tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54470899924580820182024-03-19T05:24:44.575+02:00Confessions of a Hungry WomanFood. Friends. All things fabulous. Weight. Womanhood. And why the secret to living a balanced life, may, perhaps, paradoxically, lie in learning to cook.Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.comBlogger97125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-78326013514852659872015-05-01T19:44:00.000+02:002015-05-02T13:46:00.563+02:00The Proof of the Pudding... (Karringmelkpoeding. Altyd karringmelkpoeding!)<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman';">This week a <a href="http://www.brainpickings.org/">Brainpickings</a> post was doing the rounds on Facebook. One on grief. I didn't want to read it but I'm glad I did. In four months time my mother will have been dead for two years. I miss her every fucking day. I try not to go on and on about it, because I think people get tired of hearing of your sadness. Those who have never experienced loss believe grief should have a time limit. Those of us who grieve, know that it goes on and on and on. The slighest thing will trigger a memory which sets the longing off again. By now my grief has taken the form of longing, not so much sadness and shock </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman;">anymore, but a longing. A longing to talk to her. A longing to share a cup of tea. A longing for her to know my son. A longing for her to be here with me. A longing to return to Kyoto with her. I don't remember my ma or our relationship with anything other than the truth. We fought bitterly, hurt one another at times, but there was nothing about me that my ma did not know. And I think I knew her better than most... We were more than mother and daughter; we were friends. And her loss is devastating. Still. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman;">So I read <a href="http://www.brainpickings.org/2014/06/09/meghan-o-rourke-the-long-goodbye/">this</a> article on Brainpickings and was comforted. Because I am not alone in my grief. None of us are.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman;">Anyway how does this relate to Buttermilk pudding? Well my friend Tania Roux of <a href="http://www.manythingsiam.org/">manythingsiam</a> posted a beautiful <a href="http://huiskok.com/2012/08/24/karringmelkpoeding-met-lemoengeurtjie/">piece</a> of buttermilk pudding writing by Errieda du Toit/Huiskok on her Facebook page asking the question 'Who remembers this from their childhood? It might me more of an Afrikaans thing...' So I thought of my ma, <i>my Afrikaanse ma, </i>who taught me to make buttermilk pudding. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman;">And so tonight I made Marie's karringmelkpoeding. <i>Om myself te troos...</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman;"><i>What follows is a column I wrote for <a href="http://taste.co.za/">TASTE </a>a few years ago.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">When it comes to pudding my hearts only knows one language.....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">I like puddings. I particularly like traditional Afrikaans puddings. For while my heart may be evenly divided into two languages (English father, Afrikaans mother), when it comes to puddings, I don’t believe the English stand a chance. For me, a <i>Malva poeding</i> will always trump a Sticky Toffee pudding. Syrupy <i>souskluitjies</i> will always be preferable to raisin-studded Spotted Dick. Yes, bread and butter pudding is fabulous when made with croissants and a good apple crumble and cream is very nice but it’s no match for the cinnamon-infused sweet milkiness of <i>melkkos</i>. But most importantly, the English don’t have Buttermilk pudding. And the Afrikaners do. Battle won.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Buttermilk pudding, or rather <i><span class="il">Karringmelk</span>poeding</i>, if it is to be referred to by its cultural name, is the pudding I grew up with. Its key ingredient is obviously buttermilk which makes this a diary-based pudding and one which is lighter, more subtle and less sweet than the usual baked puddings served around tables where Afrikaans is spoken, but that small matter is soon rectified by the addition of various syrups or fruit preserves. There are many variations of this recipe and every family claims to have the best one; some are more cakey than others, some, (the ones I prefer) are almost soufflé-like and is the result of adding stiffly whipped egg whites in at the end. But all agree that it should be served straight from the oven. It is a pudding that rises to a golden puff, but soon deflates with a sad sigh if not given immediate attention and adoration. As a child I adorned my mom’s <i><span class="il">karringmelk</span>poeding</i> with lashings of <i>Golden Syrup</i> and (shop-bought, of course) vanilla ice-cream. The heat of the pudding would quickly melt the ice-cream, but I loved how the temperatures and flavours - cold, hot, sweet, slightly tart felt and tasted in my mouth. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">It is also the first pudding I learned to make as a newly-wed. In the early days of our marriage I was keen to entertain, but courage would fail me at the last minute. Yet I knew I could always make a buttermilk pudding and with the voice of my mother ringing in my ear, ‘<i>Sif hoog, suster, sif hoog.</i>’ (Sift high, sister), I would recreate the dessert of my childhood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">It is an old-fashioned dessert and for some reason, slightly lesser-known that the other traditional puddings. Many of my friends deny any knowledge of it, but upon being served it, they smile, remembering the forgotten flavours of their childhood. If only for this reason alone, I believe that <i><span class="il">karringmelk</span>poeding</i> should be celebrated. So a while ago, I texted a few Afrikaans friends; creative, talented, well-adapted-to-the-city-<wbr></wbr>types, telling them that the pudding would be coming out of the oven at 5pm on that cold rainy Sunday afternoon and that they were welcome to join us. Later, at the appointed hour, everyone sat around our dining room table. A fire had been lit, candles burned in coloured Murano bowls, my treasured crystal glasses were being used, chilled dessert wine had been poured into small vintage goblets and the fragrance of baking permeated the air. And when the buttermilk pudding came out of the oven, she was fluffy and golden and I knew she would behave beautifully for a minute or two before she tired of all the attention and sulkily slipped back into the dish. I had, of course, put <i>Golden Syrup</i> on the table, but because we were all grown up and apparently sophisticated, I’d made a rooibos and clementine syrup as well. And so amid the laughter, creative energy and happy conversation on that cold Sunday afternoon, we ate <i><span class="il">karringmelk</span>poeding</i> and were sustained by the reminder of our roots.</span></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Buttermilk Pudding</span></u></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">I found this recipe in a fabulous book ‘Aan Tafel Met Nettie Pikeur’ by Madelein Roux. It comes from the chapter titled ‘Mans is Mal oor Poeding’ (Men are crazy about pudding) I have two treasured copies of this book as one was given to me by my mother and the other by my mother-in-law. Great minds thinking alike and all that... </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">2 tablespoons of butter, softened</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">¾ cup of sugar</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">3 eggs, separated <wbr></wbr> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">¾ cup of self-raising flour, sifted (or cake flour, it really makes very little difference)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">pinch of salt</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">500ml of buttermilk</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Mix the softened butter and the sugar well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Separate the eggs and beat separately.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Add the egg yolks to the butter-sugar mixture, then add the sifted flour and salt. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Add the buttermilk and mix well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Lastly fold in the stiffly beaten egg yolks and pour into a buttered dish and bake in a preheated oven for 40 minutes at 180 degrees C</span></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Rooibos and Clementine Syrup</span></u></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">This is my version of a Phillippa Cheifitz’s recipe from her beautiful book ‘South Africa Eats’</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">2 Clementines (or Naartjies if you prefer)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">1 cup of sugar</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">2 cups of rooibos tea (I like to make mine strong)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">1 cinnamon stick</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">2 star anise</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">2 tablespoons of honey</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">2 tablespoons of lemon juice</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Scrape the pith from the peel of two Clementines (keeping the segments aside for later use)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Then boil the Clementine peel, sugar, rooibos tea, cinnamon and star anise for about 15 - 20 minutes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Then add the honey and lemon juice and simmer for another 5-10 more minutes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Once done remove from heat and add the segments of the two Clementines. Allow to cool.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Once cooled, strain the mixture to remove the segments, peel and spices and refrigerate. (Don’t throw the Clementine segments away as you’ll want to eat the syrup-infused half-moons to reward yourself for your fervent domesticity.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i>(A version of this was riginally published in Taste August 2012)</i></span></div>
Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-17247185734017138552014-11-21T19:31:00.001+02:002014-11-21T19:32:44.276+02:00Grootbos - A Big Treat for a Little One (and the big one's too...)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am a besotted mother. I waited long enough for this privilege. And while I waited I compensated for what I knew was my emptiness. Jacques and I travelled a lot. We went on great holidays and stayed in some magnificent places as is the way of DINKies ( Dual Income No Kids. Well strictly speaking 1 1/2 incomes as mine doesn't count for all that much…but you get my point.) My husband would mock me by saying that I surfed the interwebs salivating over gorgeous hotel rooms the way other peoples trawled for porn. What can I say? I like constellations of stars and high thread counts. And so we spent our income on long-haul flights to exotic destinations and short romantic mini-breaks. We dreamed of being a family while arranging couple spa treatments, irresponsibly depleting hotel mini-bar stocks and eating in decidedly non child-friendly places. </div>
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A website I returned to again and again during the childless years, having first seen the seductive images in the pages of style-obsessed VISI, was <a href="http://www.grootbos.com/en/home">Grootbos Nature Reserve</a> in the Overberg. I had fallen in love with the clean lines, the enormous glass windows, the romantic bath, the incredible views of <a href="http://www.grootbos.com/en/accommodation/forest-lodge">Forest Lodge</a>. I wanted to stay there. Badly.</div>
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And then during the course of last year (or was it the year before?) I was approached with an offer to spend the night at Grootbos. The Gods of Hotel Luxury has heard my impassioned pleas! But then before I could take up the marvelous offer, life and loss got in the way; there was the traumatic failed adoption, a husband who had to write his specialist exams, my mom's battle with cancer and her eventual death and then miracle upon miracles our son Sebastiaan came into our hearts and lives. And so high thread counts and panoramic vistas were pushed to the back of my mind. My definition of luxury had changed to 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep, 1/2 hour episodes of <i>The Real Housewives of New Jersey</i> and conning Jacques into changing more dirty nappies than I did during the course of a day.</div>
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But a year had passed and so we planned a mini-break with our son. To celebrate our life together. And then I remembered the long-forgotten Grootbos invitation and made contact. And how very glad I am that I did. Admittedly there was my initial disappointment at being relegated to the family-friendly <a href="http://www.grootbos.com/en/accommodation/garden-lodge">Garden Lodge</a> rather than the Forest Lodge, but I quickly overcame this once I'd reminded myself just how long I'd waited to join the members-only club consisting of family-friendly hotels and exclusive-use Moms and Tots parking bays. The two lodges are run as completely separate entities, separate swimming pools, separate spas, separate dining areas, separate lounging areas, in fact the two are set so far apart that they can barely be seen and can only be reached by car or a very-very long trek. And nobody's going to be doing that with child, much to the relief of the adults-only crowd on the other side. (Those without children will no doubt be jumping up and down with joy at the pleasing prospect of a romantic destination in which ankle-biters are neither seen nor heard. I know I used to be one of those…)<br />
In my-pre-child days, the idea of a luxury hotel room and pouring rain would have been absolute bliss. I was however filled with trepidation when as we cleared Stanford and neared the Grootbos Nature Reserve the rain came pouring down. And didn't stop. The weather guide warned of 2 days and a night of pissing-down rain. And I panicked what would we do with our toddler. But our warm welcome settled my fears. First things first, a roaring fire in our lounge and fabulous views of misty fynbos vistas. So we huddled up in bed and read Dr Seuss. And The Hungry Caterpillar…. and could not have been happier.</div>
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The Garden Lodge is the oldest of the lodges (the private <a href="http://www.grootbos.com/en/accommodation/villa">Villa</a> is the the most recent and can be rented out to groups of up to 12 very lucky people) and while it may lack the contempory design elements that I usually lust after, the cottages are extremely comfortable and stylish. And common areas are a dream for those with kids. The children's playroom had both a fussball and ping-pong table which would go down well with the older kids but our son fell in love with a doe-eyed little girl and they proceeded to throw balls at one another and nobody complained or gave us the side-eye. Relief!</div>
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In their marketing there is often references to the Grootbos Family. I thought it was just marketing but in fact this magnificent 5 * eco-reserve really does have a family feel. (well a functional family anyway) as everyone is friendly and helpful and tries to make you feel at home. Dinner and breakfast was a joy as not only was a high chair brought to our table without asking but when Sebastiaan got niggly, he was quickly whisked off by one of the waiters and kept amused so that we could finish our dessert and wines. An unheard of luxury when your toddler has suddenly discovered that he has both feet and a (very loud!) voice.<br />
