Creating safe spaces

 We all need a place of refuge.  That space that allows us to drop all defences, all other people's expectations of us, all their judgements and Just Be.  If you have crawled high up Maslow's Need hierachy*, that space is probably internal, and thus accompanies you wherever you go.  Some of us haven't got that far in the self actualisation pyramid yet:  I am one of those who needs physical places to retreat to while the world is at war.

Parenting is (or should be) the process of creating that safe environment for a child to test boundaries, explore, fall, jump, fail, learn and get up and dust themselves off.  Home should be a safety net for freedom. (This is what I hope Andrew and I have at least partially achieved these past three decades.)

But I am sorry to tell you that I created an unsafe environment for one of our baby tortoises at the end of last year.  I meant well.  I wanted the two littlies to have a larger garden to explore with more rocks and plants to discover : a bigger playpen.  So I bricked off a substantially larger space than they were used to.  And then we went away for four days.  Nano must have decided to explore the rocks, and he, I assume, got stuck on the top of a ridge in the sweltering heat.  I found his paper thin shell - that was all that was left- on a Friday evening.  Poor Nano.  I had failed him through incompetence and ignorance and being blase.  Kind people have consoled me that this is nature - everything and everyone dies - and in the wild many baby tortoises don't make it to adulthood.  But I feel guilty, and sad, and the heaviness can drag me down. Pico - the remaining baby tortoise - now lives in a crate:  a safe, contained environment.  But it must be boring, so everyday, I walk the tortoise, so she can eat the fynbos, and build leg muscles. I watch her carefully, mindful of the fragility of life.

Globally, safe spaces are becoming harder and harder to find.  There are so many people who have been displaced by the greed and atrocities of a few. We watch with horror as people are killed, houses are bombed, threats of escalation of hostilities echo around the media.  And yet this never ends.  There has never been a time in history without conflict.  

Leadership is (or should be) the process of creating that safe environment for citizens to thrive socially, economically, and personally. World leaders are doing a dismal job.  Which leaves it up to you and me to create peace, internally and externally.  This is not an easy task in these volatile times, but it is a brave choice we can make.  Peace (and a safe environment) requires hard work, careful thought, tolerance, patience and the strength of self to be able to admit we all fail, all make mistakes, all have things that we need to apologise for. 

I was mulling over safe spaces yesterday and landed right back in my childhood home, in a cupboard I used to crawl into when I wanted to retreat from the world or have a bit of peace and quiet. 

I was never lonely in there though, because it was crowded with a kitten, a wolf, a frog, a young girl, an old man and various other friends.  I collected Pelham** puppets. 

It was a wonderful obsession.  I still have all of them, and when our kids were little, we hung them on our dining room wall for fun. 

 

  I have since found more spacious, brighter places with real people ( and no strings attached) to go to when I need a break from expectations, judgements and the craziness of the world.  I get grumpy and lose perspective without these islands of centering. 

Imagine if everyone in the world felt safe.  I imagine there would be far less conflict.

 

 

* Google, of course, can offer introductions if you haven't met Maslow yet.  A simplified version  of the theory can be found at https://www.thoughtco.com/maslows-hierarchy-of-needs-4582571

 

** Pelham puppets were first manufactured by Bob Pelham in 1947.  Every puppet is handmade and hand painted so each has an unique appearance.  The clothing was also cut by hand.  They are true pieces of art. (imho)

 

 

Beloved Nano - RIP

Happy New Year?

This year, for many people, Happy New Year was more of a hesitant question than the bold exuberant greeting.  For the buoyantly optimistic, it is the start of what has to be better times, but for many jaded people it is a whispered sigh of disbelief.  There is just too much sadness, confusion and tiredness going round to believe that this will, indeed, be a happier new start to the previous years.    

In decades past, Andrew's parents were part of the street party generation.  On old year's eve, the neighbourhood would gather with their filled tupperwares and bottles of wine and party the night away.  At midnight, they cranked up an old siren and welcomed the new year in loudly and enthusiastically.  My family of origin were often in Sedgefield and as there was no electricity (or water - we pumped our water supply by hand from ground water....), it was a quieter affair. I liked that we rolled with the rhythm of nature - sunrise and sunset being our clocks.  (The Fiddler on the Roof song comes to mind.....one year following another..........)

