A Cook's tour of my family.....a few recipes

 A Cook's Tour of my family:

Frances Walton (1904 - 1991)

 

My Gran, my Dad’s mom, was a teacher.  After eloping, she and my grandfather immigrated to South Africa from the UK in 1930s, and lived for most of my father’s childhood, in Kimberley.  They moved to Cape Town, where Gran taught English and History at St Josephs in Rondebosch.  She was a grand cook and used to create memorable feasts.  I remember scrumptious roasts, mushrooms that I can’t quite match in flavour and deliciousness and her famous Jellied Fruit!  This is her Ginger bread recipe – indulgent and gooey.  Best served warm with butter.

 

GINGERBREAD

45g butter

1 cup syrup

½  cup sugar

2 cups flour

2 eggs

1 ½ teaspoons cinnamon

2 teaspoons ginger

3 teaspoons baking powder

1 cup boiling water.

 

Preheat oven to 180 degrees C

I checked the recipe...still delicious!!

In big pot, melt butter, syrup and sugar.

Beat in eggs,1 at a time

Add dry ingredients.

Add boiling water.

Pour into greased/ lined loaf tin.

Bake for 35 min.

 

 

 

Jean McLeary (1908 -1984) 

I always thought my Mother's mom was a ballet teacher - I have so many happy memories of prancing around her flat when I was little.  In real life, she worked as a secretary at St Cyprians School. My favourite food memory of her (apart from our special tea afternoons with a silver teapot and china cups and saucers...) is of sausage rolls.  Tiny, delicate bites of deliciousness.  Here is the pastry recipe which I use for sausage roll, quiches, pies ....

PASTRY

2 ½ cups flour

Pinch salt

250g margarine

Yolk of an egg

2 teaspoons brown vinegar in 1 cup water (will only use some of this…)

Rub marg into flour and salt. Add yolk.

Add vinegar water little bit by little bit until the pastry is doughy.

Refrigerate for 1 hour

Rollout and use as needed. (Bake at 200 degrees for about 15 min.)

 

Esther Hudson  (1900 - 1983)

I didn't know Esther Hudson, Andrew's grandmother.  He has told me of happy Sunday mornings jumping- on -the- bed at the Grandparents house.  (So unlike any behaviour I would have associated with his family!!!)And traditional Sunday lunches.

Andrew's Mom put together a file of recipes for him when he moved out of home, and we use that file almost weekly.  This is one of Esther recipes I like:

Esne Spencer (1933 - 1997)

(Her name is a combination of Esther and Neil - her parents.  Unique perhaps?)

Andrew's Mom was a wonderful cook.  She did such elaborate things as debone a chicken to stuff inside a turkey! She baked a lot - I remember that the cookie jar was always full of homemade biscuits. All her recipes were neatly typed up and filed - she was a very organized person.  Sadly she died too young aged just 63.  She had longed for a daughter (her 3 sons are lovely people and she was exceptionally proud of them) - I wish she could have met her 3 granddaughters.....she would have doted on them. 

The recipe I use most is her pizza recipe - tweaked a bit because I am lazy. (I don't make the tomato mix topping - I smear on tomato paste....)

Betty (Elizabeth) Walton (1934 - 2018)

My Mom was also a teacher. She did a year of relief teaching in London, and then worked in a variety of schools in Cape Town, from Woodstock to Bishops.  She taught at Rustenburg for a bit while my sister and I were pupils there.  My mom threw memorable parties for us when we were kids - and always, food played a pivotal role in our many family celebrations. 

Mom and nourishment are phrases that go hand in hand for me.  I miss her terribly.  She made fruit cakes for us as adults, to celebrate birthdays, Christmas, and everything else.  I thought the recipe was a secret until one day she gave it to a friend.  So, I asked for a copy too.  It became a bit of a joke between us.

MUM'S 'SECRET' FRUIT CAKE RECIPE

500g mixed cake fruit

1 cup sugar

125g butter

2 eggs

2 teaspoons bicarbonate of soda

pinch salt

1 cup water

2 cups flour

2 teaspoons mixed spice

 1 wine glass brandy

Nuts, cherries, etc optional

Place fruit, salt, sugar, butter and water in saucepan and boil for 5 min.  Cool slightly. Add Cherries, nuts if want. Add flour, spices and bicarb.  Add eggs one at a time.  Mix well. Add brandy. Bake in lined and greased cake tin at 160 degrees C for about an hour.  Serve with love on all special occasions.