The next day's breakfast was a lovely start to the day as the sun appeared which boded well for our planned Fynbos walk. Sebastiaan got his favorite eggy and we ate our way through the lavish buffet.<br />
There is so much to do at Grootbos, 4 x 4 flower safaris, horse riding, bird watching and various big hikes. But we were taking it easy. Having a small one is the perfect excuse to do so. And our fynbos walk was perfectly managable for me in my inappropriate leopard print wellies and for Jacques carring a 13kg boy on his back. An expert guide, beautiful flora, fantastic views and a milkwood forest that offered protection from a sudden rainstorm made for a very special morning. So did the visit to the ponies, the pigs, the rabbits and the chickens. Having dragged our son away from the children's play area complete with sandpit, swings and slide, we headed back to our cottage for a long afternoon nap. The joy of three-in-a-bed snuggling under a fluffy duvet while the rain lashed against our window was almost worth missing lunch.<br />
When we woke up the sun had appeared and so had the work emergency that forced us to cut short our trip. There is a photo of Sebastiaan throwing an almighty tantrum as we got ready to leave. And for once I indulged him. How could I not? He was expressing exactly what I was feeling. Leaving Grootbos is hard. But you take a bit of it with you when you go. The scent of the fynbos, the memories of the views, and in our case the gifted milkwood tree and the three white shells I picked up in the milkwood forest. One for Jacques. One for Sebastiaan. And one for me. The Trinity.<br />
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Contact Grootbos<br />
Website: <a href="http://www.grootbos.com/">www.grootbos.com</a><br />
Telephone: 0283 848008</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Up the garden path that leads to Garden Lodge)</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Miles and miles of beautiful Fynbos)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> (The incredible view from our cottage)</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWYenUdQQUEaBINm8Gl_5rpIyP4fTt78tBxs4BXhid_U4jiAUw4VP12jlAxGvihdL2O6Mtk-iRUBfY698tMnCz9QaqwCySXQpHnwsSE4Z4XNd_8_fvQMWDTn-eYKXagiHUx7EYd0g6So/s1600/Grootbos+seb+fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWYenUdQQUEaBINm8Gl_5rpIyP4fTt78tBxs4BXhid_U4jiAUw4VP12jlAxGvihdL2O6Mtk-iRUBfY698tMnCz9QaqwCySXQpHnwsSE4Z4XNd_8_fvQMWDTn-eYKXagiHUx7EYd0g6So/s1600/Grootbos+seb+fire.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(A warm welcome. Sebastiaan being shown how to make a fire.)</i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(A welcome gift for the grown-ups. Our very own milkwood tree that has been plannted in our local park. Forever to be referred to as Sebastiaan's Milkwood. May they both grow up to be strong.)</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(The loveliest personal welcome note, small bear to cuddle and a perfectly made up cot with comforting duvet and pillows.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Boy meets Pony. Boy admires Pony's beautiful mane. Pony carries on eating grass…)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>( As happy as two pigs in Grootbos…)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Seemingly endless views of fynbos and ocean. Space. Peaceful space.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Going for a fynbos hike. Just before the rains came down.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(The magical Milkwood Forest)</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOXdusa8wc1yjiwb9DG6psWc6PEHji9RqEcUeL_q84JBgLFSV9U8l6TTvvpCze8LjBfBWDk3uZgIAJVD3sCVGmDDmsOR9Ku36Z-9eoIHdnE9YIaXDXycqG0LX7nH8bJXjSj6QJ5ZzRW0U/s1600/grootbos+under+milkwood+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOXdusa8wc1yjiwb9DG6psWc6PEHji9RqEcUeL_q84JBgLFSV9U8l6TTvvpCze8LjBfBWDk3uZgIAJVD3sCVGmDDmsOR9Ku36Z-9eoIHdnE9YIaXDXycqG0LX7nH8bJXjSj6QJ5ZzRW0U/s1600/grootbos+under+milkwood+2.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(It was here that we found shelter from the rain.)</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0YlsRilBpQ_4fp4CtUI5v9UGnM9XCjwNMLoQ4QjTtA-hZXttSumlKz_m35zOIoz5sjyiRYxedX8ta3KB5E5455WTviLEB_KYxE5Gcnpvy8CkCHkxZWCHW2JXBczQswDOQceJrkbKNrvE/s1600/grootbos+shell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0YlsRilBpQ_4fp4CtUI5v9UGnM9XCjwNMLoQ4QjTtA-hZXttSumlKz_m35zOIoz5sjyiRYxedX8ta3KB5E5455WTviLEB_KYxE5Gcnpvy8CkCHkxZWCHW2JXBczQswDOQceJrkbKNrvE/s1600/grootbos+shell.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(The beauty and mystery of the hard white shell of the very special milkwood forest snail.)</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwCnnhbT_b4tYPJWv22wqiUzHN7hwNDXq8bZL7mx1p7J5ny5LN8Dravy-Xb1dK9JA8qOnryB5kNia78ItqxM321_Dy9yjctpACEsO1wqN0W59wNCHgRFZUFZc-j6JleeBVnmbe6_UziYE/s1600/grootbos+suurvye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwCnnhbT_b4tYPJWv22wqiUzHN7hwNDXq8bZL7mx1p7J5ny5LN8Dravy-Xb1dK9JA8qOnryB5kNia78ItqxM321_Dy9yjctpACEsO1wqN0W59wNCHgRFZUFZc-j6JleeBVnmbe6_UziYE/s1600/grootbos+suurvye.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBD1CdEpobmpOKsuW381QAy0rRiIzTFZxtP65_1R4-NOLvorjc7CL_bjM64Ck9j8_446e02GNL_93ZRMmtInFwwYdCa8PI8jsN1xbP-uhNTFh6CNcxp-AeqsyW8Z303fwJaay70B295GE/s1600/grootbos+flower+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBD1CdEpobmpOKsuW381QAy0rRiIzTFZxtP65_1R4-NOLvorjc7CL_bjM64Ck9j8_446e02GNL_93ZRMmtInFwwYdCa8PI8jsN1xbP-uhNTFh6CNcxp-AeqsyW8Z303fwJaay70B295GE/s1600/grootbos+flower+1.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(The tantrum before leaving. I knew exactly how our son felt. Nooooooooooo!)</i></span></div>
<br />Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-14300657053154611682014-10-28T15:11:00.003+02:002014-10-28T15:11:44.564+02:00Hip Hip Hooray! Our Son Turns One!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(A family. At last.)</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(The original Kalmoesfontein homestead)</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(The ceremony outside the cellar)</i></span></div>
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<i>(The Anne Pienaar choir. Cue: copius amounts of tears…)</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Morning refreshments)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Gorgeous dipped animal cutouts)</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZhbkmiH8VF4HktLLut6VL_UxInMHrJwFzJyT7H7t5Gh1Jrcvwj_x28swzS1Z7JWTV0iUKMQa8Oql4umwkdvRfKp89aX_ZZt2HgJeNzlSVnPonjyi-FeI86gWSSohyO55XShcdJtAgNY/s1600/seb+music.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZhbkmiH8VF4HktLLut6VL_UxInMHrJwFzJyT7H7t5Gh1Jrcvwj_x28swzS1Z7JWTV0iUKMQa8Oql4umwkdvRfKp89aX_ZZt2HgJeNzlSVnPonjyi-FeI86gWSSohyO55XShcdJtAgNY/s1600/seb+music.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Music is a must)</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJAITrzK6wiz87FxsO4cblEoH2aC446Rz7mbi98S92DHGe1eOOitKYTJuOh6Jj_qJg-HZiq1CwnyHSwmNRoL56XLt3C9Po2B6xkpsFBwCkkaLGUsOkpml8thy9Z0Iv3nUj5v2uU5f24ec/s1600/Seb+Callie+smoker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJAITrzK6wiz87FxsO4cblEoH2aC446Rz7mbi98S92DHGe1eOOitKYTJuOh6Jj_qJg-HZiq1CwnyHSwmNRoL56XLt3C9Po2B6xkpsFBwCkkaLGUsOkpml8thy9Z0Iv3nUj5v2uU5f24ec/s1600/Seb+Callie+smoker.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Callie Maree and his steampunk smoker)</i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Callie. Dishing up…)</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Pork worth waiting for…)</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbphm-Wzr9HuxFhqsIEQd9K7EWcsCADvDgLOioqsr_NkJFtrV9SRcezsQBl3dpX33bNrx2DUrGgARRqUOs5iV3ud9x-n9_8bkPi-COEuFqtMvDSwFDTAg3pu0UD-Oc21w58WOXdlJJfU0/s1600/seb+kos+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbphm-Wzr9HuxFhqsIEQd9K7EWcsCADvDgLOioqsr_NkJFtrV9SRcezsQBl3dpX33bNrx2DUrGgARRqUOs5iV3ud9x-n9_8bkPi-COEuFqtMvDSwFDTAg3pu0UD-Oc21w58WOXdlJJfU0/s1600/seb+kos+2.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Coleslaw, pickled and pulled pork slider)</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiHKJiN-Zqa_m-xNjTBffDbSjjz_NzA3t96sLp7jddMjO0x5jDG_xK_ldI34kSlpQUTfWcd31vH_MfP_kUYUFZpG5uOIZYF7wlvu33KZDatI7vGa3Clt0JqlD3PQOt4wg0L6q-RnjarWc/s1600/seb+lang+tafel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiHKJiN-Zqa_m-xNjTBffDbSjjz_NzA3t96sLp7jddMjO0x5jDG_xK_ldI34kSlpQUTfWcd31vH_MfP_kUYUFZpG5uOIZYF7wlvu33KZDatI7vGa3Clt0JqlD3PQOt4wg0L6q-RnjarWc/s1600/seb+lang+tafel.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(A long table. The only way to celebrate and commune)</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Cara's traditional koektafel)</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Ombre-icing)</span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmca6XLySxwiv6kEqEBQX-CSqbso5qeaMEGIUbhBsMJYAq5ytuIS3y5_OUNoCbaLoFMEyUvcjR_RWY_dXuWnY9YUN-DQcsTXA7xECf0WWwSUgLChhUFfxr7nY1HvrE6t87GM7qigOTA58/s1600/seb+cara+koek+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmca6XLySxwiv6kEqEBQX-CSqbso5qeaMEGIUbhBsMJYAq5ytuIS3y5_OUNoCbaLoFMEyUvcjR_RWY_dXuWnY9YUN-DQcsTXA7xECf0WWwSUgLChhUFfxr7nY1HvrE6t87GM7qigOTA58/s1600/seb+cara+koek+2.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(The Funfetti cake and mini meringues. Outside...)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(The Funfetto cake. Inside…)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(The Glory)</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Our very special and incredibly generous friends. Adi and Cornelia Badenhorst. A million kisses.)</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Our son. Sebastiaan Sonwabo. Happiness.)</i></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">So, amid all the heartache of the last few years, our son burst into our lives. And suddenly every thing makes sense. I now know that nothing happens by chance. He has made me believe in miracles.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">On the occasion of his first birthday, I wanted of a farm
feast of gratitude and celebration. Our friends made the magic happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p><u>The Feast of Sebastiaan</u></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Who would have thought that the most
beautiful words I would ever read would be written by the Department of Social
Development? But they are. In a letter accompanying the adoption order of our
son, were the seven words telling us that he was ‘your child as if born to
you’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And indeed he is, this miraculous
child who has brought us so much joy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I did not know such happiness
existed. Could not have dreamed that one day I would be woken up in the middle
of the night by a giggling baby boy who would blow raspberries on my belly. I
did not believe that a child could heal my hurt. I could not have imagined this
love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Sebastiaan’s arrival signified the
end of a rather brutal period of our lives. Loss and grief had been almost
constant companions. We had been sad for so long. And yet his spirit chose
ours. We were where he wanted to be and so he came to us, this smiling,
engaging baby, who, along with interrupted sleep, brought us the gift of
laughter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">As his first birthday approached we
knew we wanted to celebrate his being. We wanted to feast with our loved ones,
those who had been such compassionate witnesses on our journey towards
parenthood. They had been there for us in our sorrow and now we wanted to share
with them in our joy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We needed them to
witness our gratitude and love for our son.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Our friends Adi and Cornelia
Badenhorst generously offered to host such a party on their farm, Kalmoesfontein,
in the Paardeberg where Adi makes his award-wining wines and Cornelia conjures
up creative and beautiful events. For years my friends had consoled me with the
promise that when the time came, they would throw an obscenely large and lavish
baby shower for me. That day never came. But something else did: the chance to celebrate
our son’s first birthday, the receipt of his adoption order and his name-giving
ceremony. In addition to being the most special of venues, it was also
symbolically right that we should celebrate our son on the farm where four
years previously at Ana’s Christening, I had wept so many tears and begged God
to make me a mother as well. Cornelia has, on occasion, referred to their farm
as the place where love and hope merge. And indeed it was so on the day of
Sebastiaan’s feast. A day when cardboard cutout animals whipped breezily in the
wind and where the large white flags fluttered gently signifying the peace and
healing that Sebastiaan has brought into our lives. There was rainbow bunting
hung above long tables where clusters of friends and family sat down to eat and
brightly coloured lanterns and satin ribbons outside the cellar where the
ceremony took place. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had asked that
in lieu of gifts, our friends donate to a neighbouring farm school instead, and
so some of the children, all regular visitors to the farm, came to sing a hymn
and a song they had specially written for Sebastiaan. It was poignant and
meaningful and made us all cry. Afterwards all the children ran wild, ate
cakes, and played together, oblivious to the differences in backgrounds and
economic status. Completely unaware that they were giving the adults a glimpse
of a different, better future. Everywhere there was laughter and love: the
perfect accompaniment to the foods we had specifically chosen to give thanks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Upon arrival guests were offered
small blue glasses of warm, milky spicy chai and buttermilk rusks. Adi made the
chai and Yoliswa Mpazi made the rusks. (Years ago I witnessed Adi teaching
Yoliswa how to cook from Mrs Beeton’s cook book. This year Yoliswa prepared the
farm’s harvest lunches from Ottolenghi’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jerusalem</i>.
They are a formidable duo in the kitchen. ) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">In keeping with the informal festive
atmosphere we wanted to create, lunch was a street food vibe, which I love. Callie
Louw of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Southern Smoke</i> pulled in
his hand built Texas-style slow smoker (an authentically Swartland Steampunk
invention) and made the most spectacular slow-smoked pork and brisket sliders,
served with a choice of BBQ, mustard or ranch dressing sauces a side of
coleslaw and a large pickle. The wine was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Secateurs</i>,
of course, and like the love that day, it flowed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Dessert was a lavish old-fashioned cake
table, typical of traditional Christenings. I specifically wanted my friend
Cara to bake the cakes as I wanted them to be baked with love and I know she
loves our son. There was a indulgent multi-tiered chocolate cake topped with
home-made truffles and drizzled with caramel, a couple of sophisticated orange
and poppy seed cakes and my personal favourite, a delightfully frivolous Funfetti
cake, dotted with sprinkles and flavoured with a rose essence that once
belonged to Cara’s great-grandmother. I had also asked Cara to bake my mom’s
carrot cake which she graciously did, understanding completely that I needed to
have something symbolic of Sebastiaan’s Ouma Marie on that table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">In deciding on a second name for our
son, Jacques and I wanted a name that would embody all that we wished for him.
