kim Milton took charge of my feet. While Celeste Osbourne managed my hands.

There were a few things that immediately told me that this pedicure and manicure would be unlike any other I had ever experienced. Firstly I was offered chocolate once I was snugly ensconced in my electric-blanket-already-on-reclining-chair. I knew I was off to a great start.

Surprisingly no water was used during either treatment, as wet skin can hide problems that need to be evaluated.

Cuticles are not pushed back, or cut as in other treatments.

No foot file, or pumice stone came near my feet, as this apparently promotes and encourages the growth of hard, thicker skin, causing ugly cracked heels. Instead, a blade is used to remove excess skin, and the use of powder is recommended to prevent friction when wearing closed shoes or high heels. Feet should be moisturized at night. Nail varnish should be removed, allowing nails to breathe etc, etc

I know all of this is hardly appropriate for a mostly-food blog. But wait, the results are amazing, butter-soft heels, and shiny buffed nails. And the experience was really relaxing and luxurious. Once all the work had been done, the lights in the treatment room were dimmed and the chair moved even further back until I was almost lying down. And then I smelt it... the sweet, beautiful scent of chocolate. This was the vitamin-E enriched, cocoa and paraffin wax treatment which was used to massage my hands and feet in tandem. A heavenly 75 minutes later, it was still raining outside, but I was walking on sunshine. Havaianas might not be in the same league as Jimmy Choo, but my feet sure as hell didn't know the difference. They had developed a personality all of their own. It may have been the sugar rush, it may have been the massage, but they felt goooood. And they wanted to be shown off. They wanted to party...

So there you have it; another guilt-free chocolate pleasure.

Sure the treatment is pricey, but so is liposuction! 

(The end)

So why, you may ask, would I now write about something I'd written about before? Because it was a gift? Partly. But not necessarily. It's because it's a wonderful treat/ treatment and a really good deal. Last year I bruised my credit card by taking out a Bastien mani /pedi package, consisting of three glorious sessions. Which was terribly lavish / 'hey big spender-ish' of me considering that I'm a freelancer with an irregular income but the thrill of languishing at the One & Only Spa was just too tempting. I like the place. I like the place so very much... So imagine my delight when I saw that Bastien Studio at the One & Only  are running a special at the moment. And the best of it is that while your feet and hands are being pampered, you get to eat chocolate. As much as you like. And while you're not going to make a piglet of yourself, there is a delicious decadence to scoffing chocolate while in a spa. But the really good news is that this is not only an  Easter Bunny Special. While the man or woman in your life may well like this more than yet another Easter egg (and let's face it we all much prefer the cheap marshmallow one that we nick from the kids, anyway), this is a much more luxurious gift, if you can't afford Fabergé. This promotion runs till the end of May. And you really shouldn't miss it. And if you're spoiling yourself or someone else, do try the Bastien Le Baume Sensitive Feet Balm.  Silky soft and non-greasy and works like a charm on horrible heels. You'll never want to use good old Eulactol ever again.

So herewith the details:
Pedi:Mani:Cure Studio by Bastien Gonzales
Reservations: Tel: 021 4315810
Email: spa.reservations@oneandonlycapetown.com

Chocoholic Delight Special offer: The special runs until 31 May 2013 and  offers a Pedicure for R750 (instead of R945) and a Manicure for R450 (instead of R525). This includes having your limbs massaged with fabulous cocoa-fragranced and Vitamin E enriched paraffin wax. And eating as many delicious chocolates as you can decently manage.

Take A Look At The Book!

( Judging a book by its cover? I can live (happily) with this one. )

(Talented book designer and lovely friend Beverley Dodd who brought me the unbound copy a couple of weeks ago. We celebrated with strong gins and huge grins.)

I went to pick up my advance copy yesterday afternoon. And then I spent a large part of the evening looking at it and looking at it again. I wanted to share the exciting news but I was also quite hesitant. There's a lot of me on and in this book. Why this should bother me, I'm not quite sure, I earn my living wearing my heart on my sleeve (and on my hips). 

But here it is; the book I am incredibly proud of. So very pleased with. The book that has made me happy. The book that is proof that I actually managed to  achieve something during the past year filled with such loss. A book filled with memories, food, friendships and recipes. It should be on the shelves by the end of the month and I hope you like it and /or buy it.

Ooh yes. Have to tell you that the title of the book is flocked! Which means you can, should you be so inclined, frottage the words all you like. If you're into that sort of thing...

