The dying memories of the 1980s: looking back to look at the now

For the last couple of days, I have been musing on the heady, awful and wonderful days of the mid-1980s.   At the moment, there’s a kind of pall hanging over South Africa which is a function of the nearly fifteen years of electrickery drama, ongoing corruption and impunity, only the surface of which Zondo has scratched. This is compounded with a growing sense of unease.  The crime rate is burgeoning country wide.  Closer to home, in the village, it seems rife.  That is contradicted by the actual statistics that the local police presented at a recent village meeting.  However, in a small community, each crime seems personal:  the perpetrators are often habitual criminals who grew up here, and we know by sight, and have fallen by the wayside.  The victims – rich and poor – are often people we know.

It began on Sunday

My reflections began on Sunday with the news that Jessie Duarte had died.  Not quite ten years my senior, she was a significant character the South African political landscape – that the general (white) public knew about – just before and since 1994.  My connections with her are vicarious:  I had reason to deal with both of her brothers in the 80s.  One, because of his drive behind establishing a coalition of non-governmental organisations.  The other, well, it’s not important now.  What is important is that at the time, we all had a single goal:  a South Africa where people of different races had the same rights and suffrage.  Somehow, through it all, we were young people who had fun and lived life to the full. Regardless.

Monday

Monday, that’s yesterday, was Mandela Day.  For the first time since its inception in 2009, I did nothing remotely connected with its spirit.  I can’t remember what I did in 2020 – blame it on Covid.  In 2021, and when we were in yet another lockdown, I played a minor role in a client’s campaign for the day.  At least.  This year, I sort of reflected more on how Nelson Mandela would have been profoundly sad at how his legacy has been destroyed.

A death on Mandela Day

Yesterday afternoon as I thumped away at my keyboard to meet an already missed deadline, I heard the announcement that gangster-turned-poet, Don Mattera, had died.  I only had one encounter with him.  I was all of 22 and it was in 1986 and on a day that was significant in the “struggle” calendar.  As I carry on reflecting, and his particular brand of politics, I think it must have been Sharpeville Day in March.  He addressed us – staff of a “struggle” organisation.  I don’t remember what he said or the poem he read, but I remember things about that day like it was yesterday.  Of the man, I remember his presence.  Not because he was a hulking man but rather because of his loud, clear message of peace at a time when South Africa was on fire.  Already a devout Muslim, he had a gentle strength about him that gave a lie to his past life as a gangster.   The room was filled to bursting – probably nearly a hundred of us, hanging on his every word.

Why is this significant, today?

Much of what we did at work in that organisation, every day (and at home), in 1986, was illegal in South Africa.  It was illegal for people of different races to work together.  It was not the done thing to create equal education for folk of other races.  What that meant:  an education that encouraged questioning, free speech and genuine intellectual development.  It was illegal, that day, for many of the folk in that room to gather in numbers greater than 10, let alone sing Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika. And we did.  Both.  With sombre delight and gusto.

Work and play hard

This photo is of me, sitting at a black colleague’s desk, that same year.  We were young folk

Sitting at a colleague’s desk in 1986

from across the spectrum of South Africa’s race groups who worked together and had fun together.  We’d have “seminars” at  Jameson’s on Commissioner Street each Friday afternoon. When we were done, and the band was not to our taste, we’d adjourn, often to Soweto and continue the discourse and debates party until the wee hours of the morning.  White folk were not supposed to venture into the townships, period.  Let alone young white women – as one policeman at a road block one evening delighted to advise.  He also tried to terrify my friend and I with stories of what would happen to us if “black men got their hands on you.”  We figuratively closed our ears, let him finish his tirade, wound up the window and drove back to Yeoville in silence.

Part of my “play” included volunteer work with Johannesburg’s street children.  The detail’s not important and again, we were an eclectic bunch of people living the future South Africa.

