You got some me in you

Jy stuur foto's van skape voor julle twee weer op pad is. Hoe anders ons verhouding is in vergelyking met julle s'n. Vandag het ek met G. gesels oor ouers, oor wat die ander helfte gemis het deur nie daar te wees nie, watse verskil dit maak as mens saam deur die vuur moet stap. Ek verlang na jou, na die lang pad, na kos soos wat net jy dit kan maak, na tye met die hondjies, na die reuk van daai grys-blou truitjie van jou.

Ek wil voorberei vir die gesprek met die sielkundige, die voorbereiding vir 'n nog groter/ander gesprek einde van die maand, ek wil notas maak in my dagboek.

Toe kry ek dié, van 'n tyd net nadat ek weer terug was in die land waar selfs die wolke in gelid marsjeer:

Vanaand maak ek my bed
met 'n laken wat jy oor
12 000 km
2 vliegtuie
3 treine
en 'n taxi gebring het.
Dit is niks besonders nie,
vaal blou. Dis al.
Maar selfs deur my
verstopte neus
(verkoue in die somer? waar op Gods aarde?)
ruik ek hy is van ver,
van die tuiste af. 

Ek is lief vir jou Moomin.

Trusty and True

When the tears come I reach out to my mother.
No matter how far away she is, I have never doubted her, never felt alone, never felt like there was an obstacle that I could not face. She is the one to talk me down from the metaphorical ledge.
My mother is magnificent.

Since today is International Women's Day, I thought a bit about practically having been raised solely by impressive women, all with hardships of their own, and all with infinite capacities to love, to share and to support one another.

My Afrikaans grandmother is a very tough nut to crack. She is unyielding, unaffectionate and at times annoyingly unwilling to accept other worldviews beside her own. Then again, she is 86 now, and despite all her flaws she came back when others left. My ouma might fail when it comes to expressing love directly, and yet she tries, in her own way. She multitasks when reading books, she knows how to preserve any kind of fruit, and she can garden like no other. Although I have felt her to be disappointing in her persistence on old ways of thought, it must be crippling to be slipping constantly nearer to dementia. Perhaps when you can't remember if you have eaten it is comforting to remember your own childhood, your deceased husband, the better times of past memories relived in this unmemorable present. As much as her cracks have started showing ever clearer, she has been there, and her tiny, shrunken body crumbles even further when the time for departure arrives. And despite all her mistakes I have no other ouma.

When my ouma went home after a few months of staying with us, our cleaning lady Rosina stepped in. She was a lady in her late 50s/early 60s with patches of white skin that appeared in between the brown. Rosina always arrived dressed very smartly (after having taken the bus and taxi from Shoshanguve for what amounts to two hours if I remember correctly) and she came by twice a week. The highlight was coming home to her mashed potatoes and green beans. When I was still prepubescent she would meet me at the robot and we would walk home together. Rosina must have seen so much of the tiny intricacies and difficulties in our household, and yet I know nothing really of hers. I seem to remember a husband that was no longer present, and her sister's kids playing a role. When I was done with school she retired, and I have not seen her since. Strange (and worthy of closer investigation) how many white children have been raised (in part) by black (or coloured or Indian) women, and then how the children distanced themselves from their caretaker (their surrogate mother even) as soon as they would reach an age where racial division would appear to be socially imperative.

My sister is the fourth impressive woman, even though I think she does not trust her own capabilities at times. Over the years we have had epic fights and disagreements. We have lived separate lives while living in the same house. But she is also the one who drove me around before I had a licence, who let me borrow her ID before I was 18 to get into clubs, who has shared uncomfortable single beds with me whilst travelling, and who has offered advice I actually took. Whereas I will feel brazenly, openly (and often stupidly), my sister has a calmer, more rational demeanor that is hard to shake (although at times I would very much like to shake her until she actually tells me how she feels).

Besides these four admirable women there have been wonderful female friends whose influence I am very grateful for. They are all passionate, intelligent, embracing and I have a great respect for how each of them has faced /is facing the big, unplanned events that make life just a bit harder than it needs to be.

In that spirit, to all the women that have raised me and all the ones that keep enriching my life, I thank you for being phenomenal.

Phenomenal Woman
BY MAYA ANGELOU

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,   
The stride of my step,   
The curl of my lips.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,   
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,   
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.   
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.   
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,   
And the flash of my teeth,   
The swing in my waist,   
And the joy in my feet.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,   
They say they still can’t see.   
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,   
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.   
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.   
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,   
The bend of my hair,   
the palm of my hand,   
The need for my care.   
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Affection

My sister calls it my "flop": I made gluten-free brownies once, where one had to mush up a can of butter beans and use those instead of actual butter. The "brownies" were edible, but it was one of those weak attempts at making a healthy version of something that is not healthy. Rather eat one normal brownie than suffer through a few of the gluten-free ones. I don't see them as a flop though, rather as an experiment that won't be repeated. You can't stick to your fail-safe recipes when there are sites like foodgawker that present endless options to taste new things. Sometimes they turn out better, and sometimes worse.