(The bit below is what the clever marketing people from Struik Lifestyle / Random House Struik sent out)

The Avo Eaters

(Avo Perfection)

(The loveliest of notes)

I wrote of my affection for avocados in the October 2012 issue of Woolworths Taste. In it I confided how much (and how) I liked to eat them and of how intensely Jacques disliked them. And then I thought no more about it, other than smirking when Jacques told me that his colleagues wanted to know how he could possibly claim to despise avocados while quite happily eating guacamole. ( You see what I'm dealing with?) And then, out of the blue, I received an email from the South African Avocado Growers Association thanking me for writing such nice things about their fruit and asking for my adress as they'd like to send me something. Which is how I came to be in possession of a dozen avocados, a bottle of white wine vinegar and some sea salt and this rather lovely note, which said that they hoped I would enjoy picking out each avo cube just as I'd described in my column.

I cannot begin to tell you how much this gesture pleased me. 

Such kindness could only come from people who truly, truly loved avos.

Writing is one One Elle-of-a Thing.

(The August 2011 Elle cover)

This morning I emailed something to Elle. I'd been asked to submit a small piece and, as always, the moment I sent it off, I started obsessing. Would it be good enough? Was I too honest? Is it what they wanted, blah blah blah...Why do we do this? Because once you've obsessed, panicked and written, it really is rather lovely to see your name in print. I wrote the following (unedited) essay on growing older for Elle's August 2011 issue. I thought I'd been too honest at the time, but once you decide to go the confessional route, there really is no going back. Anyway, I'm 43 now and it still hold true. 

On Growing Up, Not Old

The only things I miss about my 20s are my thighs and my ovaries.

My thighs are more flab than fab and fertility, let me tell you, is a bitch in your 40s. But as for the rest. I’m glad I’m here. I’m really glad I’m here.

I remember when my mom turned forty, it was a big deal, she had a Ladies Lunch at home and my dad arrived to propose a loving toast to her.  I was 13. When I turned 40 we threw a raucous party, with 80s music, and I wore a tiara, a too-tight bustier and masses of black, sequin tulle. We ate oysters. And drank too much.  My husband gave me two Nurofen and a litre of water before I went to sleep. I still woke up with a hangover. But grateful I had neither children nor babysitters to consider. In celebrating my 40^th birthday, I had become the 20-something I had always wanted to be. I was less insecure, more in love, happy in my career, delighted with our travelling lifestyle and (more) comfortable with my body than I had ever been before. I was rocking. Dancing to Tainted Love and Rock Me Amadeus when you (finally) have big breasts and no longer have teenage acne will do that to you. Momentarily. But the euphoria does wear off. Especially when the Clomid kicks in and you find you’ve progressed from recreational to procreational sex. And when you realize how much it’s costing you to just hang in there. Because while you once proudly proclaimed that you intended growing old disgracefully, you didn’t mean this to be in the physical sense. So in addition to the once-monthly facials, pedicures and obligatory waxing, there is also the hair colour and cut every four weeks. And while I’m not exactly the poster girl for plastic surgery, I do admit to having a bit of work done. Let’s just say that Botox is a beautiful thing. There is also regular acupuncture and therapy but I consider those to be a necessity no matter what your age.

But I don’t feel old. I might be less fit than I once was and I may weigh substantially more than I once did. But I don’t feel like a ‘grown-up’, whatever that may be. I’m just happier than I’ve ever been before. Which doesn’t mean that I’m never sad, or no longer insecure, but it does mean that I now know that I can contain these emotions, even embrace them if I can learn from the experience, and that they too, will, like everything else, soon pass. I sometimes wonder how much of my present state of mind can be attributed to my age, or if it does, in fact, not have more to do with the man I married. A man, not afraid of complexity, a man who embraces all that I am. I do believe he deserves more credit than the inevitable chronological markings of time. But it is the passage of time and the experiences enjoyed and endured that define me.

Now in my 40s I am more comfortable with my own sexuality. It used to frighten me when I was younger and this, coupled with an intense shyness, prohibited me from enjoying the company of boys and men as much as my friends seemed to do. Whereas now, I am free to flirt without intent, I’m also comfortable in my own skin, which allows me to get closer to theirs. I like men, both straight and gay, young and old, I find them fascinating, mysterious, surprisingly vulnerable and extremely funny. I like their company and I like knowing that they like mine. But it is The Sisterhood that I treasure most of all. Throughout the years I have managed to surround myself with a group of strong, inspiring women who thrive on meaningful engagement as much as they like to open a celebratory bottle of Cap Classique or put the kettle on for a sympathetic cup of tea. They can all laugh raucously and rudely, but also weep at injustice. They are all kind.
I learned a long time ago that the two prerequisites of a great lover or friend is firstly are they kind and secondly do they make you laugh. Now that kind of wisdom comes with experience, and experience, always, trumps a tight butt and flawless skin.