Friends and colleagues enjoying a day in the country with the street kids in our care – 1986/7

Looking back to look forward

I’m grateful for the reflection that the news of both Duarte’s and Mattera’s death foisted upon me.  Yes, things are difficult – very difficult – in this country.  But there are things that today’s young people – mercifully – will never experience:

Whites only sign Getty Images
Source

Two particular memories live with me.  One, as a child, I never understood why, when my father took our helper home on a Saturday at lunch time, she – a grown woman – had to sit on the back seat and I, all of about 7, sat in the front next to my father. Just in case, I learned as an adult, they had “relations” across the “colour bar”.

Johannesburg bus circa 1896
Source

The second is more like a series of bad dreams and they’re all associated with buses like the one in the photo.  We used public transport.  Sometimes, colleagues from “another” part of town headed to “our” side of town for a visit after work.  Some bus drivers simply looked the other way.  Others – one in particular, and whom we referred to as the nazi – took great delight in making sure they couldn’t get on the bus.  Except when in the company of white colleagues.  One afternoon, a friend (the tall one with the white hat among the street kids) and I hopped off on the way because he said –

Why don’t we stop for a beer?

So we got off in Hillbrow which, at that time, was already quite cosmopolitan even though it was designated as a “Whites Only” residential area.

Except.

The first only place we chose didn’t turn us away, and although I knew it was an all hours joint (for e-ver-y-thing), the server said we could only have lemonade.  We left.  Got back on the bus and went to my house.  And ate, drank (beer and wine) and made merry.

Now

That is the type of experience to which South Africa’s youth can never be exposed – or shouldn’t, anyway.  That kind of discrimination is now illegal.   They never have to spend their lives looking over their shoulders for fear of just living their youth.

This is Mandela’s legacy and which we should celebrate.  Every Day.

Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script

If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:

  • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I am adding them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?
  • and “re-capturing” nearly two years’ worth of posts.

I blog to the Hive blockchain using a number of decentralised applications.

  • From WordPress, I use the Exxp WordPress plugin. If this rocks your socks, click here or on on the image below to sign up.

  • Join Hive using this link and then join us in the Silver Bloggers’ community by clicking on the logo.
Original artwork: @artywink
  • lastly, graphics are created using partly my own photographs and Canva.

 

 

Sourdough – it’s a journey of constant learning

Sourdough bun recipe

I have a to-do list of promises that is as long as my arm (and the other and both legs) of recipes that I’ve said I’ll write up and share. This promise was made two years ago. It’s weird that it’s two years ago. It also seems that the phrase “two years” is running through so many conversations at the moment.

Two years since we were sort of let out

It dawned on me just yesterday, after the market, that it was this weekend, two years ago, that we resumed the McGregor Market. Restriction levels were 3A. Whatever that means. They seemed to change every week.

McGregor Market on a wintery 4 July 2020: Level 3A lockdown restrictions

I remember for three reasons.

  • It coincided – by a day – with The Husband’s birthday. Which we could not celebrate in any meaningful way.
  • The reunion of market pals was happy – almost like a family reunion. It was tentative, though, because we were all still caught up in the fear of this unknown thing that was the pandemic.
  • I added sourdough buns to my regular market fare, and I’ve been baking 24 of them – sometimes more – every week since. I have a customer who has a standing order for between 6 and 10 a week.

Learning

The first thing I learned about making sourdough, was that I had to keep mother alive. I have successfully managed to do that for more than two years. At the market the other day, someone actually asked me how old “the culture” was. There was no response when I said just over two years. I wonder why he asked. I had other customers, so I didn’t enquire.

Natural yeast is good for you

A few years ago – I’m not exactly sure how many – I stopped eating commercial bread. I felt hugely better for it and lost weight. A lot. Since I’ve been making bread with natural yeast (sourdough) – I’ve resumed bread eating – daily. In truth, I’ve eaten more bread in the last two that I ate in the previous two years. I’ve not regained the weight I lost. That tells me something a lot. I have certainly experienced the benefits.