We also wanted a name that would honour the heritage of his birth mother. And
so we named him Sonwabo, meaning ‘happiness’ in Xhosa, because more than
success or riches, or a multitude of talents, we wish for our son to be happy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">There is a photo taken of Sebastiaan
Sonwabo at the end of the day. It shows the telltale signs of a one-year old
who has not slept at all, who probably ate too much icing and who played too
hard and too much. His shirt is undone and the cuffs flap around his wrists as
he crawls on the grass. He looks directly at the camera and laughs. A boy
secure in the love he feels. In this image, now imprinted on my mind, he is the
embodiment of happiness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Sonwabo. Our son.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p><u>Contacts of Some Very Important Persons</u></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Adi
Badenhorst – <a href="http://www.aabadenhorst.com/">www.aabadenhorst.com</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Cornelia
Badenhorst – <a href="http://www.deliefde.co.za/">www.deliefde.co.za</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Cara Brink-Mana - <a href="http://www.carabrinkmans.com/">www.carabrinkmans.com</a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Callie
Louw - <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Southern-Smoke/434958496613086">The Southern Smoke</a> – Email Callie on info@thesouthernsmoke.com </span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Maree Louw too these beautiful photographs. </span><a href="http://www.naturallightphotography.co.za/" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">www.naturallightphotography.co.za</a></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: 'Times New Roman';">(This story first appeared in <a href="http://www.tastemag.co.za/Default.aspx">Taste</a> July 2014)</span><br />
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Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-91981285354585083922014-10-13T10:37:00.002+02:002014-10-13T10:44:20.198+02:00Spier Secrets and Gorgeous Norwegian Fishmongers.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> (And this photo? Who is this? Nothing to do with Spier Secret or Ole-Martin Hansen, I'm afraid. Purely a </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>gratuitous photo of a beautiful fishmonger taken when we were in Norway a few years back. Never have I seen such beautiful men dealing in fish. But by the same token my husband still salivates at the thought of the Norwegian Blonde coucil worker who had tied her orange overall around her slim hips so that her tight white vest could show off her perfectly toned and tanned arms and perky breasts. There she was , iPod buds in her ears, rhythmically weeding the floral beddings in the local park. A Norwegian Goddess at work. Obviously I did not photograph her. I am not generous like that.)</i></span></div>
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So my morning started with prospect of being messed around by the Cape Town City Council and the burst water pipe outside our garage door. So I did what any procrastinator worth her (or his) salt would do and I read through my Twitter and Facebook timelines instead of filling bottles of water and shoving a load of washing into the machine before the water gets cut off. And oh joy! Was my laziness rewarded? I saw <a href="http://vimeo.com/92947773">this</a> gift from <a href="http://spiersecret.co.za/">Spier Secret</a> featuring Ole-Martin Hansen - The Salmon Smoker of <a href="http://hansen-lydersen.com/">Hansen & Lydersen</a>. Having watched the video several times, not just because of The Smoker's effortless elegance, but also because of my interest in smoked salmon (honestly!) I trawled the internet for more <a href="http://hansen-lydersen.com/pages/press">articles </a>about about him. Because I want to be very prepared when I see him at the Spier Secret Festival on the 24th October. </div>
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You see those very-very clever people have done it again. Every year they bring out some of the best food connoisseurs the world has to offer to the Spier estate to share their knowledge with the festival attendees. It is one of the highlights of my year, with every festival I spend two days filling my senses and mind and body with food and flavours and visual spectacles that sustain my culinary spirit for another 365 days. I learn about new things, party with friends and relish the fact that such an event happens right here on our doorstep. And every year I am so bloody proud of my friend Hannerie Visser who masterminds this event. </div>
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If you haven't been, you're missing out, and if you have, I'm sure you have your tickets already. If not? All the relevant information is <a href="http://spiersecret.co.za/bookings/">here</a>. And if you can't make the conference, be sure to get to the <a href="http://spiersecret.co.za/markets/saturday-market-25-october/">market </a>on Saturday 25 October. It was wonderful last year and is sure to be so again.</div>
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Now, as for me, it appears that the council's water department guys are coping just fine without my input so I may just watch that little video again. (How cool is that rooftop hideaway?)<br />
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<a href="http://vimeo.com/92947773">The Video</a></div>
<br />Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-45756409374760451972014-09-23T10:56:00.000+02:002014-09-23T10:57:36.705+02:00Art Also Nourishes – John Kramer<div style="text-align: justify;">
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John Kramer’s paintings bring to mind long, hot, lonely Sunday afternoons in the platteland. The images of slightly dilapidated buildings are both achingly familiar and strangely foreign. Inevitably they evoke feelings that hover somewhere between warm comforts and quiet despair.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This piece was first published in Cape Review July 2001. I’m posting it again because I love <a href="http://www.johnkramer.net/">John’s paintings</a> and also because he is having his first solo exhibition in 25 years at the <a href="http://www.irmastern.co.za/exhibitions.htm">Irma Stern Museum</a> in Cape Town and there are only 5 more days to see it as the exhibition ends on the 27 September and I need to go and see it within the next day or so because art is feeds the soul and sometimes you take it for granted and then one day it’s no longer there, like beautiful exhibitions and old corner cafés…</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(I love this painting so much. The Princess Cafe in Hermanus was where we used to buy soft-serve ice creams. We drove passed it last week and it's been replaced by a R5 store.)</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A
conversation with John Kramer<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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John Kramer’s paintings portray the everyday
ordinariness of our country. Old buildings and corner cafés embody the spirit
of a community and times that has almost been erased from our memory. He paints
with compassion and affection, affection, I suppose, born out of a familiarity
with the scenes he paints.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He explains, ‘It helps to paint what you
understand. I’m not saying I completely understand these communities, know
exactly how a shop is run or who the owner is, but I certainly understand or
can relate to the scenes I paint. I can recall those quiet, boring Sunday
afternoons. I’ve sat under verandas in small towns as a child, wishing something
exciting would happen. I remember those moods and remember hating it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘You must paint from this place inside
yourself. And I’m interested in the places I know; the idiosyncratic little
towns which are rapidly disintegrating and I suppose a lot of my work today is
to hang on to those memories because I actually did experience the end of that
era.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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The passion for what John sees as typically
South African architecture, stems from his having grown up in Worcester. ‘In a
town like Worcester in the 50s, nothing much ever happened but there was the
old Van Vuuren’s Milk Bar, a real American Milk Bar with a juke box and soda
fountain and there were two bioscopes, the La Scala and Twentieth Century Fox.
In the 60s when I left Worcester to go and study art at Michaelis there was an
economic boom and things started changing in Worcester. This was the time when
TV came to South Africa and inevitably things started changing. La Scala closed
and places that I’d associated with my childhood started disappearing. I felt
an awful sense of loss and I wanted to hang on to some of those memories, so I
went around and photographed some of these buildings, just to have a visual
record.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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These photographs would eventually form the
basis of John’s early work. In 1971 he went to visit his brother David who was
studying in Leeds and it was here that John realized the significance of these
seemingly ordinary and almost forgotten buildings. ‘David and I were talking
about our search for what we called The Real South Africa, whatever it was in
those days. We were looking for something that was essentially South African.
Obviously we were looking at it from our white middle class perspective, but we
still felt that there was something uniquely South African that wasn’t being
commented in in the arts. I returned to South Africa and noticed for the first
time the quality of the light and the vast space. In contrast to the red brick
and industrial architecture I had seen in Leeds, I was now confronted with
buildings in an assortment of colours and houses with gardens and fences. What
I had always thought was normal now seemed quite bizarre. And then I realized
that it was this ordinariness that was the essence of The Real South Africa.
The South Africa of the Cape Dutch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kultuur
</i>where little architectural gems that were being preserved by the various
cultural societies in the small towns were all historical buildings but I felt,
and still do, that the Brody’s Hardware Shops and the Van Vuuren’s Milk Bars
are the more realistic representation of the architecture of our country.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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John paints buildings that still exist in
modern South Africa but which also echo layers of the past. For him, the
buildings must have a feeling and this feeling has nothing to do with
architectural beauty. It’s how the viewer relates to the building that gives it
its significance. Those who respond to his work, do so because there is
something in their collective memory that sparks recognition. It may be the
building, a windmill or a metal Joko Tea plaque which reminds them of their
past,<o:p></o:p></div>
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There is something melancholic about these
paintings but still they manage to celebrate the very ordinariness of that
society has begun to reject. It is no wonder that his works are highly sought
after by South Africans living abroad. Looking at them, you can almost hear the
call of the cicadas and smell the small town dust. For some it is the Afrikaans
lettering on the buildings that remind homesick South Africans of their
heartland. But it isn’t only the images of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">platteland </i>which conjures up memories. John’s body of work
depicting the corner cafés awaken a long forgotten suburban memory of old
chocolates, glass jars filled with loose sweets, brown paper packets and
magazine racks where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scope</i> magazines
were furtively read by schoolboys behind the trays of warm government loaves of
bread.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The demise of the suburban corner café almost
caught John unawares. ‘I never worried too much about the corner cafés until
one day I realised they were almost all being replaced by franchised cafés. I
don’t think any of us could have imagined how fast they would have disappeared
in the past 10 years. These are real losses and I’m glad that I managed to
capture some of them.’ The Imperial Café with its corrugated iron roof and
wooden structure was a Cape landmark; nestling underneath the incomplete
flyover at the entrance to the Waterfront. It was a source of irritation to
some but a source of joy to others. It burnt down a year or two ago, but John’s
painting managed to capture the mood of this late night convenience café. Then
there was the exotically named Zanzibar Café in Voortrekker Road. It was one of
John’s favourites reminding him of the legendary Baghdad Café (of the film of
the same name) where anything may happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember the Onrus Cash Store. It now
longer exists, but then much has changed in this small seaside village near
Hermanus. Looking at a painting of it, I’m transported back to cold wet Cape
winter weekends in a village with few inhabitants, even fewer playmates and
where a visit to Mrs Hen’s café would mean sticking your grubby hand into a jar
filled with Apricot sweets, Wilson toffees and cheap peppermints. Hot summer
days would necessitate a similar barefoot journey to but ice-lollies which then
dripped orange syrup all over warm sunburnt arms. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This is what John Kramer does best. He
captures a moment in time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Driving through a town you may or may not
notice the tin barrels converted into garbage cans, or the car tyres now used
as a planter for the Mother-in-Law’s Tongue, or the windmills, or the short
picket fences painted in oranges and browns, or the wire garden gates. It is
only in a painting that our attention is focused on these details that convey
the soul of a place.<o:p></o:p></div>
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According to John, ‘ I’ve always maintained
that the small town is much more interesting than New York. For me a Karoo town
is special. You don’t know what’s going to be there. You look and at first you
don’t see anything and then you notice the dryness and even though everything
is rundown, there’s an honesty about the place. People often ask me why there
aren’t any people in my work but this omission is deliberate. My paintings are
actually portraits and the buildings with their faded advertisements, mix of
architectural styles and peeling paint do convey the history and the
personality of the locals.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
John Kramer tells the story of how having
spent the day exploring Sutherland, the town famous for its observatory and icy
winters, he was ready to check into the local hotel. The receptionist welcomed
him warmly, asking him what he was doing in the area. ‘I’m looking around,
taking some pictures; it’s a wonderful town this, ‘ he assured her. He recalls her
wistful expression, and her skeptical ‘gmff.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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Things aren’t always what they seem.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But for how long will these small towns
continue to be an example of Real South Africa? John believes that their time
has almost passed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
‘The slow demise of the railways has killed
these places. With the railways pulling out of the towns, the economy collapsed
and the Karoo fell apart far quicker than one would have imagined. The arrival
of television also signaled the end of an era for small town South Africa.
Suddenly the whole world was being beamed into everybody’s living room,
including the people who lived in these small towns. For the first time they
became aware of how the rest of the world lived and those fantastic naïve combinations
of colour and whatever they did décor-wise that was perhaps regarded by those
more sophisticated people as being in bad taste, disappeared. ‘And then of
course city folk bought up houses for weekend homes. New designer colours
appeared on the scene, new <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">broekie</i>-lace
was put up and while the houses may now look lovely and small town appear on
tourist maps, they’ve lost their authenticity and soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
‘But I suppose that’s what my paintings are
about. Memory and loss.’<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-82089813548141731932014-08-18T09:34:00.001+02:002014-08-18T09:37:22.814+02:00Ma, It's Been One Year.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPrUz1mV7kyCJDqKCFsl692GBoZDm7fZk6a8Cl5AcYKuzs9kdjWgqjktW0OJJoSz0eOA_S-4btSFSPCx4S3K_onQKkl7ArYxiWDhUmdBXq8oNOIId59gqU-EhjTm3nSLXo_q2rg5lpNF8/s1600/mamma+voorskoot.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPrUz1mV7kyCJDqKCFsl692GBoZDm7fZk6a8Cl5AcYKuzs9kdjWgqjktW0OJJoSz0eOA_S-4btSFSPCx4S3K_onQKkl7ArYxiWDhUmdBXq8oNOIId59gqU-EhjTm3nSLXo_q2rg5lpNF8/s1600/mamma+voorskoot.jpeg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: x-small;"><i>(Marie loved a voorskoot…)</i></span></div>
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My mom died a year ago today. They told me the longing would get easier. And it does. Thankfully no one told me it would get better. Because it bloody well doesn't. I miss her every day. Every single day. </div>
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Those last days in the hospital were harrowing but happy. If I think back on the last 24 hours of her life I am grateful for many things. That, as a family, we could share her last meal with her. It was <i>melkkos</i>, brought to the hospital by a dear friend who arrived carrying a huge pot of my mom's favorite milky sweetness and enough spoons and small bowls for the entire extended family. I am grateful that her grandson was christened at her hospital bed. That her favourite nurse was on duty to administer the last morphine. That a kind hospital volunteer came to paint her toes a pretty pale shade of pink, as requested 'for the journey'. And that my father kissed away her last breath. I am most grateful for the latter. We should all be loved to death. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Comfort Me With Butter.</b></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My mother died a few months ago. But
we had time to say goodbye. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time for her
to tell me where she had put the silver cutlery that she wanted me to have. Time
for me to ask her for her brandy butter recipe. We dealt in practicalities
because it was too horrific to acknowledge the desperate sadness of knowing
that time had finally run out, too heartbroken about the fact that we would
never share a meal again, too desolate to speak of a Christmas without her. Too
sad for conversation. When the end came I simply told her that I loved her,
told her that I would one day name my daughter Lily and my son Sebastiaan. I promised
her that I would be strong. I told her that words were unnecessary. But that
didn’t mean that I didn’t want them. Because I do. I still have so much I want
to tell her; so much I want her to share with me. While I still could, shortly
after her death, I would dial her telephone number so that I could listen to
her voice message - so that I could hear her voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would give anything to hear her voice again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The other night I boiled some <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mielies </i>for supper and as I was
slathering them in butter, Jacques asked me where he could find my mother’s
salt. I broke down in tears for I had used the last of the spicy salt my mom made
for us a while ago. Thinking that she would, as always, replenish my stock as
soon as she felt better. She never did. And I never did find out what it was
that she put into the salt to give it that distinctive taste. A taste that will
now elude me forever. The taste given to me by the mother I mourn. That night
my tears salted the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mielies, </i>the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> mielies </i>that I drenched in butter in
honour of my mother.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Because my mom
believed that butter made everything better<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.
</i>She comforted me with butter, both as a child and as an adult. And now I
need butter in the face of my relentless, all-consuming grief. I eat butter the
way Marie taught me to. Cold butter thickly spread on hot toast. Buttery eggs.
Marie biscuits held together by softened butter. Sweet potato with melted
butter. Hot buttered popcorn. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anchovy
butter. Bread and butter pudding. And as I eat the butter I remember. I recall
the laughter, the travels, the late night reminiscing in foreign hotel rooms. I
remember how we would always hold hands in the cinema, how every phone call ended
with a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love-you</i>. How she drank cognac
from a crystal goblet and tea from a mug. How soft her skin was and how loud
her laughter. And as the butter sizzles in the pan, I know, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In elke bietjie botter sal ek Mamma onthou</i>.