The turn of the century was probably one of my most memorable New Year's Eves.  We (Andrew, R and me - K was an unborn treasure at that point) went to Milnerton beach, and watched the fireworks across the bay.  Do you remember the underground panic that was doing the rounds at that time? The Y2K phenomenon was seen as a Clear and Present danger. The threat was all/most/some technology would stop working because of the date change. (Here's a wiki link for you Young People who haven't heard of this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Year_2000_problem ) January 1 2000 came and went and the Y2K worry faded into obscurity.  The scientists handled the problem, and the conspiracy theorists found themselves without a cause. If only 1 January 2022 could have been as unremarkable...

This year, we were roadtripping over New Year.  Andrew's sense of adventure (and direction) leads us on some offbeat paths.  We were cruising the dust roads in the mountains behind Barrydale when we came across 2 farm gates stacked one on top of the other.  Tall cattle we assumed.  Or giraffes, we laughed.  But no....rather unbelievably, we saw elephants. We had stumbled across a private nature reserve (in case you are thinking elephants roam the streets in South Africa....).  What a treat to observe these magnificent creatures. It felt like a gift.  Barrydale was lovely too, and we saw the new year in after playing board games with friends, clinking our sparkling wine just after 11.30 (I decided we had waited long enough!) 

But I am ever mindful of the time of loss we are in.  I think one of the greatest losses is our ability to have the confidence to be happy and care free.  We are all too aware how everything can be snatched away in the blink of an eye.  Life is fragile. 

Happy New Year?  Let's wait and see.

Magnificent animal

 

View from the stoep in Barrydale

The bougainvillea in a pot

 It's over! As of a couple of hours ago, school days are a thing of the past for this family.  It feels like a major achievement to have weathered the school leaving exams in a pandemic with a child who has type 1 diabetes. (If you are wondering why that makes a difference, there is a whole blog about my experiences mothering diabetes: time4t1.blogspot.com).  Freedom beckons!  The future is a gold-paved path stretching out in front of Daughter!  Celebrations and relaxation are the order of the day!

Except, that is not really true.....

Celebrations are muted.  The future is a little uncertain.  Freedom wears a mask these days.  Covid round 4 for us in South Africa. (Please do not get me started on the UK's response to SA identifying the Omicron variant - my anger will ruin your day.) We  South Africans are resilient people, but we are also tired.

I find nature restores my soul, or at least stops me from wanting to kick a proverbial cat.  So the bougainvillea in the pot in the corner of my garden was an excellent focus point when stress levels were rising last week.  The burst of colour was just so lovely.  But being busy, I  enjoyed it from afar, admiring it every time I went to my car or looked out the upstairs window. 

And, I told myself, how marvellous that it was putting on such a gorgeous show after I had (to be honest) neglected it spectacularly these past few months.  So good that it could flourish without being nurtured.  Or even watered.

Bougainvilleas are strange plants.  They flower best when not watered much.  It seems counterintuitive, but I checked on a gardening site.   A few days ago, I finally made it to the corner of the garden.  And guess what?  The bougainvillea is not flourishing at all.  There are a few dried leaves hanging on for dear life, a touch of green on otherwise woody, droopy stems.  The flowers are beautiful, but the plant is putting all it's energy into the blooms, and the roots and branches are not thriving.  All of a sudden the blooms seemed more of a cry for help than a gift of gardening.  

It felt familiar.  Our outward appearances, smiley and dressed up, may not be so much a sign that we are flourishing, but rather a Look At Me in the corner - I could do with some support and soul -watering. We need to take care of ourselves during this exhausting pandemic.  We need to put our energy in maintaining good roots, supporting our selfs (not a typo!), and nurturing our relationships with the people who matter to us.  If we manage to bloom that will be a bonus, but it should not be at the expense of deep grounding and keeping strong.

You will be pleased to know I did water the bougainvillea, and all the other pot plants.  I am planning on taking some time off from being stressed too - I may as well listen to my own inner ramblings.  Be kind to yourself too.  It's been a long year.

 

 

The X Factor

It was excellent queuing weather.  We waited for the downpour to pass, had a lazy morning with tea in bed, and after breakfast, joined the line of people waiting to vote in the local government elections. Our allocated venue was the Blue School ( it has another name, but Pinelanders have forever named the primary schools in the area according to the colour of the uniforms.)  It was Daughter's first time voting, so there was an extra zing in the air. She had done her prep work - finding out who was standing on which policy platforms, deciding where to put her X.  Andrew found a friend (well, our lovely neighbour) to chat to to, Daughter had brought a book, and I was content to just pass the time watching people and thinking.