Two years later: a confession

In January, I shared my first bake using sourdough with mother. It wasn’t a bread, and which is why I’m only now claiming chapter two with this post. And I am also going to confess: although I promised this recipe to Katie (my plantbased food fiend friend), especially after I re-created it in a vegan version, I didn’t. I just wasn’t sure that I’d perfected it. Truth be told, I hadn’t. Somehow, each week they were different and I was just not sure what I was doing wrong. Two years, and, I guess, about 104 weeks and more than two thousand rolls later, I feel more confident.

What I’ve learned

Sourdough bun recipe

The rolls are never exactly the same each week and you need to watch every step of the way. It’s trial and error and one has to be open to that. I will admit that just in the last six weeks to two months, something has just clicked and I’m getting them consistently “righter” than before. I am so much happier with them now.

What is it, I hear you asking?

I’m not exactly sure, but I’m leaning towards adjusting some of the quantities and instead of using a liquid measure for mother, I’m now weighing her instead. I am also not allowing myself to be tempted to add more water than the recipe says.

The results: much, much better.

McGregor Market
My sourdough offering at the market every Saturday

If you’d like the recipe for these rather delicious (even if I say so myself) buns, you can download it here. If you do download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?

As that photo confirms, those buns are not the only sourdough bread I’m doing. I’m doing those loaves, too. I’ve been doing them for about nine months. I’m still not getting things right there, so when I’ve learned what I’m doing wrong, I’ll share that recipe too. Oh, and I’ve also made naan breads – that recipe, too, I shall share. Possibly before the loaves because they are super delicious and given that it’s winter, I’m hankering for a good curry and naan.

Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script

If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:

  • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I am adding them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?
  • and “re-capturing” nearly two years’ worth of posts.

I blog to the Hive blockchain using a number of decentralised applications.

  • From WordPress, I use the Exxp WordPress plugin. If this rocks your socks, click here or on on the image below to sign up.

  • Join Hive using this link and then join us in the Silver Bloggers’ community by clicking on the logo.
Original artwork: @artywink
  • lastly, graphics are created using partly my own photographs and Canva.

Musings on Mothers, Motherhood and Choices

It’s Mothers’ Day today.  Growing up, Mothers’ Day was not a thing.  I do, though, remember sermons about Mothering Sunday.  Until I went to boarding school where peer group pressure made me pay attention and “do the right thing”.  My mother’s response was less than enthusiastic which, with hindsight, I still don’t understand.  Was I hurt?  I don’t remember.  I do remember that my peers looked at me funny when I said that in our home we didn’t “do” Mothers’ Day – or Father’s Day – for that matter.  I was used to the funny looks.  They have quite a lot with why, for a patch, the adolescent and young adult Fiona worked hard at two things:  conforming and being invisible.

Mum was not my friend

It’s no secret that my relationship with my mother was difficult.  I don’t miss her or think about her very often, the way I do my father. I’m no longer envious of women who are friends with their mothers.  At one time I was and longed for that sort of relationship.  It took years to recognise that during my young adulthood, I had been blessed with friendships with women who cared for and comforted me in a way my own mother never did or could.  It was they with whom had some of those very uncomfortable conversations that I think daughters should be having with their mothers.  Similarly, it was with them I shared some of my most happy life events and experiences.

Motherhood and universal kinship

As I approach the end of my third score, I remain constantly perplexed at what women expect of each other.  It also astounds me how some assume that within minutes of what will most definitely be a passing acquaintance, they may ask, “Do you have children?”  Some women welcome that question and will happily wax lyrical about their children and/or grandchildren.

Others dread it.

I am one of those.

Because no, I don’t have children.  And the person – usually a woman – asking, generally does.

A negative answer doesn’t end the conversation.  If she’s smart, she’ll change the subject.  Regrettably, that’s not often my experience.  After her face registers confusion and sympathy, she believes that she now has license to quizz, “Why?”

Because women have an inherent kinship, right?

Wrong.