In every bit of butter, I will remember my mom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"><i>(This column first appeared in Taste December 2013.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-77529323511730147922014-06-20T08:53:00.002+02:002014-06-20T14:46:31.796+02:00A Golden Bowl.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have written about Jacques Erasmus and <a href="http://www.hemelhuijs.co.za/">Hemelhuijs</a> before. <a href="http://www.confessionsofahungrywoman.com/2010/10/culinary-creative-curator.html">Here </a>and <a href="http://www.confessionsofahungrywoman.com/2012/08/the-heavenly-macaroni-cheese.html">here</a>. He is a close friend so it may be that I am biased but I am compelled to write about him again.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Hemelhuijs is one of my Happy Places. It is also a place that my mother adored and so I go there when I miss her. And I missed her on Thursday. As I do every day.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And so I ordered the <i>mieliepap</i>, served simply with orange blossom honey and salted butter. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When it arrived, I saw that my <i>pap</i> was served in a gold bowl from Jacques's latest homewear collection. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There are few things in this world more beautiful than <i>mieliepap</i> served in a gold bowl. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The warm porridge caused both the butter and the honey to melt in tiny rivulets that ran around the edges of the bowl. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Small gold streams were circling my porridge. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The taste was as I remembered: the <i>mielipap </i>of my childhood. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Warm sweet and salty.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I cried. Because of its familiar comfort. Because I longed for the one who had first made it for me. And because the dish was both opulent and honest. Complex in it's simplicity. Because this particular bowl of <i>pap</i> was both/and. As the most important things in my life most often are.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It is a sign of a great chef when the ingredients are more important than his ego. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It is a sign of a great artist when he sees the beauty of plain porridge and honours it with his gold. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It takes a great man to recognize the value of heritage and to love it so beautifully.</div>
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My friend Jacques is all three.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222;">Hemelhuijs</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222;">71 Waterkant Street, Cape Town</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Telephone: 021 418 2042</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Monday to Friday 9:00 – 16:00</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Saturday 9:00 – 15:00</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU95-qdYT_Csnrwe8rKB7HHN0LpRGuGLwFteq4eRNpud5yGzeuJB81K_RibuQjf3KbgLhdcIjt-qbFnrWBCP516tUn97mALNcfcuETAuwGhJFWX03h-Tua9BcMSS9ukZDxLf24xdc5FbA/s1600/Mieliepap1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU95-qdYT_Csnrwe8rKB7HHN0LpRGuGLwFteq4eRNpud5yGzeuJB81K_RibuQjf3KbgLhdcIjt-qbFnrWBCP516tUn97mALNcfcuETAuwGhJFWX03h-Tua9BcMSS9ukZDxLf24xdc5FbA/s1600/Mieliepap1.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(I hesitated before posting this photo. It doesn't do the dish justice. Believe me, in real it surpasses anything you could imagine or see on a photo)</span></i></div>
Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-28219453118819068252014-06-18T09:21:00.000+02:002014-06-18T09:21:40.199+02:00Banana Balm - In which I revisit an old column and an old hurt...<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><wbr style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"></wbr><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><wbr style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"></wbr><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> <wbr></wbr> </span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I wrote this for the August 2013 issue of Taste magazine. The events </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman;">relate to May earlier that year. I want to put it in a </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">blog post because it goes some way in explaining why I neglected my blog for so long but also because I am living proof that the heart can heal. Even from unimaginable hurts… </span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><i>During the month of May this year I was acutely aware of Jack Adriaan, but I was also holding our son Sebastiaan in my arms (much more about him later!) and all I felt was gratitude and love for a small boy who entered our life for 14 days and then left to be with his biological mother, making way for our son Sebastiaan to enter our lives and hearts. My Aunty Janet who passed away this month visited me during those months of devastation, she held me tight, called me 'dear heart' and told me she thought that the reason Jack Adriaan left was that he didn't need us as much as another boy would. I found some solace in her words. It gave me some measure of hope And like in most matters Aunty Jan was right. And so I send this column out into the universe again, all the while wishing the boy who now belongs to others so much love and happiness. May his life be blessed. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><i>Jack Adriaan, it was our privilege to look after you until you could be reunited with your mommy and daddy. And thank you for bringing us the joy that you did. We have no regrets.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><b>BANANA BALM</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">A lot can happen in two weeks. You can go from being sublimely, deliriously happy to having your heart broken. You can become a mother to a baby boy on Day 1 and on Day14 you have to hand him back to his birth mother. You can find your faith and then lose it again. Two weeks is a long time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I was a mother when I started to write this column on bananas. I wanted to write about them because they are boys’ fruit. I have watched small boys peel bananas the way monkeys do and derive enormous joy from eating them while the peel hangs in strips over their small, almost-always-dirty hands. I have known boys to weep with laughter when watching cartoons where someone slips on a banana peel. I wanted to write about the healthy banana-fool-the-kids-ice-<wbr></wbr>cream, the one where you place peeled banana pieces on a plate in the freezer for a couple of hours and then blitz them furiously in a blender, being sure to scrape the sides of the bowl when they stick to it and blend it again. The result is a smooth, creamy, deliciously natural banana ‘ice-cream’ which I fully intended giving to our son as soon as he could eat solids and the summer sun came out to celebrate his arrival with us. However long that took.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: small;">Having been told to sing to my baby, I started singing the familiar childhood hymn ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ as it was one of the few songs I knew the words to. But soon both he and I tired of that and so I sang John Lennon’s ‘Beautiful Boy’ to him instead. Now it appears that those lyrics were both a premonition and a promise of comfort. I know that my heart will heal, know that I will be happy again. I also know that while I will not carry our beautiful son in my arms, I will forever carry him in my heart. But in the meantime, life does go on. And the bananas </span><span style="font-size: small;">ripen. And a column must be written. I briefly contemplated celebrating the decadence of </span><span style="font-size: small;"> bananas fried in butter and served with bacon and maple syrup on mornings-after the-night-before. But I battle to recall those sensual, self-indulgent times. I thought about reminiscing about the deep fried bananas </span><span style="font-size: small;">in rum sauce which we ate in the Caribbean but those memories were obscenely carefree. And the thought of indulgently whipping up a caramel-laden banoffee pie seemed too quick a fix, too sweet a thing for so bitter a time. So I asked my mom about the banana bread</span><span style="font-size: small;"> recipe she used to make for us as a special after-school treat when my brother and I were young because I didn’t know what else to make with the now rapidly over-ripening bananas </span><span style="font-size: small;"> on my kitchen counter. It wasn’t a recipe she had written down anywhere, so we cobbled this one together from various sources, making sure to add the cinnamon-sugar-buttered pecans which were always her thing. This was the sweetness I remembered from my childhood. And I was grateful that on that stormy Sunday, with tears running down my cheeks, I could still bake banana bread </span><span style="font-size: small;">with my mom, who, while also mourning the loss of her third grandchild, was being so strong for me. Later, sharing thick slices of warm banana bread</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span>with hot tea, I understood that you can be grateful and angry at the same time; be both distraught and comforted; that you can hold both joy and sorrow in your heart. But only when you are surrounded by the love and strength of others…</span></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Banana Bread with Cinnamon-Sugared Pecans</span></u></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">1 cup of roughly chopped pecans</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">2 tablespoons of sugar</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">1 teaspoon of cinnamon</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">1 tablespoon of melted butter</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">1½<i> </i>cups of cake flour</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">1 teaspoon of baking powder</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">1 teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">¼ teaspoon of salt</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">125g of softened, unsalted butter</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">1 cup of sugar</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">2 eggs, lightly beaten</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">3 medium, ripe, bananas (the riper the better) mashed well with a fork</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">½ cup of buttermilk</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Preheat over to 170 degrees. Grease a 23 x 13cm loaf tin with butter and line with baking paper.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Mix the chopped pecans, sugar, cinnamon and melted butter together and keep separate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Sift the cake flour, baking powder, bicarbonate of soda and salt together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">In a separate bowl, using an electric mixer, beat the butter and the sugar for about 4 minutes until the mixture is pale and fluffy. Then add the eggs, beating well after each egg has been added.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Add the mashed, well-ripened bananas to the butter mixture and stir well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Now slowly add the flour mixture gradually to the wet mixture, alternating with the buttermilk. Beat well after each addition.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Pour the mixture into the loaf tin and top with the pecan, cinnamon-sugar mix (the nuts will sink to the middle of the loaf in cinnamon-sugar-pecan-buttery deliciousness)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Bake for 55 minutes or until the top of the bread is firm and a warm brown colour and an inserted skewer comes out clean. Allow to cool in a tin for 15 minutes before serving.</span></div>
Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-36483795290393276222014-06-16T23:42:00.001+02:002014-06-16T23:42:17.583+02:00A Little Italian Flavour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In this month's <a href="http://www.tastemag.co.za/Default.aspx">Taste </a>magazine I wrote about my longing for Venice and the almost-desperate need I have for a long-haul flight that would take me straight to Italy. Well that's not going to happen any time soon despite my spending the morning obsessing over glorious Venetian canal-facing apartments on a Home Exchange website. </div>
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For various reasons we're very much stuck in beautiful Cape Town for the forseeeable future. And I'm ok with that I really am, but a girl can dream. And she can eat plenty of pasta. And while the universe doesn't magically give her exactly what she wants, it does send a kind consolation prize every now and then. Which I like to think is what happened when I got an email from Woolworths asking me if I wanted to participate in this months Italian-inspired Flavour Society. And of course I said yes. Who would refuse a generous bag of Italian goodies? Pasta, Gnocchi, olive oil, salami, Grana Padana, pine nuts, Balsamic vinegar - all those delicious flavours which remind me of a country I have have grown to love so much. The nutty saltiness of the Grana Padana and the tart sweetness of the Balsamic vinegar reminded me of that trip to Italy when I was first told to dip small chunks of Parmigianna Reggiano into well-aged Balsamic vinegar. I was hesitant at first but once I'd tasted it I was hooked. The pine nuts made me long to make a fresh basil pesto which would be scooped over swirls of pasta. The tomato paste made me long for the simplicity of a thin- based Margharita pizza bought in the backstreets of Naples. These were the flavours of the Italy I had come to know, flavours which I could use here in Cape Town and which brought back all those memorable Italian travel moments. At this stage on our lives, this is probably as good as it gets. So I played around with some flavours and finally decided on roast pumpkin drizzled with sage butter and served with generous amounts of Grana Padano and pine nuts. It was the perfect weekday lunch whether here in Cape Town or in Rome. (The recipe will appear on www.woolworths.co.za sometime soon)</div>
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I've also had an enormous amount of fun pinning to the <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/woolworthssa/flavour-society-italian/">Woolies Flavour Society Italian Pinterest board.</a> I've posted a really easy Limoncello recipe, a couple of great gremolata recipes as well as several fabulous ways to work magic with cauliflower. And of course I pinned pastries and cake because I have an insatiably sweet tooth. Pinning is addictive and I think I've come to love Pinterest almost as much as pasta. Head on over and drool over some Italian inspiration.</div>
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So while we're all feeling the Italian love, make that pasta, rent any one of the great Italian movies and get into the Italian spirit. See if you can find the wonderful documentary <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NnyFhSi5tPc">Italy - Love it or Leave it.</a> It's about two Italians who go on a roadtrip through Italy before they make up their minds whether to move to Germany or not, because, apparently, things in Italy are not quite as good as they appear in the movies. As a South African I could really relate to their angst and their love for their country.</div>
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Best way to know what the buzz is surrounding the WW Flavour Society is to check in <a href="http://www.woolworths.co.za/store/cat?N=4294954298&gclid=COG-8LbV_r4CFfOhtAod8QUA6g">online</a> on the Woolworths website and to follow both <a href="https://twitter.com/WOOLWORTHS_SA">@WOOLWORTHS_SA</a> and the <a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23wwflavoursociety&src=typd">#wwflavoursociety </a>on Twitter. you want to be part of this online community that promises some real life events as well. It's a great idea. The first month the Flavour Inspiration was coffee, last month was chocolate (oh yes!) and this month's Italian, of course. I'm excited to see what next month brings. Really I am. you should be too.</div>
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Dare I say it? Of course I do…. <i>Buon Appetito</i>!</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(The Italian Flavour Drop. I ate the salami right away. To help me think more creatively of course.)</i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(My creation (such as it is) - I just mixed some great ingredients together. An easy recipe. Just the way I like them. So here it is in all its glory: Roast pumpkin, Sage butter, Grana Padana and Pine nuts. Easy perfection.)</span></i></div>
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Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-51038939630371226242014-06-12T14:05:00.000+02:002014-06-12T14:05:02.915+02:00Youdidnoteatthat? No, I didn't think so. (but I'm smiling anyway.)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My latest obsession is the Instagram account <a href="http://instagram.com/youdidnoteatthat">youdidnoteatthat</a> . I derive enormous pleasure from it. It's pure silliness. Macarons and doughnuts, manicures and toned tummies are exposed as having very little to do with one another, another than being hugely desirable. Everyone featured (without their permission of course) is sexy with fabulous bodies. Only when you have body issues, such as I do, would you DREAD being photographed eating something fattening and would you NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS post a selfie doing said eating on Instagram. Which begs the question, 'Did they really eat that?' </div>
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<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/nina-bahadur/you-did-not-eat-that-instagram_b_5460625.html">Some</a> contributers to the Huffington post have their knickers in a knot about it claiming that the account is picking on thin people. <a href="http://www.policymic.com/">Policy Mic</a> took it all rather <a href="http://www.policymic.com/articles/89749/there-s-a-disturbing-new-food-shaming-trend-targeting-women-on-instagram">seriously </a>and weighed in on the matter. <a href="http://nymag.com/thecut/2014/05/seriously-stop-pretending-you-ate-that.html">New York Magazine</a> interviewed the anonymous person behind the account and I think she came across as quite sane, not a thin-shamer at all. </div>
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It's not meant to be taken seriously. And really I don't think it's mean. If I looked that good and could do so while eating a dozen doughnuts, then I'd also post it on my Instagram account. And if someone wanted to pick up on it and show that same gorgeous image to 97K other followers that would also be ok. In fact, I think I'd be quite pleased with myself. And if they laughed at me? Well honestly I'd still be the one with the fabulous legs who could eat carbs without fear. And if those featured didn't eat that, well then they shouldn't have been playing with their food in the first place. Not so?</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(youdidnoteatthat when I last checked in this morning)</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Oh, look, they're picking on the boys as well. Just look at that six-pack? It's tough choosing which one you'd like to go to bed with, that or just double up and go for the dozen doughnuts. Erm having said that, he's not my type, so I'd take the doughnuts.)</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Ok seriously? The lid is still on the Nutella jar…)</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Nope. No eating done here. Teeth are barely touching the doughnut glaze. But I wish I had her body and her self-restraint.)</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Weirdly enough. I really like this image.)</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(And I love this one as well. So she's not really taking a bite of that Big Mac, but she's rocking those bling rings.)</i></span></div>
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Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-7520146413878784942014-03-26T09:02:00.000+02:002014-03-26T09:02:10.167+02:00Michael Broughton is The Flavour Merchant<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 186.0pt;">
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So last night at 18.15h I settle in to watch the first episode of a series of one of my favorite chef's in one one of my favorite restaurants on one of my favorite wine estates. <i>Seasons at Terroir </i>on DSTV Nat Geo 181 did not disappoint. But how could it? Magic will reveal itself. </div>
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Now if that sounds gushy, forgive me, but last year I had the privilege of interviewing him for <i>Cape Etc </i>magazine and and it turned out to be one of my my favorite interviews ever. He is a lovely, lovely man. Both inside and out.</div>
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Here is that article.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(And yes, I know it's been almost a year since I've blogged and reposting an old article may seem like a bit of a cop out, but a lot has happened the last year and for a variety of reasons I was hesitant to share them at the time. I'll get around to them. You know I will, I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve….)</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(The Lovely Chef Michael Broughton)</span></div>
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<b>The Flavour Merchant</b></div>
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In some circles, chefs have
become the celebrities of choice. They generate a lot more excitement that
models or actors do. There is something very attractive, dangerously so, about
someone who makes their living playing with fire and knives. And of course, the
plus side is that they encourage you to eat dessert which, clearly, models or
actors would never do. But by their very nature, celebrities are also the cause
of much gossip and misconceptions. So in
walks celebrity chef, a regular (nine times to be exact) on the Eat Out Awards
Top 10 list Michael Broughton, good-looking in that laid-back, sleepy-eyed, 5
o’clock shadow kind of way. And you expect him to act in a certain manner; perhaps
be a little arrogant? A tad too blasé?