Last Friday both my mom and sister returned home, so I relished the chance to actually make something for more than one person. The problem was the fridge didn't really contain much and in my standard outfit of a manly robe (think your grandfather, not Hugh Hefner) over tracksuit pants and an old Tshirt, well, it is not really what one should leave the house in. Not even if there is a fire.

So I found a cake to fit what I actually did have, and boom!, Mother's Day cake was sorted. And, hah, it was gluten-free as well. Te he he.

Nigella's clementine cake turned out really well, surprisingly.

Here are the ingredients and instructions (copy/pasted from her site, you can also simply follow the link above):

Ingredients

• 375 grams clementines
• 6 large eggs
• 225 grams white sugar
• 250 grams ground almonds
• 1 teaspoon baking powder

Method

1. Put the clementines in a pan with some cold water, bring to the boil and cook for 2 hours. Drain and, when cool, cut each clementine in half and remove the pips. Dump the clementines - skins, pith, fruit and all - and give a quick blitz in a food processor (or by hand, of course). Preheat the oven to gas mark 5/190ºC. Butter and line a 21cm Springform tin.
2. You can then add all the other ingredients to the food processor and mix. Or, you can beat the eggs by hand adding the sugar, almonds and baking powder, mixing well, then finally adding the pulped oranges.
3. Pour the cake mixture into the prepared tin and bake for an hour, when a skewer will come out clean; you'll probably have to cover with foil or greaseproof after about 40 minutes to stop the top burning. Remove from the oven and leave to cool, on a rack, but in the tin. When the cake's cold, you can take it out of the tin. I think this is better a day after it's made, but I don't complain about eating it at any time.
4. I've also made this with an equal weight of oranges, and with lemons, in which case I increase the sugar to 250g and slightly anglicise it, too, by adding a glaze made of icing sugar mixed to a paste with lemon juice and a little water.

I didn't have clementines, so instead used 4 small naartjies (tangerines, thank you Wikipedia). I could've also blended the cooked naartjies for a bit longer, because there were a few pieces of skin that were too big for my liking. Also, I think adding a shot or two of Cointreau would be quite tasty. My mom  (like Nigella) commented that it was better two days after it was made because by then it was really juicy. Lastly we had pomegranates so instead of icing the cake I just poured some pomegranate rubies over the cake, which also worked rather well.

Veels geluk liewe maatjie

For my mother's birthday we pre-celebrated on Sunday with a wine and chocolate party. We made tamale pie, chevin balls, a sundried tomato tart, various cheeses and a double chocolate cheesecake. And wine, of course. Lots of wine. Wine Wine Wine. We are really fortunate to be able to purchase great wine at cheaper prices (haha, that sounds like a sales pitch), so for the party wine we went to Checkers and got four different types of their Odd Bins wine. The idea behind odd bins is to get great wine but to make it more affordable for the customers because it is not branded (well, besides Odd Bins). So you can see what type of wine it is, what region and what year it is from, but apart from that, you get nothing. Try the Pinotage #703 for R44.99 and you'll see what I mean.

Anyways. I baked my mom a cake, because that is what one does when it is birthday time.
Nom nom nom. It really turned out well.

Here is the recipe:

Double-chocolate baked cheesecake ( Sunday Times Food Section 24 March 2013, p.7)

Base:
200g chocolate digestive biscuits
1 tsp cinnamon
90g melted butter

Filling:
500g cream cheese
2/3 cup castor sugar
1tsp vanilla
1 tbsp lemon juice
4 eggs
60g dark chocolate, chopped

Topping:
200g dark chocolate
1/3 cup sour cream

Preheat oven to 170°

So, start by spraying a springform pan and lining it with baking paper. I omit the baking paper because we have this cool cake lifter thing, but if you don't, I suggest lining it in order to remove the cake more easily later on.
Then crush the biscuits in a food processor, add the cinnamon and the butter, mix it all together and press it into the bottom of your pan. Then put it in the refrigerator to cool.

For the filling, beat the cream cheese with the sugar until it is smooth. I didn't have enough cream cheese so substituted mascarpone for some. Then add the vanilla and the lemon juice, beat again. Next add the eggs, and, yes, beat again. Lastly fold in the chocolate pieces. Pour the filling into the base and bake for 50 min ( or until the top is slightly brown but still wobbly). Let the cake cool down.