A peek inside our pantry

 

 

 

It was time to turn up the heat this morning.  I haven't had a kitchen food bonanza day for quite some time.  Before covid, I used to do a lot more baking and cooking- for family birthdays or special occasions or for friends coming round for tea. I miss all that - the careful thought of who likes what, which flavours complement each other, the savoury versus sweet elements, some fresh fruit to cleanse the palette.  I miss the noise, the laughter, the chaos of big get-togethers, even if they are hard work.  

We are going on a picnic tomorrow, so I decided to have my kitchen day .  I started by making some pastry.  I used my Gran's recipe, written out for me by my Mom and given to me at my kitchen tea over 30 years ago.  There is a history of love in that recipe. While the pastry was chilling, I made the rock buns - scone-like dough with raisins, and iced with a lemon butter.

As it is a Saturday, the house was empty - it is archery day.  But the kitchen was filled with the presence of so many people. The quiche recipe is from an ex work colleague.  The rock bun icing reminds me of a  friend, because we used to joke about our lack of perfection on the fairy cakes made for the preschool our daughters went to.  The buns themselves make me think of Great Aunt Edna, because they are her favourite.  

Our kitchen has a few unusual quirks:  some years ago, we wrote our favourite recipes on the pantry wall, for example. (One of Son's friend's asked if we had run out of paper.) The jars that we keep the sugar, flour, cornstarch (etc) are all labelled with not only the contents, but also things like "respect", and "important conversations that bring awareness."  The vanilla essence jar is labelled "gender." These were placed there by Daughter  as part of of  presentation she and the Plus committee put together for  school.  The labels can stay:  I rather like using 2 cups of "Normalizing taboo subjects" in my cake when the recipe rather boringly calls for regular flour.

Food has always been  a language in itself :  The thoughtfulness of a meal when you are ill, celebratory cakes, welcome-home favourite dishes, successful and umm - unsual-   experiments of flavours....,playful cake decorating with kids.....so many moments are defined by flavour.

 For me, when people have brought me food, I take it as a huge act of love - someone telling me they will nourish me and look after me when I am unable to do so for myself or my family.  I know the time and cost sacrifice involved in cooking, and in cleaning up afterwards.  It is an unspoken way of shouldering a weight, by taking on more work to lessen the load for someone else.

DJ Opperman, a South African poet, wrote about the memories of aromas and foods in Sproeireen . 

My nooi is in ’n nartjie,

my ouma in kaneel,

daar’s iemand..iemand in anys,

daar’s ’n vrou in elke geur.

 It doesn't translate into English very well, but it is about how  fragrances remind him of women in his life.  I remember when I was in my thirties, I had baked a gingerbread (a soft gooey loaf of deliciousness - my other Gran's recipe) and offered a slice to a young salesman who had come to discuss some building we were thinking of doing.  He told me he liked our house - the smell and atmosphere (he said) reminded him of his much loved Grandma.  That compliment aged me a lot!

 The picnic is packed.  Dishes done. Tea and coffee flasks prepared. It is time for an adventure!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Drive Throughs and take aways

 My head and my heart need a distraction from the turmoil and unrest that overwhelms us as a country at the moment. Sadness needs to be measured or we run a risk of being consumed by it.   So here is my diversion:

Drive throughs and take aways.

Do these things remind you of your childhood?  Who remembers the The Doll House?  For out-of-towners, and anyone who is younger than.....shall we say middle aged....., this was a drive in restaurant in Sea Point.  We would pile into the family car (there were 6 of us) and  pull up in a parking slot and wait for the uniformed waiter to take our order.  It was health food all the way:  Hot dogs, slap chips and milkshakes.  And now for the exciting part:  the goodies were placed on a tray which could be held on a partially open car window.  There was a special skill involved in getting the food before the Sea Gulls did.  They were particularly fond of the chips. So my memories include the cry of the birds, my Mom's exclamations about their cheekiness, the background murmur of the sea, and good family times.

 

The place closed down in 1983.  It had had a long run, having opened in 1938 (nice symmetry of numbers there).  It was knocked down and the site is now home to apartments that benefit from the most wonderful sea and mountain views.  

To close the loop of past and present, I am hoping to be invited to tea there towards the end of the year (hint hint, B!) as my good friend has just had her offer accepted, and she will be moving in to her new home built on the Doll House site.

By the time our kids were around, Drive ins were not really in vogue.  We did take the children once or twice, and that was enough! And then the concept disappeared for a while, or least was not something we pursued.  And drive through restaurants became common and Nothing Special, even bribing the kids with toys because Happy meals need plastic figurines to make them palatable. 