My thoughts drifted off in two directions.  Firstly, I was fairly familiar with the Blue school, as my mother taught there when I was a youngster.  At the age of about 7 or so, I would catch a school bus from my primary school in Rondebosch and walk to meet her there and wait until she had finished teaching.  It was a bit of an adventure for a 7 year old, and I could feel my thoughts shrinking into small girl mode, feeling important that I was so independent. I pictured Little Me, blue dress, straw hat, t-bar black regulation shoes and a book bag of learning.

Secondly, I was remembering the very wonderful 1994 elections and that voting queue. We were living in a different part of Cape Town then, and the queue was very, very long.  As the first democratic elections in South Africa, it represented a birth of some kind for the country.  There was joy, relief and excitement in the air, and such a feeling of community and good will.  It is also the first - and only- time I have ever fainted.  

It was a bit of a surprise to find myself on the ground, surrounded by concerned people and a kindly stranger holding my green umbrella.  It took me a moment to figure out what had happened. It turns out that I too was at the beginning of a new era.  I was urged to go to the front of the queue along with all the other people who were ill, old or pregnant.  But there was no way I wanted to miss out on this historic occasion,  so the three of us - Andrew, me and the Being who turned out to be our auspicious Son, resumed our wait.

Making our mark in the world is a way of owning our right to be an individual and to engage with community.  That X in the block is so much more than a vote for a political party.  It is a sign that my opinion matters, my decision counts.  I am here, World, and what I think matters just as much as (and no more than) the next person.

Mother Daughter bonding moment.  The zany nail is hers,obviously!

On the shelf

 

.Most Mondays I wish we embraced minimalism more as a family.  That is because Monday is dusting day, and we seem to have a lot of Stuff.  I am lucky enough to work from home (I was a trend setter way before Covid made us all work from home!), so I can juggle my different roles according to need.  Usually the greatest need on a Monday morning is cleaning the house.  We dirty hard over weekends.  Some Mondays I grumble round the house,  dusting only the worst of it.  Housework is dull, repetitive and never ending. Other days, I take a more mindful approach, and use the exercise to examine how lucky we are to have all that we have when people survive with so little.  Today I took the Memory approach - spending a little time thinking about why we have the trinkets we have on display, and how the moment that led us to acquiring them, has shaped our lives.  

See exhibit A : The Shelf.

 

What a collection of treasures!  Where to start!  There are 2 containers of stones (near each end).  They are just ordinary pebbles and stones with absolutely no apparent special features.  But actually, they are a collection of a path we travelled in 2010 when we went overseas as a family.  Most of the stones were collected by our then 7 year old daughter, mostly on Hampstead Heath and other bits of London.  Some came from Paris and Rome, and were brought home in a steadily heavier backpack she carried all over Europe with her.  So many memories of paths travelled, some angsty times (another blog maybe) and of our earth moving experience.

The pottery hippopotamus is called Art.  It has no function at all except to look beautiful.  We were at that stage of our marriage where things needed a purpose, as the budget was tight.  A bit sheepishly, I gave it to Andrew and told him it was Art.  He returned the favour with the carved Hoepoe - a bird we associate with the beauty of Sedgefield, and many happy family holidays.

There are quite a few items our Son has brought us from his overseas trips - a tea pot and cups (centre) from Thailand.  Silver looking goblets which are wooden, coated in tin, from Argentina.  A leather decorative Yurt from Kazakhstan. Maths and Computer programming olympiads have taken him all over the world, and we are lucky enough to have some reminders of his full passport.

The tall blue candle sticks were found in Barrydale on a road trip we did a few years ago.  Andrew loved the colour and shape, and what more do you need to add it to a collection of memories.  I can't look at them without remembering the massive milkshakes at Diesel and Creme in Barrydale, or the rest of the trip including a rather wonderful pottery in Robertson.

I won't bore you with the rest - suffice to say that shelf carries a load of Important Stuff with absolutely no monetary value at all.  Aliens or house redecorators would throw it all out without a backwards glance, not realizing the true wealth that comes with such dust collectors.

So today"s cleaning stint was OK. I am not going to pretend I love doing the housework, but I absolutely believe that we should all clean up our own mess.  (I don't clean Andrew's office, or Daughter's room - they can enjoy their own memory dust. ) Sometimes I wish I had a magic wand that I can wave over the house and it would sparkle with no effort.  But life doesn't work like that, unfortunately.

And when the dust settles, all we really have in life are the memories we make.   There is magic in creating a legacy of those.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!