Or charming in that well-practiced I’ve-done-this-all-before manner. But he’s
none of these things. He is sincere, kind and principled. And suddenly his
celebrity status and his culinary accomplishments, both well-deserved, are
overshadowed by the the character of the man.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And that takes some doing.
Because the food Michael Broughton creates at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Terroir</i>, on the Kleine Zalze Estate in Stellenbosch is pretty damn
impressive. The restaurant itself is elegantly subdued, which is perhaps a kind
way of saying, slightly ordinary, but the service is excellent, the glassware
good, and the linen stiffly starched. The best tables are outside with views of
the lovely gardens and historic oak trees. But you come here for the food. Not
for design porn or hipster credentials. If you’re serious about food, you go to
a place where food is more important than fashion. If you’re serious about food
you go to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Terroir</i> and struggle to
make your selection from the chalkboard menu, because you’ll want to choose
everything. Using seasonal and where possible, locally sourced ingredients,
Michael’s deceptively simple menu is both a celebration of and a tribute to
what eating is all about. Eating is about tasting food, about appreciating
flavours. The rest, which admittedly Broughton is rather good at too, is just
bells and whistles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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His food is grounded with the
magic lying in the sauces. And interestingly enough, according to Michael, had
he not become a chef, he would have liked to have been a cabinet maker. ‘There
is something very creative but also timeless about working with wood. A good
piece should stand the test of time. It should be able to stand alongside a
modern Perspex table or next to an antique chair of ancient wood. It has to be
solid. In a way that’s the way I feel about cooking. Cooking must be timeless.
It must be able to be carried through and stand firm against fashions that come
and go. I’ve had to make peace with food fashions. But I still feel you should
guard against reinventing something for the sake of reinvention. How many times
have you seen a tiramisu dressed up and down when all you really want is a nice
piece of delicious tiramisu. Don’t give me the coffee bubbles here, a piece of
deconstructed biscuit there and a squirt of cream somewhere else. That makes me
see red. It may look beautiful but for me the most important thing is the
mouthfeel of something and the deliciousness of the taste. It’s been hard to withstand
the pressure of fashions but I’ve decided I will remain authentic to what I
believe in.’ And it is this authenticity which he shares with Kobus Basson,
owner of Kleine Zalze and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Terroir</i>,
and for whom he has so much respect. ‘ I learned a lot about wine from Kobus. He
is very clever and incredibly knowledgeable about wine. He’s the only guy I
know who does not spit, still stands up straight after a marathon winetasting
session and walks out with complete control. Every year when we compile the
wine list we hold our own blind tasting. About nine of us sit with 40 bottles
of wine at a time. Each bottle is covered in brown paper and only the year, the
cultivar and the price is known. This way we select the best wines, fairly and
without influence. When I first arrived at Kleine Zalze the receptionist was a
wine maker, the lady who did the books was a winemaker, then there was the
winemaker and the winemaker’s assistant. When you’re in this environment you
listen and learn. And for me, coming here from Johannesburg, being afforded the
opportunity to listen to the wine ‘speak’, and just taking everything in has
been an incredible journey in the food and wine paring world.’ So where does he
get his inspiration from? ‘I don’t eat out that much so I don’t get to try
other chefs food as often as I should. I get my inspiration from reading. I
read incessantly. I’m a great Alain Ducasse fan and I really rate Pierre Hermé.
I think that those two guys can keep you busy for years. But my library grows.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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Michael Broughton never set
out to be a chef. As a child he was never particularly interested in food but
he liked cooking. It was in his blood. ‘I was a first team rugby player who was
zipping home in between practices to make scones with my mom. So I enjoyed
cooking, but I never thought that much about it yet, tellingly, for my 15<sup>th</sup>
birthday, my dad bought me a Kenwood Chef. In those days you didn’t tell your
mates you liked to cook because that would be a problem; you could get your
arse kicked for that. But all I knew was that I liked to go home and cook with
my mom. But then my mom and dad got divorced, and my mom left and my dad had to
look after us three boys. And my dad, being this big time banker, would come
home from work in his suit and tie and he’d cook for us. Jacket off, tie on,
apron tied around his waist, he’d cook. He’d never cooked before but when he knew
he had to feed three boys, he opened a recipe book and began cooking. When he
finished, he’d whistle and we would all sit down at the table and enjoy a two
course, sometimes three course meal prepared by our dad. Every single day for 5
years, from Std 5 to matric my dad cooked for us. My father was quite arty, but
he could never make peace with that. In that time it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">verboten</i>. You had to do a ‘manly job like banking. Not cooking or
something creative. I’m quite like him in that way. It’s taken me 15 years to
come to terms with the fact that I’m an artist. I work a dodgy job. In a dodgy industry.
It’s very uncertain, very unstable and it’s hard work. But it’s a compulsion.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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Broughton never formally
trained as a chef, he went to hotel school for three years and for the next 10 years
he was a hotelier; a general manager for the City Lodge Group. But at 30 he hit
a mid-life crisis and decided he’d had enough of corporate life so he handed in
his resignation and bought a restaurant on auction. This restaurant was to
become Broughton’s (in Johannesburg) and would garner him his first two Eat Out
Top 10 awards. He had no formal training and had never worked in a restaurant
before. Soon after opening the restaurant he bought a book by the 3 Michelin
star chef, Nico Ladenis, who became one of the single most important culinary
influences in his life<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and who he
regards as a mentor and with whom he is in regular email contact. But it wasn’t
all that easy in the beginning. ‘ We were empty for 18 months. We would perhaps
have 3 or 4 tables on a Friday night. But that was it. And 15 metres up the
road there was a very successful Italian restaurant that was full 7 nights a
week. And for 18 months I’d watch his customers park in my car park, walk
across to my entrance with their bottle of wine under their arm and they’d walk
up the road to his place. And eventually I had no money left. I’d borrowed from
my dad, borrowed from my mom, from my brother and eventually the family said no
more. I was bankrupt, I had taken every single last bit of my savings, I sold
my house, my car, my bike. I had no medical aid, So I told the staff that we
had about 3 weeks left but that if they got a job offer, they should take it.
But on the same day I told the staff this, I got a phone call at the restaurant
from Barry Ronge (famous South African columnist and restaurant reviewer )
saying he’d like to have table for Friday night. Now this was Wednesday, and I
looked at the reservation book and there’s not a single booking on that Friday.
So I phoned a friend of mine, and said ‘Bokkie help me.’ And she did. She got
45 friends to book for that Friday night when Ronge came to dine. And from that
Friday onwards, thanks to the Ronge’s favourable review, we were full every
day. 60 covers for lunch, 60 covers for dinner. I paid my debt off in 9 months.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that year I made the Eat Out Top
10.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘How did you keep the faith?’
I asked him. Michael’s answer is simple. ‘I have faith. I’m a Christian. And I
just stuck my head down. I just stuck my head down.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then a few years later
came his move to Cape Town, to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Terroir</i>,
where he won seven more Eat Out Top 10 awards and where his food has been
recognized as being consistently amongst the finest in the country. Where he
runs a kitchen of quiet generousity. ‘I treat my team the way I treat my
children. I teach them about life. I teach them how to talk to one another, how
to treat one another. No swearing, no shouting, no screaming. I always say if
my daughter was standing in the back of the kitchen, would my behaviour be ok?
And 99% of the time I’m fine with it. I don’t lose my rag easily.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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So what does he do when he’s
not at the restaurant, when he’s at home? ‘I love being at home. I love having
my kids around. I’d rather be there than anywhere else. So for me it’s always a
push-pull. How much do I work? How much time do I spend at home. And I know
that in between there’s not much time for anything else. But that’s ok. I read.
I’m a Bible scholar. I study. I play guitar. We cook. There will be those
nights at home when I’m with my wife Jane and I’ve made a kickass pizza, when we’re
drinking a great bottle of wine, when the kids are in the swimming pool and the
sun is setting. When you just breathe in. Breathe out. Breath in. And you know
that it doesn’t get much better than this.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(This article first appeared in </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">the</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Winter 2013 issue of Cape Etc.)</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Terroir<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Kleine Zalze Wine Estate, R44, Stellenbosch<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Telephone: + 27 (0)21 880 8167<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">www.kleinezalze.com<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">terroir@kleinezalze.com<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Terroir is open for lunch 12noon-3.00pm <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Monday to Sunday <o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Terroir is open for dinner 6.30pm – 9.00pm
Monday to Saturday <span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-41880039255233498332013-07-16T09:50:00.000+02:002013-07-16T09:50:10.143+02:00Throwing wobblies<div class="MsoNormal">
A little over three months to go before the <a href="http://www.spiersecretfestival.co.za/">Spier Secret Festival</a> and already I am excited. I have had a tweet favourited by non other than <a href="http://www.lilyvanilli.com/">Lily Vanilli</a>! The one in which I beg her to recreate these <a href="http://blogs.independent.co.uk/2013/07/12/dish-of-the-day-lily-vanillis-recipe-for-bleeding-heart-cakehearty-snack/">anatomically correct hearts</a> for the Spier Secret Festival. Being slightly weird and loving a touch of the macabre, I feel I must eat a 'bloodied' red velvet heart. I simply must. (And no, I do not wish to make my own, in case one of you smart arses were about to suggest that I do.)<br />
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So while contemplating any potential future joyous culinary surprises, I thought back to last years festival where jelly was celebrated and I got to meet and interview the loveliest two boys. Sam Bompas and Harry Parr of <a href="http://www.jellymongers.co.uk/">Jellymonger</a> fame. And so I made some jelly in my new Jelly Baby mold. It was not, as the photograph shows a big (visual) success. But it tasted good (Cream Soda flavor!) and it squelched. And those things are terribly important when it comes to judging jelly...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CQARSAGQ1CYNC4F7mF0HUw8f6PQRvaFHObeTW-CC9nMlaNESQmUgL4dJphAbhoaLdSI2IpiTpXHkXl69acKXVXidSoQG_NGUTAWfbzKPiAxymHQISvtpsUjaqwXg2xBXrIMhsN3dibY/s1600/photo-9+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3CQARSAGQ1CYNC4F7mF0HUw8f6PQRvaFHObeTW-CC9nMlaNESQmUgL4dJphAbhoaLdSI2IpiTpXHkXl69acKXVXidSoQG_NGUTAWfbzKPiAxymHQISvtpsUjaqwXg2xBXrIMhsN3dibY/s1600/photo-9+copy.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(How jelly should not look: Effort by Sam Woulidge)</span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3ex4HuZSxtM3-P4a-ofpeqVpVvSsxtEXyNmVPmU7txn91XzHprd1CO1f6aynYHp8GId61Ih2rjyIJEJujumnOAXdyame1Ei_4Haon8cs3OE3gea45yJzg-uIkggZDroU_-FKotu5H8I/s1600/photo-8+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3ex4HuZSxtM3-P4a-ofpeqVpVvSsxtEXyNmVPmU7txn91XzHprd1CO1f6aynYHp8GId61Ih2rjyIJEJujumnOAXdyame1Ei_4Haon8cs3OE3gea45yJzg-uIkggZDroU_-FKotu5H8I/s320/photo-8+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(How jelly should look: Effort by Sam Bompas and Harry Parr)</span></i></div>
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<i>Here is the piece I wrote for <a href="http://www.tastemag.co.za/">Taste </a>. It first appeared in January 2013)</i><br />
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Bompas & Parr. The name
is reminiscent of an old-fashioned circus troupe, hinting at magic acts,
bizarre spectacles and feats of great daring. Clearly, they were destined for
this job. They, being 20-somethings Sam Bompas and Harry Parr who met one
another when they were both 13 years old and playing in the same orchestra at
Eton. The job being that of jelly mongers; the label the duo invented when,
years later, having left potential careers in public relations and architecture
respectively, they thought it a good idea to sell jelly to the public. As one
does.</span></div>
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There is something nostalgic
and wonderfully English about jelly. Something playful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it is only right that this underrated
food has the charmingly polite and earnestly enthusiastic Bompas and Parr as
its modern day champions. Their flights of fancy, natural curiosity and hints
of eccentricity are just what jelly needed in order to reinvent itself as more
than just hospital and nursery fare. Bompas and Parr have come a long way since
they sold their first alcoholic jelly shots in a club, cleverly undercutting
the bar in 2007. Digging into the past and imagining the future they have since
then created savoury jellies, tobacco jelly, alcohol-infused ones, meat jellies
(most notably an unpalatable zebra one) magical glow-in-the-dark jelly, black
funeral jellies, impressive flaming jellies and rude jellies with gold leaf
bits. designed beautiful jelly installations for London Fashion Week and have
recreated famous landmarks in miniature jelly format for the architectural
jelly banquet for the London Festival of Architecture. But most memorably in
May 2012, they created the biggest jelly in the world using 55 000 litres of
jelly, this happened in Bristol when they floated the historic ship Brunel’s ss
Great Britain in a neon green sea of jelly. 55 000 litres of neon green jelly.
How could anyone top that in terms of scale or sheer ridiculous splendor?<o:p></o:p></div>
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But it is with the small
jellies that, I think, that Sam and Harry have the most fun. They seem to
derive enormous pleasure from experimenting with flavours, shapes and colour.