I sometimes wonder whether, if the boot were on the other foot, and she were asked why she has children, her answer would be an honest or comfortable one.  I suspect, in some cases, not.  I know some women who, if they are brutally honest, will say that having a/that child was not their preferred choice.

That confession is not something shared with a comparative stranger.  Nor is it expected.  Why, then, should a childless woman be expected to explain that she might not have had children because:

  • she’s infertile
  • her partner’s infertile
  •  she just does / did not want children

Each of those (of a myriad other) answers opens new cans of worms, some of which bore their way to the very core of women’s intimate spaces.

Choices  and judgement

Women most easily “forgive” first two possible answers.  It’s the last one that is confusing and often not forgivable. It confuses me because what is so unforgivable about making a conscious choice?  Judgements range from (and these are not exclusive to me) from –

“How can you be so selfish?”

to

“You would have made such a good mother!”

and the piéce de resistance —

“You don’t know what you’re missing!”

Really?

Society hasn’t really changed

Biology aside (which we know has not changed over the eons), “we” like to think that in the 21st century, society is more “advanced” than it was a century ago.  In some ways it is, but it really depends on where women find themselves – even in the same village.  I remain astounded at how so much social and other media reflect a world in which a woman can only be happy if she finds a man, marries (preferably) and has children.

The burgeoning wedding industry and the rise in popularity of uber romantic destination weddings does nothing to dispel this, either.

Sutherland Farm Wedding Expressions Photography 142
Source: Expressions Photography

Granted, there are well-documented correlations between socio-economic level and these expectations, which are also often connected with both religious beliefs and level of education.  That said, women who eschew some of these conventions – and I’m one of them – find themselves constantly judged for, and defending, their choices.

Freedom to decide and choose

It’s partly Mother’s Day, and partly the leaking of the possibility that the seminal Roe v. Wade judgment could be overturned, that has me pondering.  I know four women who had pregnancies terminated in South Africa in the 1980s.

Each one of those women agonised over that dreadful decision.  I’d go so far as to suggest that it was the single most difficult decision any of those women have ever made in their now nearly 60 years of life.

Only one of the terminations was legal and that by virtue of her economic circumstances and access to medical professionals who knew how to work the system.  The other three all had backstreet abortions.  Relatively speaking, they were safe – also by virtue of their economic status.  They had the connections to be able to find a “practitioner” and managed to afford to have the procedure – at night – in what was probably a private day clinic. There were no follow-up visits.  No checks to see that all was ok.  All three knew that if there were complications, there were other potential consequences, other than not having an unwanted pregnancy.

Two of these women went on to have children.  One has three boys – now grown up.  Another, that I am aware of, subsequently went on to marry and have a child.  Divorce and then have another.  She’d resolved never to have another termination.  As did one of the others and who is not unhappily childless.  I lost touch with the fourth.

Where were the sperm donors?

In the case of the legal termination, and one of the women, I have no idea whether the sperm donors played any role in the decision. In the third, he simply ended the relationship.  The fourth abdicated any involvement in the decision:

Whatever you decide is fine with me.    I will support you.

It’s unfathomable that an opinionated, educated man had no opinion on something potentially lifechanging – for two, potentially three, lives.  He did, once she had made a hard, solitary decision, contribute half the cost of the then illegal procedure.

The death statistics

In 1997, the year that abortion was legalised in South Africa, a study showed that 95% of women hospitalised were admitted because of incomplete abortions.  Of that number, another 95% of those in public hospitals died of complications associated with abortion.  The study concludes that “methods used in this study underestimate the true incidence” – because the procedure was then illegal.  Statistics that have significantly dropped since that legislation was implemented.

Why Roe v. Wade reverberates for women all over the world

Most women who are pro choice are only too familiar with the symbolism of that 1973 judgement.  Its rescinding will be as symbolic.  It’s less about defining when a foetus can survive – and thrive – in the big wide world than it is about women’s autonomy.  It’s about our being able to make choices that affect our lives – and bodies – every moment of our lives.