For the topping melt together the chocolate and the sour cream, whisk it all together until it is nice and glossy, and spread it over your cooled cake.

Refrigerate until the chocolate is set, remove your pan and taaada, you can serve your cake and eat it, too.

Hello ingredients

This would be your base

Folding in the chocolate pieces.

What the baked cheesecake looks like. 

I topped the cake off with some pomegranate seeds because it looked kind of empty, but you could add berries or peaches or shaved white chocolate curls or nothing. 

Ek herhaal jou

Dit is altyd tyd om te gaan, om jou tas met kreukelvrye hemde en iets vir die aand en broeke wat beskerm teen muggies en multi-tasking skoene te pak. En mens moenie vergeet van die boekrak vol boeke en notas wat jy probeer in 'n ander sak te stop teen spyte van die iPad en Google. Die internet weet tóg nie alles nie, veral as dit kom by bokkies en blare.

Jy los altyd vir ons die huis so voorberei as of 'n atoombomb Pretoria sou tref en ons jare sou moes oorlef. Net met smullekker opsies, dis niks blikspaghetti of bone op roosterbrood by ons nie. So ook die versoek dat ek 'n sjokoladekoek moet bak.

Ek weet nie hoe dit by ander mense se families is nie, maar die vrouens in myne is groot op kosmaak. My Duitse ouma het altyd Späztle gemaak met Rouladen en as nagereg was daar een of ander enorme koek. My ander ouma is nie juis so dol daaroor om ure in die kombuis te staan nie, maar soms maak sy 'n hoendertjie, of bederf ons met beskuit en heuning wat sy iewers by 'n padstal gekoop het. Sy is ook die een om te bel as jy blatjang of kweperjellie of enige voedselpreservering wil doen.

Maar die wenner bly my ma. Toe ons klein was het sy altyd baie moeite gedoen met onthale vir al die diplomate. Dit was net tafels gelaai vol pragtige bakke met happies of verskillende koeke of antipasti. As kind het ek die pienk salm-mousse in visvorm of die koue beetsop nie so waardeer nie. Maar vir ons verjaardae was daar altyd wonderlike koeke om na die speletjies (nou die drankies) te geniet, of dit nou 'n kat met 'n snor uit liquorice is toe ek vyf geword het, of laas jaar se drie-lae-sjokolade-mousse-koek.

Sonder my ma sou ons nooit die twee kante van 'n ordentlike fees leer ken het nie. Daar is die ure van voorbereiding in die kombuis, wat soms dae voor die tyd begin. Dan is daar die opskepbakke uit pewter wat sy uit Mexiko gebring het, of dié met die bont groente aan die kant, of selfs die Rosenthal porselein. En moenie van die tafeldoeke en die bordjies en die koffiekoppies (wat my neef gesê het mens nie mooi kan vashou nie) vergeet nie. By 'n ordentlike onthaal moet mens altyd 'n bietjie bang wees om die breekgoed nie te breek nie.

Die kos is natuurlik altyd die hoogtepunt. As almal smul en gesels weet jy al die werk voor die tyd, en al die skottelgoed wat nog vir jou wag, was die moeite werd.

My ma het ons geleer om nie bang te wees vir kos nie, om altyd nuwe resepte te probeer en om daai moeite wat agter elke pragtige dis gedoen word te waardeer. En dit is iets wat ek altyd met my sal dra.

 

Gracious

I have had someone walking away from me only once, and he has never noticed the loss created by that distance. Leaving does not always entail the option of coming back. Maybe it is the irony of fortune that my father chose to leave and never return, and my mother has to leave in order to return. Perhaps it is also a subconscious reassurance to the child in me that, without fail, she comes back to me, as I shall, without fail, return to her when I leave.

This poem by Cecil Day-Lewis, written for his eldest son, captures that letting go.

Walking Away

for Sean

It is eighteen years ago, almost to the day –
A sunny day with leaves just turning,
The touch-lines new-ruled – since I watched you play
Your first game of football, then, like a satellite
Wrenched from its orbit, go drifting away

Behind a scatter of boys. I can see
You walking away from me towards the school
With the pathos of a half-fledged thing set free
Into a wilderness, the gait of one
Who finds no path where the path should be.

That hesitant figure, eddying away
Like a winged seed loosened from its parent stem,
Has something I never quite grasp to convey
About nature’s give-and-take – the small, the scorching
Ordeals which fire one’s irresolute clay.

I have had worse partings, but none that so
Gnaws at my mind still. Perhaps it is roughly
Saying what God alone could perfectly show –
How selfhood begins with a walking away,
And love is proved in the letting go.