I experienced a new type of Drive Through last week:  we rolled up, parked in the spot indicated, a uniformed person asked what we needed, and then she shoved a long cotton swab up my left nostril. Covid testing has to be my least favourite of the drive through options available, although I am grateful at how quick and easy it was. It brought tears to my eyes as the swab went through passages I didn't know existed.  Negative result. I was very relieved.

It feels like Everyone is dealing with a lot at the moment. So I need to look for the kindnesses people show each other.  Every smile, every comment of concern, all acts of humanity -small gestures, big efforts-, build the bigger jigsaw picture that will get us through these overwhelming times.

 Bite sized kindness can change the world. That is my take away.

 

 

 

One bite at a time

 I have been eating a lot of elephants lately.  Not literally, of course - elephants are out of season, so it's pelicans for dinner again.  (I hope a lot of you are fans of The Goon Show, otherwise you may be questioning my current state of mind!)

But when faced with a larger, seemingly overwhelming task, wisdom dictates that we tackle it like we would eating an elephant - little bit by little bit, one bite at a time. 

My elephants are baby ones compared to what others are facing - I know that.  These last two years have been particularly stressful globally, and have, I think, created a conformity vacuum that has allowed us all to sift the musts from the wants. 

I am digging up grass (again, for those of you who followed some of my gardening antics in my previous blog.) The task is elephant sized, and I am taking my own advice and doing it square metre by square metre. The purpose is to create a back garden we can enjoy that requires less maintenance and water. Sitting pulling out long grass runner roots reminded me of a time I was explaining "weeding my life" to someone who needed someone (me) to experiment on for a  lay person's counseling course she was doing.  I got all poetic about it - talking about the easy to pull weeds, the ones with deep roots, the ones that come back despite best efforts of getting rid of them.  All very symbolic of life's problems.  

We became friends -  good enough friends for her to tell me when she thought the tea tray didn't have enough variety of goodies to eat on it, or that the sandwiches had too much mayonnaise. Good enough friends to share opinions and laugh heartily.  One day she was confessing to me how much she disliked the holier- than- thou attitude of  a mutual acquaintance, who told anyone who would listen about her good deeds.  "Of course, the only good deed I do is come to have tea with you,"  she concluded.

I was gobsmacked.  And hurt.  Obviously I had misread the relationship, so I was embarrassed too.  I did not want to be any one's Good Deed.  What a chore!  What a sadness!

I think she realised what she had said, although we never spoke of it, and our friendship limped on with such caution that it really wasn't worth it in the end.  I think of her often - she died some time ago - and wish we had managed to resolve this one. But life moves on.

And with it comes new opportunities to plant new friendships, and cherish the ones that I have.  I did make a promise to myself to never assume that people need me more than I need them - I will not be anyone's good deed again, nor patronise anyone by suggesting they are that to me. 

I have some more grass/weed pulling to do today.  Some more elephants to eat .  Some more tasks to tackle.   I am hoping to start the planting part of the new garden in the next week or so, so that I can see some progress.  We need to see the flowers of our labours to feel we are getting somewhere!

 "Start by doing what's necessary; then do what's possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible" said St Francis of Assissi.  But, being the patron saint of animals and ecology, I doubt he ever tried to eat an elephant!

Interlinked hearts

 I was a gwarky teenager - long, nondescript hair, braces on my bunny teeth, and lacking confidence to enjoy being tall and thin. One Saturday morning I went with a friend who had considerably more outwardly confidence, self worth and make up,  to a local institutional home for adults with delayed development.  It was their annual fete, with the usual tea and scones, tombola stall, white elephant stall, and some oddly shaped knitted garments. We wandered around, spun the wheel of fortune, bought some second hand books and drank the tea.  I was feeling rather overshadowed by my confident friend, and did my usual shrinking act.  

Someone tapped me on the shoulder.  Not from behind - he boldly walked up to me and looking me in the eye,tapped my shoulder. I don't know how old he was - a young adult probably, definitely shorter than me, and had a huge open smile that a lot of the residents wore, especially the ones like him with Down Syndrome.

In his hand was clenched a tombola type prize of an interlaced hearts necklace.  He gave it to me, and asked me to put it on.  "You're beautiful" he said.  And then he turned and left.

I wonder if he had any idea of the enormity of the gift he had given me.

This gift accompanied me through some difficult teenage years.  It made me stand a little straighter, smile a lot more, and helped me begin to claim my own space in the world.  Kindness can change history, because  kindness recognises the humanity and connectivity we all share.  

 

 

 

 

This little old fashioned frame and saying hangs in my bedroom as a reminder.  It belonged to my Great Aunt many moons ago.
 