But what they love most is The Wobble. ‘What about sound?’ I asked them, alluding
to the squelching sound that Nigel Slater referred to as ‘a sort of jelly
fart.’ This led to earnest discussion. ‘The wobble and the noise are related to
one another,’ explained Harry, before telling me how they had scientifically
recorded the sound of a jelly wobble. ‘But I don’t agree with Slater’s
description of the sound jelly makes.’ asserted Sam. ‘ It’s more lewd. It’s a
smutty sound. A sexual sound.’ And then I blushed profusely.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Obviously, as young boys,
neither Sam Bompas nor Harry Parr paid any attention to their mothers when told
that they should not play with their food. Because play with food they
certainly do. While jelly is, and will always be their first love, these food
fantasists have ventured into other culinary arenas as well. They are famous
for their food installations and once created an Artisanal Chewing Gum Factory,
one that would have made Willy Wonka proud. Based on the principles of
microcapsules releasing different particles as you chew, they sourced 200
flavours ranging from the orange, foie gras, vodka, damp earth to candy floss
and quince and allowed visitors to create their own flavour-changing gum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There have been flavour-tripping parties
where guests ate miracle berries – a West African berry that makes bitter and
sour foods taste sweet -before heading for the buffet and taste-bud confusion. They
constructed a crazy golf course atop the rooftop of Selfridges in London and
more recently created a decadent drive-thru underneath the store in
an-almost-forgotten marble-floored basement. They are also big on Alcoholic
Architecture, having installed a giant punch bowl, large enough to row across
and containing 4000 litres of punch, in a London mansion for Cognac brand,
Courvoisier. Even more impressive and enjoyable, I would imagine, would have
been the walk-in experience created for gin company Hendrick’s. Here, to the
accompanying soundtrack of liquid splashing and tinkling ice, visitors donned
boilersuits and walked into a room being pumped full of gin-and-tonic mist, but
the stay was a short one as the alcohol was absorbed through the lungs and
eyeballs and anyone overstaying their welcome would end up getting completely
trashed. The parties where ether-dipped strawberries were served led to verbal
confusions as names were forgotten and nouns mixed up. And they have made Occult
Jam for a surrealist art exhibition using a tiny snip of the late Princess
Diana’s hair and infusing it in gin and then combining it with milk and
sugar<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- a creepy condensed milk of
sorts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On a recent visit to South
Africa, as speakers at the Spier Secret Festival, those attending were lucky
enough to experience the jelly side of things as well as the experimental
genius that is Bompas and Parr. The jellies, boasting appropriately slutty
wobbles and smutty sounds, were made of chenin blanc, granadilla and flecked with
gold leaf were absolutely, potently delicious. The installation? Well, that
caused more than a few sparks. Calling on their schoolboy love of science and being
showoffs, they created a spectacular gherkin chandelier which consisted of 60
gherkins, each one drawing 500 watts of power. ‘A potentially deadly act.’
Harry warned me, ensuring that, once the pickles were powered up, I stayed well
away from the eerie light, the fizzing, the spluttering sparks, the momentary
illuminations and the sharp smell of burning pickle. ‘60 Gherkins will lay down
their lives for this, for the purpose of bringing pleasure to 150 people,’ I
recalled Sam telling me. I had been moved by his sincere explanation that while
some wastage may occur, they try and stay well clear of what he terms
‘gratuitous waste’. ‘Food is an interesting medium for art. But food is also important.
It has to be respected. The justification of some waste, lies in the potential
joy it brings. You must worship food. Celebrate it. It’s what we do. It’s the
way we make people happy.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
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Where did it begin? And where
will it end, I’d asked them that afternoon, while they were making jelly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘It began with cakes.’ Harry
said. ‘My mum had Woman’s Weekly cookbooks with birthday cakes for every age.
It was very compelling as a child. One year there was a blue jelly swimming
pool, the next a telephone covered in sweets. The cakes were sculptural, it my
first introduction to figurative food.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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And end? ‘It will end with
Harry and I sitting in an old people’s home one day, ‘smiled Sam. ‘And someone
will start boasting, ‘When I made chocolate waterfall…’ And we’ll be like ‘Well,
we once floated a ship in 55 tons of jelly….’ And then they both laughed, like
small boys, enormously pleased with the idea of themselves as old men,
recalling the surreal magic they had once created. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-49341205270668140892013-07-12T10:47:00.002+02:002013-07-12T13:04:04.998+02:00Baby it's Cold Outside... so I think I'll head on out to the O&O... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnZ6TAfxoLar99rYfcOd_QtpqWidkuVbVIRct7hGuOKyLgBUj1AfslZrzZWwJiBeJWTxKpeQvuNQeK4QJqWeUIu9ZN83eiAF3uMNpc-YILtGJF908e4rw9HMS2cO76dYN3evIIJEuKs7Y/s1600/One&Only+CT+Spa+11+(HR)-1+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnZ6TAfxoLar99rYfcOd_QtpqWidkuVbVIRct7hGuOKyLgBUj1AfslZrzZWwJiBeJWTxKpeQvuNQeK4QJqWeUIu9ZN83eiAF3uMNpc-YILtGJF908e4rw9HMS2cO76dYN3evIIJEuKs7Y/s320/One&Only+CT+Spa+11+(HR)-1+copy.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl0sGg_svB8nyONC7giakPekZApP1hZXHpSBljti0u3Met8bbtu03QGBYjZW2TZVaoawwY4WTk09YejK_uTdfFP6Akh1sXUi7VWWQInbXcFfVPaMoAcdb3UPk4L2rbYJF2LUL0PKRdTRw/s1600/Defrost+Yourself+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl0sGg_svB8nyONC7giakPekZApP1hZXHpSBljti0u3Met8bbtu03QGBYjZW2TZVaoawwY4WTk09YejK_uTdfFP6Akh1sXUi7VWWQInbXcFfVPaMoAcdb3UPk4L2rbYJF2LUL0PKRdTRw/s640/Defrost+Yourself+copy.jpg" width="449" /></a></div>
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I love winter in Cape Town. I love it because it's cold and it rains. And I can snuggle up in front of the fire. And I can wear lots of layers and cover up my ams and arse. I also love it because it's seen as the off season and restaurants and hotels offer winter specials to coax Capetonions out of their lairs. So imagine my disappointment when mid July offers up temperatures in the mid to late 20's. I can only hope for another cold front. And when it comes I'll be splurging and warming up at <a href="http://capetown.oneandonlyresorts.com/">The One&Only Cape Town</a>. It took me quite a while to fall in love with the O&O because when it first opened it appeared as if locals weren't exactly the target market. Not at those prices anyway. But then, a couple of years ago they got a new GM and new PR consultants and soon word got out that Capetonions were most welcome. That even if you couldn't afford the bed nights, there were ways in which you could experience and enjoy the absolute luxury that is the O&O. And winter is an especially good time to do this. Sure, the O&O will never be a budget option, but they do make a serious effort to offer locals some pretty decent specials. At this point I have to say that I have attended quite a few functions there on the media ticket over the years, but having done so I spend a fair amount of my own money there as well. Because I do like me a bit of luxury....</div>
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Right now my first prize would be a trip to Thailand or Vietnam , where I could be massaged and pummeled and spoiled and eat delicious street food. But that ain't happening. So the next best thing is to take advantage of this spa winter special. And pretend. As I did last year and will do again. </div>
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Appropriately named the <i>Defrost Yourself</i> special (and valid until the end of August), the <a href="http://capetown.oneandonlyresorts.com/spa.aspx">O&O Spa</a> offers this great package with treatments such as Hot Stone Back, Neck and Shoulder Massage, Warm Coconut Scalp and Head Massage, Boutique Radiance Facial, Chocolate Paraffin Hand and Foot Indulgence, Anti-Ageing Eye Treatment and a Rooibos and Cinnamon Back Cleanse.</div>
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Choose 2 Treatments for R626</div>
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3 for Treatments R895</div>
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4 for Treatments R1200</div>
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In addition to the fabulously relaxing and indulgent treatments in the beautifully-lit, high-ceilinged treatments rooms you also get to enjoy the world class facilities, so be sure to wallow in the bubbling Vitality pool and warm up in the steam room and sauna. </div>
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The spa was recently voted Best Hotel Spa in Africa and the Middle East in the 2013 Travel + Leisure World's Best Awards and in my experience it really does deserve the accolade.</div>
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Make your reservation by calling 021 431 5810 or by emailing Spa.Reservations@oneandonlycapetown.com</div>
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And so if this reads like a punt, forgive me, but I really am only sharing the love. For me there is no more fabulous gift than a spa voucher. I like being massaged. I recall one holiday, many years ago when I went to Malaysia with my mom for a week to escape the relentless London winter. We stayed in a luxury hotel where we had fantastic massages in the lush hotel gardens bordering the beach. We paid in dollars, and while eye-wateringly expensive, we thought it worth every cent. But on Day 3, while wandering on beach, I noticed that some entrepreneurial local were giving massages to tourists for less than a third of the price of the expensive hotel massage. Were they professionally trained? Hell no! But I could get three for the price of one. So while my mother, being no fool, chose to continue going with the experts, I went off to the beach for a few crummy, cheap massages and I'd come back to the ylang ylang-scented hotel, reeking of peanut oil. Not my finest hour.<br />
So trust me on this one, darling, when it comes to massages it's all about quality, not quantity. Promise.</div>
Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-87731323337991493472013-07-07T14:55:00.001+02:002013-07-07T15:06:31.447+02:00On Rhodium and Rings. On Wine and Whine.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(The Wine)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(The Ring inscribed with the words 'Lief jou vir altyd' meaning 'Love you forever' )</i></span></div>
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When Jacques and I got engaged I sold my Kruger Rand to pay for the gold of my ring. I also had several links from a gold chain removed so that the jeweler could use it to make a wedding band for Jacques. (The chain, sadly, is now uncomfortably short and I seldom wear it.) We did what we had to do. He had just finished studying and there wasn't much money. Having discovered how horribly expensive platinum was we chose white gold. And tiny (<span style="font-size: xx-small;">tiny</span>) diamonds. But the design was great. And the inscription even better. Almost 14 years later I still love the ring and I never take it off. Ok I only take it off once a year when I have it Rhodium-plated. Rhodium, if like me, you never knew, is a rare, extremely valuable, silver white member of the platinum group. It is also electroplated on white gold to give it that reflective shiny surface. This is known in the industry as 'Rhodium flashing.' Whatever. It annoys me. And had I known I would need to do this, I would have asked for a silver ring. So I've decided to stop with the Rhodium flashing malarky. It's silly and unnecessary. The ring I wear is shows signs of wear as do I. Relationships (and life) are seldom easy and we bear the scars. We should do it without shame, without wanting to cover up. After almost 13 years of marriage, I proud and grateful that we've come this far. I don't need a shiny ring. I'm grateful that I have this one. With this inscription.</div>
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Which brings me to an altogether nicer form of Rhodium. The beautiful red <i>Rhodium 2010 </i>(made from 50% Merlot, 10%Malbec and 40% Cabernet Franc and selling for R330.00)<i> </i>from <a href="http://www.oldenburgvineyards.com/">The Oldenburg Vineyards</a>. I tasted it at a wonderful wine lunch where I felt decidedly out of my depth with all the great wine writers who are seriously knowledgeable about wine. I don't have that sort of knowledge, but I do know what I like. And I like this red. I like it a lot.</div>
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<a href="http://michaelolivier.co.za/">Micheal Olivier</a> knows a lot about wine and it pleases me that I'm right in liking it. So if you don't trust my opinion, here is <a href="http://michaelolivier.co.za/2013/06/10/oldenburg-rhodium-2010-from-a-special-place/">his</a>. </div>
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Anyway, the wine is seriously good (more than worthy of being named after a (very) precious metal, it's the sort of wine you want to drink while lying in front of the fire with a lover. It's smooth and calls for sensuality and I've been saving it up for a special occasion. So having taken the photo a while ago for this post, I put it away, knowing that come the first rainy weekend, I would lure Jacques away from his books, banish the dogs to the other room and share this rather special wine with him in front of the fire. Last night was the night. But the wine was gone! Missing! As in bloody disappeared. Jacques swears he never touched it, but I suspect he gave it away to one of his mates. So if one of his friends who may have been given it, reads well I hope your Saturday night temperatures were less frosty than ours. </div>
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In the meantime I'll buy another bottle of Rhodium 2010 for us to share one evening soon. Because I'd still rather drink Rhodium than wear it. With this infuriating, but lovely man with this un-flashed-beautifully-inscribed ring....</div>
<br />Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-9845689366287170382013-07-07T12:42:00.000+02:002013-07-07T15:28:53.024+02:00Shhhhht.. It's a (Spier) Secret.<div style="text-align: justify;">
I generally don't like crossword puzzles and cryptic clues. I don't like any form of races. And I have a horrible childhood memory of my sitting in the back of my parents car getting car sick while on a treasure hunt throughout a deserted city centre. We were the last to arrive at the destination and, rather humiliating, won the booby prize. </div>
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But I had so much fun today. Today I went on a Twitter Hunt with Spier Secret.</div>
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I sometimes forget how much fun it is to play. Most adults do...</div>
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But <a href="http://www.spiersecretfestival.co.za/">The Spier Secret Festival</a> is where food-loving-grown-ups get to play. This will be the third year running and I simply cannot wait for Friday 25 October for the fun to kick off! We had such fun at the first<a href="http://www.confessionsofahungrywoman.com/2011/09/toffie-de-luxe.html"> one</a> held at Cape Town City Hall. Even more at the second when it was held at Spier and became known as The Spier Secret Festival. This year promises to be another goodie with presentations by the Dutch, world famous Eating Designer <a href="http://www.marijevogelzang.nl/www.marijevogelzang.nl/home.html">Marije Vogelzang</a>, UK baking darling <a href="http://www.lilyvanilli.com/">Lily Vanilli,</a> American chef Robert Sayre who will talk about <a href="http://www.conflictkitchen.org/">Conflict Kitchen</a> (a take-out restaurant that only serves food from countries with which the USA is in conflict). Local speakers are the the divine<a href="http://www.hemelhuijs.co.za/"> Jacques Erasmus</a>, fabulous <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/CakebreadMari-Louis-Guy-Callie-Maritz/236041333133235?fref=ts">Callie Maritz and Mari-Louis Guy</a>, and Frans Smit(Spier Cellar Master) and Johan Jordaan (Spier Senior Red Winemaker). I'll also be presenting an interactive event whereby we'll explore the concept of food and memory.</div>
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This year there will also be a whole host of <a href="http://www.spiersecretfestival.co.za/secret-dinners/">Spier Secret Dinners</a> which will be held in September and October. Tickets cost R350 per person and include food and wine, creative spaces, interesting ideas and good conversations. (Ok nobody can guarantee good conversation, but I've never been disappointed at a pop-up.) Even if you have no intention of going to the actual festival don't miss out on the opportunity to attend some of the most interesting pop-up experiences around. Hosts include Abigail Donnelly (Editor of Eat Out, Food editor of Taste) , <a href="http://livetoeat.co.za/">Bern le Roux</a>, <a href="http://www.carabrink.com/">Cara Brink</a>, Carmen Niehaus, Caro de Waal (Editor of Food 24), Raphealla Frame-Tolmie (Food editor of house & Leisure), <a href="http://www.curatethisspace.com/">Matt Alison</a>, <a href="http://www.curatethisspace.com/">The Creamery</a>.....</div>
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Tickets to the one-day conference cost R900 (including breakfast, lunch and tea). The special dinner with Marije Vogelzang costs an additional R650. There is also a half-day biodynamic farming lecture on the Saturday by Nicolas Joly for R900, including lunch.</div>