As astounding as I find the questions about progeny, I find the pontifications of women who are happy mothers, and who chose to procreate. I am equally flummoxed by their damning judgement of women who chose differently.

How fortunate are they who have not been confronted with having to make a different choice.

Making it illegal for women to choose is not going to stop us choosing.

Deciding to terminate a pregnancy is a choice as old as history.  A change to the US law will have a knock on effect around the world and particularly in the global south where the US supports public health initiatives as happened under the Trump administration.  It’s a change that will result in death for many women.

My parents didn’t want children

I grew up being blamed for my parents not going to Australia.  Somehow, I was conceived and that plan was scuppered so they sailed back to England.  After my mother’s death in 1999, my father told me that he’d never wanted to marry, let alone have children.  The marriage, he happily blamed on my mother.  The first child remained a mystery.  They had taken every precaution.

How did that make me feel?

I admit to having been a little startled.  An irrational emotion because had I either not been born, or he’d kept that secret, I’d be none the wiser.

It’s moot.

I was loved – by them both.  Even if my mother was not my friend.

Whether she had a choice, or made a choice, I do not know.  I never will.  Either way, it’s a choice that was entirely hers to make.

So…

On this Mother’s Day, spare a thought for those women for whom it’s a day that evokes all sorts of thoughts and emotions.  Sadness for mothers no longer around, unknown, not understood.  Or for those women who are again forced to confront – again – their decisions about motherhood.  Whether or not they have had the freedom to choose.

Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script

If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:

  • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I am adding them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?
  • and “re-capturing” nearly two years’ worth of posts.

I blog to the Hive blockchain using a number of decentralised applications.

  • From WordPress, I use the Exxp WordPress plugin. If this rocks your socks, click here or on on the image below to sign up.

  • Join Hive using this link and then join us in the Silver Bloggers’ community by clicking on the logo.
Original artwork: @artywink
  • lastly, graphics are created using partly my own photographs and Canva.

 

 

Burger Blues

It was with a bit of a start that I discovered I’ve been making these hamburgers for just short of twenty years. The original recipe came in the Good Taste magazine published by the Wine of the Month Club which I’d joined in about 1998.  The publication is now defunct – gone the same way as many other printed publications.  However, I digress, but indulge me a little longer:  I realised that it had been more than fifteen years because I made them in Cape Town;  we’re in our eleventh year in McGregor.  Among other things, these burgers have featured as an offering for more than one Christmas market.

In March, I began my ninth year as a stallholder at the McGregor morning market.  I now realise that I’m a die hard, now.  A fixture.  In more ways than one!

Regular feature

Folk who follow my social media – especially Instagram and Hive will know that burgers – meat and plant-based – are a pretty regular feature on our menu.  Going through my photos, I discover that I had shared this recipe before:  around October and in 2014; to be precise.  That post, along with a body of preceding work disappeared into the ether when my erstwhile host disappeared, effectively killing my blog.  On reflection, it was one of my very early posts and will only benefit from what I’ve learned – both blogging and in the kitchen – in the intervening eight years.

The Blues

Restaurants in Camps Bay, Cape Town | My Guide Cape Town
Blues – late 80s into the 2000s Cape Town iconic spot

When the recipe was published in 2003, it was part of a series of articles on – and recipes from – iconic restaurants around the country.  This one was from Blues.  For about twenty years, it was the place to go: real live sea views – from glossy magazines – and food to die forI remember going there for the first time in 1990, and not long after Nelson Mandela was released and during my first “grown up” visit to Cape Town.  I had to try the recipe.  I did, and have both never looked back and have, of course, tweaked it to our taste and – to be honest – budget.

Making the best of the “blues”

Homemade hamburgerOne of the joys of being married to a former stock farmer (and being of a certain vintage) is that we both understand and value cheaper less popular cuts of meat.  That means I’m not averse to using venison or ostrich mince (ground meat) if I can get it.  I also don’t insist on sirloin or whatever was in the original recipe.  On The Husband’s advice, and that of our Country Butcher friend, for a batch of patties I made for one of those pre-Covid Christmas markets, was to include 10% sheep’s fat.