Heartbeat

 I found myself squelching through a Bad Mood last week.  The snappy, irritable type that makes me replace my usual sunny disposition with a cynical and cavalier dismissal of everything as  too much to deal with.  Sort of Tigger and Eeyore rolled into one.  I can't be much fun to live with when I am like this.  It's an annual thing, and predictable, so I can brace myself and my loved ones and ask for patience and forgiveness.

It was my birthday.  I find the week leading up to my birthday one of the most stressful of the year.  I am an oddball, I know, but that's the truth. I sometimes sit and puzzle the whys and prevention techniques, but this year - pandemic round 2- I just gave into it and became the family crocodile.  It is not about getting older (I don't think) - I am pragmatic about what can be controlled and what can't.  And it is not about not being celebrated - my husband and children are kind, thoughtful and lavish in their celebrations.  Nope - it is about me, and where I place myself in the world. Am I alone here?  Am I the only person who finds it difficult to celebrate my own life from the inside? 

This birthday was on a Sunday, and it was splendid.  We packed a picnic and headed to Kirstenbosch botanical gardens and lazed under a tree in the safety of fresh air and no one sitting nearby.  We gazed over Cape Town, ate sumptuously, and discussed the philosophy of being.  I was warmed by the afternoon sun, and the company of people I love.  

It got me to thinking that maybe next year I can end April in a chipper mood, and not worry so much about my birthday.  Perhaps it will be possible to break what may just be a habit of dread.  It got me thinking that, although my life is a little one, I have achieved greatness by being surrounded by wonderful beings and loving them deeply. Perhaps that is all there is to it:  Having a heartbeat and listening to myself being alive.

I will check in with you next year and let you know......

No heartbeat

Ah - you found me. Thank you.

  Time is a currency, and your spending moments reading this blog gives a sense of value to my thoughts, so whether you stumbled here by accident, or sought me out, or got sent here by the magical whisperings of connections, I welcome and appreciate your company.  

Momentous things happen in just seconds…. the build up and ramifications take much longer, sometimes several life times, but the actual event is usually as fleeting as sneeze. So fast, in fact, that often it just fits into a regular day, and only later surfaces as a momentous occasion that deserves a second look. So I want to revisit some seconds that have shaped my life, and give them the gravity, and words, they deserve.

I hope you can relate to that feeling.   Please be generous with me - I may get messy, or confused.  I may even anger the grammar police.  I may annoy without intending to.  I see those as positives. Anyway, let's see how we go, and if we are compatible.  

"There's no heartbeat."  Her voice was flat, with a hard edge.  It wasn't her fault she had to tell me this news, although I think she resented it, judging from her phone call to the gynaecologist who had sent me to her.  She had turned the monitor away from my view, so I lay on the examination table, a human coffin, willing the tiny odd looking being inside me to come back to life.  It had been the Pregnancy from Hell.  I vomited every day, had to have a slew of blood tests, knew that this foetus did not match all the health markers of  "normal pregnancies" and there was the complication of placenta previa.  In fact, I had been sent to this specialist to have a detailed scan to check for Down syndrome, as I had summarily cancelled the amniocentesis procedure an hour before it was going to be performed.  I longed for this baby with an indescribable ache, so adding any risk of miscarriage or injury scared me.  (By the way, my cancelling a procedure I had been told to do was a huge act of courage on my part.  I usually did what I was told in those days.)

The death of an unborn child is often an unacknowledged trauma.  And when this happened - 20 long years ago- it was not deemed to be worthy of external grief.  Although, as anyone who has been through this sort of ordeal knows, that grief doesn't disappear just because we are not meant to be feeling it.   It, ironically, grows inside you until you are ready to deliver it.  And often that takes longer than 9 months.

The body had to be removed from me the following day.  At 17 weeks, the little being was fully formed, had to be broken into bits before expulsion. And then, an hour or so later, we were sent home to get on with life and deal with the trauma silently and politely.  People dismissed our experience with statistics (one in eight pregnancies is thought to end in miscarriage - usually before the 12 week mark) or with pseudo care ("you can have another one") or even with religious jargon ("It was not in God's plan").  So silence was easier to deal with.  It is a personal loss. 

It took just seconds to hear that the baby had died.  It has taken me years to process.

(It was not my first miscarriage, or my last pregnancy....it is just the place I wanted to start this blog.)

This is our only picture of Bug, taken at 12 weeks, when she was happily tumbling and dancing so much the radiographer didn't think she would stay still long enough for us to have an unfuzzy picture.