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Otherwise just bring the family to the food market on the Saturday. It's like an old-fashioned <i>kermis</i>. Just way cooler....</div>
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Click on <a href="http://www.spiersecretfestival.co.za/">www.spiersecretfestival.co.za</a> for all the information you need. </div>
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<i>Spier Secret Launches (this is like looking at other people's holiday snaps, I know...)</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Taken at last year's Spier Secret media launch. A true blind tasting of Spier Chenin. I'm at the end, next to Sumien Brink who sat next to Matt Alison. Not that any of us knew that at the time! This was a beautiful experience where our senses of smell and taste were heightened due to our sense of sight having been taken away.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> ( The Twiiter Hunt. Me drinking two glasses of Spier Chenin. My friend <a href="http://iwrotethisforme.com/">Sam Wilson </a>put her back out so couldn't make the #twitterhunt. instead she tweeted encouragement and I got to drink her wine and fetch her prize, which I may, or may not, give to her.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(We had to dig out our clues at <a href="http://www.ozcf.co.za/">Oranjezicht City Farm</a>)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>( Ginger Caramel Popcorn, a perfect match for the Spier Chenin made by my divinely talented friend <a href="http://www.carabrink.com/">Cara Brink</a>.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>( Working for the next clue. I wrote 'With Spier Chenin I could drown my sorrows.' It won me the clue 'The East City Precinct's Literary Corner.')</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(My friend fabulously-clever-knows-everything-about-books-and-important-things Verushka Louw from <a href="http://www.booklounge.co.za/">The Book Lounge</a> holding my prize. More Spier Chenin!)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>( Lovely, lovely books at The Book Lounge)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Other Sam's clue was 'You'll find good coffee behind the dog's bollocks.' Which of course too me to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/DeluxeCoffeeWorks?fref=ts">Deluxe Coffee</a> in Roodehek Street.) </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(A deluxe dinosaur. He gets a bit prickly when he hasn't had enough caffeine)</i></span></div>
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<br />Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-74812961962849344302013-06-29T16:23:00.001+02:002013-06-29T16:23:41.080+02:00On hot dogs, Obama and wanting to go to New York...<br />
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This is the plate I gave Jacques yesterday. We're having that sort of time. The let's-get-the-hell-out-of-here time. He's studying for his exams and I'm being miserable. Things were a lot easier when when we were were travelling. I wouldn't say better, or more meaningful, but certainly a lot more fun and a lot easier. </div>
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We've just had lunch during his study break. I made hot dogs because they're easy and trashy. And that's what I wanted. And because I have Obama-fever and I'm glad that he's here in South Africa. How awful that I should admire The President of the US more than I admire my own country's president. But then I suppose that was always the case, bar the time Madiba was in office. Anyway, I see on Twitter that there's a lot less Obama-lovin' than one would have thought. Pity that. But I'm being shallow and can only see our own JZ through the haze of his many wives, the Gupta's, Nkandla and a shower head and hell, how I wish I had a president who does<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2V6d-IVqHZs"> this</a>. And <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TssZ9Uma1-w">this</a>. And <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9mzJhvC-8E">this</a>. </div>
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Anyway, here is a column I wrote on my crush on Obama and my love for New York and hot dogs. It appeared in <a href="http://tastemag.co.za/">Taste</a> in may 2010. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>President Barack Obama and Dirty Water Dogs and New York
City embody all that<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> SAM WOULIDGE loves</span> about the USA. Fox News and Hershey Bars do not.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I admit to having a huge crush on US
President Barack Obama. And no, the reason is not necessarily any lofty (or
misguided) political ideals. Afghanistan, proposed health care bill, the
promised closing of Guantanamo Bay are not the reasons that I have no less than
three Obama fridge magnets, (just for the record all my fridge magnets are rude, subversive and/or contain
expletives. I do not collect holiday souvenirs.) The first depicts him as Superman, the other is a picture of him
with the inscription ‘It’s not called a Messiah Complex if he changes the
world’. And last but not least a highly amusing interactive set of <i>What would
Obama Wear?</i> magnets in which my preferred option is always Obama in those red
board shorts sporting a bit of bling… But relishing his presence every time I
open my fridge aside, the reason I like him is because the one-time
intellectual nerd has become Very Powerful. I like him because he holds his own
on a basketball court, even when he is the shortest player (It’s amazing how
tall you are when you sport a title…) I like that he has date nights with his
wife and the way his hand brushes Michelle’s buttocks when he think no one’s
looking. I like that he reads Harry Potter and The Life of Pi to his daughters.
I like that he’s part African and that he celebrated his political victory by
drinking Graham Beck Brut NV (local politicians please take note).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I make no attempt to defend my imaginary
infidelity to my husband, who is far more cynical (sensible?) than I am when it
comes to politics or politicians, and Jacques (bless him) indulges my
infatuation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Which is why, on our last day in New
York, before we exchanged our seafaring ways for a permanent home in the shadow
of Table Mountain, I could drag him to Gray’s Papaya on the corner of Eighth
Avenue and 37<sup>th</sup> Street. I told him that Anthony Bourdain rates this
small, open 24/7 hot dog joint. But my primary reason for visiting was that
this tiny place had publicly endorsed Barack Obama’s bid for presidency in
2008. ‘Yes, Senator Obama – we are ready to believe again’ posters filled his
shop front, so gaining him more that a few mentions in the influential
Huffington Post and causing hungry, hot dog lovin’ Republicans to reevaluate
the meaning of loyalty. Because hot dogs are very serious business in NYC. And
those bought at Gray’s are particularly good. And democratically priced. These
days a Recession Special consisting of two hot dogs and a fruit drink (the
preferred accompaniment) will set you back only $4.95. Served on warm soft
bread rolls, with enough crispy onion relish and mustard to give it a nice
bite, these smallish hot dogs are the perfect grab & go meal. Well almost
perfect. At Gray’s the dogs themselves are cooked on rollers, which gives, it a
reassuringly pleasant sanitized greasiness, but I, having spent some time in
New York, and always favouring the street food option, have developed a bit of
a thing for the slightly dodgier Dirty Water Dogs sold on almost every street
corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dirty dogs, as they are also
known, are sold from mobile carts, and are so called because they are boiled in
water and then stored in the same hot murky water, only being fished out when a
customer requests one. Languishing in day-old water, these sausages are not
always the most healthiest most hygienic of foods. But no matter, they are
delicious, it’s as if the New York pollution adds the extra, mysterious zing.
The best dogs are those sold from underneath a yellow and blue Sabrett’s umbrella,
Sabrett’s is the Rolls Royce of sausages, being an all-beef frankfurter with
natural casing and having a distinctive ‘snap’ when you bite into it. This is
the sound that Hot Dog aficionados look for. So having shared the Recession
Special (Yes, we can!) at Gray’s we left to find the best dirty water dog.
Because once you’re on a roll, one dog just aint enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Which, as an aside, brings me to the
rather revolting extreme sport of competitive eating, something I once watched
in horrified fascination on television. Competitive eating is one of America’s
fastest growing sports, and in excess of 1.4 million households tune in to ESPN
to watch competitors scoff down hot dogs at Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Contest in
Coney Island. On the Fourth of July 2009 Joey Chestnut consumed 68 hot dogs
(with buns) in 10 minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">So Hot Dogs are big business in New
York City. Recently a vendor lost his concession outside the Metropolitan
Museum of Art for failing to pay his monthly rent of $53 558! And I wonder what
ridiculous amount the nice guy selling outside the Apple and FAO Schwarz stores
on 5fth Avenue pays for renting his small square of pavement. Which is where, I
think, the best Dirty Water dogs are to be found. Perhaps it’s the fact that
they’re still cheap in an area where nothing else is, $3 buys you one mighty
fine dog. The onion relish, sharp mustard fumes, soft warm bun and the promise
of sharp snap when you first bite into the sausage, and the faux brusqueness of
the vendor comes with the unspoken agreement that for a few minutes of culinary
comfort you too will feel like a New Yorker. And for a short while that feels
good.</span></div>
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Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-68943260814407676742013-06-19T00:08:00.001+02:002013-06-19T00:08:20.877+02:00Nigella's Chocolate Mousse (for tough times)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">( Chocolate mousse being made. Chocolate is meant to be messy, so I rather like </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">the</span></i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">chocolate-dribbled sides of my red pot)</span></i></div>
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We, the public, like to know the flaws, the failures and fashion faux pas of the famous. It makes us feel marginally better about ourselves. And that, I suppose, is why <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/index.html">The Daily Mail</a> is so hugely successful and why, guiltily, I go online for my daily fix. Mostly I laugh. I admit to having laughed at Nigella when she went swimming in a <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1378660/Nigellas-big-burkini-blunder-She-looked-utterly-daft--Domestic-Goddess-hiding-skin-ample-curves-sun.html">burkini</a> in Australia in 2011. But I have also admired and envied her fabulous <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2192015/Nigella-Lawson-shows-incredible-weight-loss-figure-hugging-black-outfit.html">weightloss</a> in 2012. And I have always loved her <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-2235937/Nigellas-Italian-Christmas-Cinnamon-almond-cake.html">recipes</a>. But yesterday I cried. Yesterday I <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2342922/Nigella-Lawson-Charles-Saatchi-says-row-playful-tiff-held-throat-emphasise-point.html">read</a> how Charles Saatchi put his hands around Nigella Lawson's neck and attempted to throttle her in a restaurant in London. No one got up to help her. Although they did take photos. (Which freaks me out even more. Who in the hell takes photographs while a woman is being abused and does not get up to help her?) The image of her tear-filled frightened eyes haunt me. My heart bled for her as she walked away, desperately trying to avoid the prying eyes of the public. I would think that the worst part of fame would be that you had no privacy, knowing that The Daily Mail would capture your every move and misdemeanor. That you could not hide your sorrow or your shame. Not that Nigella Lawson should feel any shame. The shame belongs to her husband Charles Saatchi. It is he who should be averting his eyes.<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><b>Grown-up Chocolate Mousse </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Because while chocolate does not cure all ills it does offer some comfort.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman';">This is my version of Nigella's </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Instant Chocolate Mousse,</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The recipe originally came from my favourite book of hers </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Nigella Express.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">150g of marshmallows (I use ordinary white ones and cut them in half)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">45g of soft butter</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">250g good dark chocolate broken into small pieces (I use Lindt 70%)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">20ml hot water from a boiled kettle</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">50ml Grand Marnier liqueur</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">250 ml double cream</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">½ teaspoon vanilla extract</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Put the marshmallows, butter, chocolate, water and Grand Marnier in a pot</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Place the pot on the stove, over medium heat to melt the contents, stirring gently until everything has melted. Once melted remove the pot from heat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Whip the cream with the vanilla extract until it’s thick.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Then fold the thickened cream into the cooling chocolate mixture.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Pour into into 6 small glasses or pretty espresso cups and then chill them in the fridge for a bit before eating. I, greedily, like to double up the recipe and pour it into a medium sized crystal bowl so that everyone can ooh-and-ah as I bring it to the table and then there is also plenty for second helpings and morning-after breakfast.</span></div>
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Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-33451618607448733712013-05-05T22:01:00.002+02:002013-05-05T22:01:39.205+02:00My Mom and Melkkos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpmLlJ9Kp2z1Lg4ubqacj2R3azBGe8dR_tYI0UadXQ7F0eNQl7mBpiq7LGPRVMOmpiVm2nHF7gb2E5HsYQIg4P-GKdEqcKNdxKsotHLKLvcEqa67yEl2ocnHdUjMHu9tHG08ScpZAQks/s1600/DSC04184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpmLlJ9Kp2z1Lg4ubqacj2R3azBGe8dR_tYI0UadXQ7F0eNQl7mBpiq7LGPRVMOmpiVm2nHF7gb2E5HsYQIg4P-GKdEqcKNdxKsotHLKLvcEqa67yEl2ocnHdUjMHu9tHG08ScpZAQks/s320/DSC04184.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">My mom, Marie.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaRk7vja9BCkbGsrXMhHD4E_o9BD398DGJJuOoMPFYw0ikBRTpCx3nbQ97ZYPyfS6T0BK4qVyXuUir62KLtnQ4CCZhMZ7E0weK_5XcYrENos5tL9c3uCYe7Nh28e5nu1uB7eKHJZJOtk/s1600/photo-7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaRk7vja9BCkbGsrXMhHD4E_o9BD398DGJJuOoMPFYw0ikBRTpCx3nbQ97ZYPyfS6T0BK4qVyXuUir62KLtnQ4CCZhMZ7E0weK_5XcYrENos5tL9c3uCYe7Nh28e5nu1uB7eKHJZJOtk/s320/photo-7.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">A glass of milk. Obviously.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">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. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">It's better now. My mom is slowly regaining that familiar fighting spirit. </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I can remember two things about this time, the one was making myself </span><i style="font-size: small;">melkkos</i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> 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 <i>stoep</i> 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....</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><u>MELKKOS</u></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><u><br /></u></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><u>Ingredients</u></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">1/2 cup of flour</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">1 1/2 tablespoons of butter</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Pinch of salt</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">3 cups of milk</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Cinnamon stick.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sugar</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Cinnamon</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><u>Method</u></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Mix the sugar and cinnamon to make cinnamon</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">. (Obviously)</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Rub the butter and the flour between your fingers until it's all nice and crumbly.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Bring the milk with the cinnamon stick to boil</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Slowly, bit by bit, add the butter / flour mixture to the warm milk, stirring gently all the while.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Reduce the heat of the milk, adding as much cinnamon sugar as you like or need.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">And simmer for 5-7 minutes, while stirring gently. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Remove the cinnamon stick from the <i>melkkos.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Serve in a deep bowls with some more cinnamon sugar sprinkled on top.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-81135979689024450942013-04-10T11:10:00.000+02:002013-04-10T11:10:18.920+02:00Soul Food is Heart Food.
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WNVO6MQdUig/UWUqxSImGLI/AAAAAAAAAm0/rf1ymUlL-xc/s1600/2013-04-10" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WNVO6MQdUig/UWUqxSImGLI/AAAAAAAAAm0/rf1ymUlL-xc/s320/2013-04-10" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Milk Tart will always be found at any celebration whether birthdays, christenings, graduations or funerals where Afrikaans is spoken. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">May also be eaten for no reason at all.)</span></i></div>
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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.</div>
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<b>Sacred Soul Food</b></div>
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<i>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><o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m not good with foams. Or
dots. Or intricately layered towers of ingredients. I appreciate Fancy Food,
but I seldom crave it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m also not good with
calories. Or steaming. Or carb-free, protein-laden plates. I value Healthy Food but I
seldom desire it.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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What I am good at is <i>biltong</i>. Syrupy <i>koeksisters.</i> Steaming pots of stew. I understand Soul Food. It’s what
my heart recognizes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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 <i>melkkos</i>, 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
<i>melkkos</i>, pancakes, and milk tart are my
Soul Food. Along with peppery lamb and green bean stew, pumpkin fritters, slightly
spicy <i>bobotie</i>, <i>boerewors</i>, snoek braaied with garlic and apricot jam and nutmeg- infused
<i>alikreukel</i>. 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 <i>krummelpap</i> into
the mix. But I didn’t and so I don’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have some friends who long
for fiery crab curries, for piping hot <i>bhaji
</i>the way their grandmother makes them, for the comfort of a warm lentil <i>dahl</i>. Friends who dream of bunny chow. Some
friends crave chicken livers and per-peri. Other friends speak lyrically of <i>rooti </i>and <i>denningvleis,</i>
of the meditative comfort of making of mince samoosas and of sweet,
cardamom-infused <i>boeber</i>. Then there
are those that seek the comfort of pickled fish and speak longingly of Gatsbies
filled with <i>slap</i> chips. While others speak
proudly of <i>real</i> free range, slightly
tough chicken, declare their affection for <i>mogodu</i>
and who click their longing for <i>umngqusho</i>
and <i>umphokoqo</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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 <i>karringmelk</i> pudding her
grandmother made her, and when her Zulu friend recounts how her grandfather
drinks <i>amasi.</i> And they realize how
similar the flavours are. Or when the milky sweet sameness of <i>melkkos </i>and <i>boeber</i> are discovered. Or when we realize that there are few South
Africans who don’t love the taste of charred meat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And when it comes to
memories, it matters not if you remember the first time you slept with a <i>sykous</i>, 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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">GLOSSARY (in order of appearance)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Biltong</i> - 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Koeksisters </i>–
A deep-fried, syrup-soaked plaited cake. The Afrikaner version is crispy and
very sweet while the Cape Malay version, known as <i>koesister</i> is round cake-like and spicier.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Melkkos </i>– A
milky cinnamon-flavoured soup thicked with either sago or thin strips of pasta<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Bobotie</i> –
Spicy mincemeat with an egg-based topping. A lot nicer than it seems.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Boerewors</i> –
Traditional Afrikaans sausage<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Snoek</i> – A
locally caught fish, similar to a barracuda in looks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Alikreukel</i> –
A giant periwinkle. A lot scarcer than it used to be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Krummelpap</i> –
A crumbly porridge made from mielie meal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Bhaji</i> – An
Indian version of vegetable fritters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Dhal</i> – An
Indian dish made from lentils<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Bunny Chow</i> –
A Durban favourite – a loaf of bread filled with curry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Rooti </i>– The
Cape Malay version of the Indian roti – an unleavened bread.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Denningvleis</i>
– A Cape Malay lamb stew flavoured with tamarind or lemon juice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Samoosas</i> – A
fried triangular pastry filled with savoury mince or vegetables<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Boeber </i>–
Similar to and also the inspiration for melkkos. A Cape Malay milky soup using
condenced milk and cardamom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Pickled fish</i> - also known as Pickle Fish. In the Western
Cape we like to leave out the ‘d’. A fish pickled with vinegar spices and
onions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Gatsby</i> – 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Slap chips</i> –
What the rest of the world calls French Fries, we call <i>slap </i>(floppy) chips, a ticker cut of chip served with lashings of
salt and vinegar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Mogodu</i> -
tripe<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Umngqushu </i>– A
Xhosa favourite of samp (crushed de-hulled dried corn) and cowpeas - a type of black-eyed peas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Umphokoqo</i> –
A mielie meal porridge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Karringmelk</i>
– Buttermilk<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Amasi</i> –
Fermented milk</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>THIS IS AN UNEDITED VERSION OF AN ARTICLE FIRST THAT FIRST APPEARED IN MANGO JUICE MAGAZINE IN MARCH 2013</b></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-52021615825264894232013-03-26T09:01:00.002+02:002013-03-26T09:01:52.049+02:00The Prayer of the Passion Fruit<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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....<br />
<br />
<u>The Prayer of the Passion Fruit</u><br />
<br />
<span style="text-align: justify;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<i>A 2013 Update:</i><br />
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.<br />
</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-62574980837308206942013-03-25T17:19:00.002+02:002013-03-26T08:39:12.025+02:00Chocolate + Pedicure = Happy Feet<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR7PfuLQo-Lnlb51D3QmP1TRI567k8qLH6xkCTphhakODZ6P27ZG4XwbNUnolOkrMKJZOSUfsmmbe2ssic8k7JxV7CApDVrtRHZgtIv-dkCpb3d848yu7wunFuwpC_QKg2FLuLnjdrvoo/s1600/bastien+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR7PfuLQo-Lnlb51D3QmP1TRI567k8qLH6xkCTphhakODZ6P27ZG4XwbNUnolOkrMKJZOSUfsmmbe2ssic8k7JxV7CApDVrtRHZgtIv-dkCpb3d848yu7wunFuwpC_QKg2FLuLnjdrvoo/s320/bastien+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Almost two years ago I wrote a post on <a href="http://www.bastiengonzalez.com/en/">Bastien Gonzales</a> pedicures at the <a href="http://capetown.oneandonlyresorts.com/">One & Only Cape Town</a> . 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.<br />
<i>(What I wrote two years ago)</i><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">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 </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Bastien Gonzalez</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">
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 </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eta_Carinae"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Eta Carinae</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> now and she's flown in from far.') are curative and aesthetic as well as incredibly luxurious. Therapist, Area Manager and</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> Bastien Gonzalez</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> devotee, Kim Milton took charge of my feet. While Celeste Osbourne managed my hands.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Surprisingly no water was used during either treatment, as wet skin can hide problems that need to be evaluated. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Cuticles are not pushed back, or cut as in other treatments. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">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 </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">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. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Havaianas</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> might not be in the same league as </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Jimmy Choo</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">,
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...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">So there you have it; another guilt-free chocolate pleasure.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Sure the treatment is pricey, but so is liposuction! </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
(The end)<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
So herewith the details:<br />
Pedi:Mani:Cure Studio by Bastien Gonzales<br />
Reservations: Tel: 021 4315810 <br />
Email: spa.reservations@oneandonlycapetown.com<br />
<br />
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.</div>
Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-59705400237688456532013-03-05T12:49:00.000+02:002013-03-05T12:49:10.723+02:00Take A Look At The Book!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOH7kyKJBy5CuMtaeiYQkkycVWa-XyxiYs5IodrCBQ4ebNuAVOX9frUKLFHYhwKIfCkkhk15fJSi5o4wtvDKTm9w7XHSAS-pGz7CahDcin6CLvCkFQHogvb5ATja7D9NwZIjsWXieGfHc/s1600/book+pic+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOH7kyKJBy5CuMtaeiYQkkycVWa-XyxiYs5IodrCBQ4ebNuAVOX9frUKLFHYhwKIfCkkhk15fJSi5o4wtvDKTm9w7XHSAS-pGz7CahDcin6CLvCkFQHogvb5ATja7D9NwZIjsWXieGfHc/s320/book+pic+2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>( Judging a book by its cover? I can live (happily) with this one. )</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDyy08FarD-PukwJqbOw8VP5bLKGLe99FI-YT9bQUexSZCPL8TxVQfws0lQuI6evo1u192-TF9fmAUIFRftomsBfoyKQiSzz8wjV5iryehFSH3W65QBAgxOqeFVmIu8xC42j-7xJjCCWQ/s1600/Book+pic+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDyy08FarD-PukwJqbOw8VP5bLKGLe99FI-YT9bQUexSZCPL8TxVQfws0lQuI6evo1u192-TF9fmAUIFRftomsBfoyKQiSzz8wjV5iryehFSH3W65QBAgxOqeFVmIu8xC42j-7xJjCCWQ/s320/Book+pic+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(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></span></div>
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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). </div>
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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.</div>
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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...</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(The bit below is what the clever marketing people from Struik Lifestyle / Random House Struik sent out)</span></i></div>
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Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-81760563995011677172012-10-19T14:17:00.000+02:002012-10-19T14:18:34.736+02:00The Avo Eaters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Avo Perfection)</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>(The loveliest of notes)</i></span></div>
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I wrote of my affection for avocados in the October 2012 issue of <a href="http://www.tastemag.co.za/">Woolworths Taste</a>. 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 <a href="http://www.avocado.co.za/">South African Avocado Growers Association</a> 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.</div>
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I cannot begin to tell you how much this gesture pleased me. </div>
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Such kindness could only come from people who truly, truly loved avos.</div>
Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-73755484491177415402012-10-08T09:12:00.003+02:002012-10-08T09:14:08.851+02:00Writing is one One Elle-of-a Thing.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(The August 2011 Elle cover)</span></i></div>
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This morning I emailed something to <a href="http://www.elle.co.za/">Elle</a>. 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. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>On Growing Up, Not Old</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
only things I miss about my 20s are my thighs and my ovaries. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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 <i>Nurofen</i> 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<sup>th</sup> 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
<i>Tainted Love</i> and <i>Rock Me Amadeus</i> 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 <i>Clomid</i> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5447089992458082018.post-53162703812432407212012-10-04T16:15:00.000+02:002012-10-04T16:18:00.997+02:00Simple & Delicious. That's The Way I Like It.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivC9r5T3uG-q1J-0uBLNDmMT2xgn92LwXujNgAorlhjs9BbhLiqcmlDbWvJU-B9q-WEKWiGJNAJ_VOkAgGNLEwpwGB6nxVl5MAph07bOWz2STPL_LAB8njETfEMsJVIzs3-qmhXULgyA4/s1600/Alida+Book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivC9r5T3uG-q1J-0uBLNDmMT2xgn92LwXujNgAorlhjs9BbhLiqcmlDbWvJU-B9q-WEKWiGJNAJ_VOkAgGNLEwpwGB6nxVl5MAph07bOWz2STPL_LAB8njETfEMsJVIzs3-qmhXULgyA4/s320/Alida+Book.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>(The cover of Alida's Book Simple & Delicious. Look out for it. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>And if you fancy buying the Afrikaans version, Heerlik & Maklik look out for the tomato pasta cover)</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIY8drjsVMue_qY90mDLDc7dul4G1_pP1mmkQBGCIfMjlq4mXQpkTSg0kiXL6f550Ws5SuL5LYFqOtjuf-xU1vqsrOt5_8gVxit2cDCQtDisCQkIRBB4K1fPXHXib6ryLLs0WPGVK8GiQ/s1600/Alida+Bollywood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIY8drjsVMue_qY90mDLDc7dul4G1_pP1mmkQBGCIfMjlq4mXQpkTSg0kiXL6f550Ws5SuL5LYFqOtjuf-xU1vqsrOt5_8gVxit2cDCQtDisCQkIRBB4K1fPXHXib6ryLLs0WPGVK8GiQ/s320/Alida+Bollywood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>(The Bollywood lamb chops recipe. Amazing! Jacques ate it 3 times in 12 days. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Twice at our house and once at a friend's. He requested it again this week.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I got to write the foreword for Alida Ryder's new book. I'm pretty impressed with myself as she has a great many friends in the industry. Foodies who cook far better than I do. People with whom she talks about food and flavours. I'm afraid to say that's that not quite the case when we get together. Firstly I make her drink enormous amounts of tea, something she doesn't usually do, but I need tea when I talk. And we talk. And so I make tea. And so we drink it. Then she has to stroke Max's ears and reassure him that he is her favourite black labrador in all the world. (He would, of course, prefer to be the only labrador in her world, but times are tough and he has some strong competition.) And then we chat. About everything but food. And afterwards we plan where we're going to eat. And once we settle down to our meal, we acknowledge the food. Respectfully. And then we chat. About everything but food. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so here is my non-foodie foreword to her brilliantly simple book with it's incredibly delicious recipes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Congratulations darling girl. Your book is beautiful. x</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Foreword:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unlike other brides, Alida never minded being photographed with a mouthful of wedding cake. I know this, not because I attended her wedding, but because she once used it as a Twitter profile pic. You want to be friends with a girl who likes her food and is not ashamed of showing it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I never quite understood the whole social media /twitter / blog thing. That is until it happened to me. Until I started reading blogs and realized it was like reading somebody’s diary, which I do admit appeals to the voyeur and snoop in me. And Google is a Godsend when you can type in ‘easy pork belly recipe’ and hundreds of appropriate entries pop up, you know you’ve come to the right place. Or when you find yourself returning to certain blogs, like <i>Simply Delicious</i> because you know you’ll always find inspiration in them when faced with the what-shall-I-make-for-supper- dilemma. I also started making friends online, virtual friends who were uncomplicated in their affection and encouragement -friends who showed pictures of themselves with a mouthful of wedding cake. Friends I wanted to meet in person. Friends like Alida.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before I met her, I, like other followers of her blog, knew quite a bit about her. I knew that she dated older boys at school because she was so much taller than the boys in her class. I knew that she loved clothes and make-up; that she fell in love with the man who is now her husband when she was 17 years old. And that she became a mother of twins in her early twenties. I knew that she loves her father and brother very much and that not a day goes by that she doesn’t miss her mother, a brilliant lecturer in criminology whose interest in food was way less than her daughter’s, but who left her with a collection of recipe books from which she bakes clementine cakes. I also knew that Rooibos tea reminds Alida of her grandmother. I knew these things because Alida is such an honest writer; she knows that food and love and emotion are intimately connected, and so she, with open-hearted generosity, shares her life and her loves with us. She does the same with her recipes. Recipes that work. I know this because I’ve tried them. Successfully. I’ve always liked Alida's enthusiasm for food, her generosity in preparing it and her authentic approach to the sometimes rather stuffy and pretentious world of the culinary arts. Having met her, I love her enthusiasm for life, her capacity for joy and her gratitude for the good things that come her way. And I know that this book; conceived, created, written, styled and photographed by Alida is a reflection of herself. And that is recommendation enough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Alida reminds me of why I love food. Because the making thereof is a gift. Because it tastes good. Because it always makes me feel better. And because, sometimes, it really is ok to want more.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What You Need To Know</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who: Alida Ryder</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Book: Simple & Delicious Recipes From The Heart</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Publishers: Penguin Books</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Twitter: @SimplyDelishSA</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Blog: www.simply-delicious.co.za</span></div>
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Confessions of a Hungry Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00985419898912226138noreply@blogger.com2