Fresh herbs, bouquet garniThose were the best burgers I’ve ever made: moist and flavourful.  Alas, that Country Butcher’s given up meat for mud.

Ahem…he now moves earth.  Really!

In addition to exercising my right to budget-friendly, flavourful meat, I have also ditched the dried herbs in favour of fresh.  I have not looked back.

The best hamburger patties

  • 1,2 kg beef mince ((ground meat))
  • 2 onions (chopped)
  • 4 cloves garlic (finely chopped)
  • sunflower oil for frying
  • 60 g mixed fresh herbs (or half if using dried) (chopped)
  • 10 ml soy sauce
  • 20 ml Worcestershire sauce
  • dash Tabasco
  • 1 egg
  • salt & pepper

To serve – all optional

  • 6/12 burger buns
  • Mayonnaise
  • rashers bacon – sufficient for the number of burgers
  • cheddar (grated)
  • sliced tomato
  • sliced onion
  • gherkin or pickle of choice
  • potato wedges
  1. Finely chop the onion and garlic and sauté these in a little sunflower oil untiltranslucent.

  2. Removefrom the heat; add the dried herbs and leave to cool.

  3. Put the mince into a large bowl and season with the soy, Tabasco and Worcestershiresauces. Add the cooled onions and fresh herbs if using, along with the egg; season with salt and pepper.

  4. Divide the burger mix into six (or 12) even balls and shape into patties. For bestresults, allow the burgers to sit in the fridge for at least 1 hour prior to cooking.

  5. Grill the burgers to the degree you prefer them over hot coals or in a pan.

To serve

  1. Grill or fry the bacon rashers until they are nice and crisp.

  2. Place on a warm burgerbun with some sliced onions and juicy tomatoes.

  3. Place the bacon on top of the burgers; then smother with grated cheese.

  • I use a range of different meats: venison, ostrich and have also introduced 10% mutton fat. 
  • I make 12 patties (measured using a half-cup measure).
  • Adapted from: Good Taste No 168, November/December 2003
American
burgers, fast food,

If you’re on a platform that doesn’t give you the print recipe option you are welcome to download it here.  If you do, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?
Homemade hamburger

As there are only two of us, I freeze what we don’t eat – in pairs.  They store well and play equally well with potato wedges and lightly grilled sourdough buns (and, of course, commercial hamburger buns).

Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script

I am participating in @traciyork‘s twice-yearly Hive Blog Posting Month.

If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:

  • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I am adding them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?
  • and “re-capturing” nearly two years’ worth of posts.

I blog to the Hive blockchain using a number of decentralised applications.

  • From WordPress, I use the Exxp WordPress plugin. If this rocks your socks, click here or on on the image below to sign up.

  • Join Hive using this link and then join us in the Silver Bloggers’ community by clicking on the logo.
Original artwork: @artywink
  • lastly, graphics are created using partly my own photographs and Canva.

 

The soundtrack to my life – a kind of musical “back story”

An opening word – or three

I wrote this post as an experiment in November 2018 in response to a challenge:  pick one favourite song.  For me, that is a virtually impossible task.  I have favourites depending on my mood, what I’m hearing, the context, where I am… I delighted in rising to that challenge to which I rose.  A couple of years later, I responded to another challenge:  to write about my favourite lead singers, because when my erstwhile webhost disappeared – also in 2018 – this post went along with it.  When I “reconstituted” it in 2020, we were in the throes of a Covid lockdown.  It was a black period and I did little more than copy and paste it from the blockchain and repost it.

This time

The expriment worked – I’ll explain in a bit, but first, I’m revisiting it now for two reasons:  my blogpal, Traci, also plays in the crypto social space.  Twice a year for the last four years, she hosts Hive Blog Posting Month.   I have been a regular contributor for a while and have not just had fun, but have made new blogpals along the way.  She also offers a set of useful prompts.  I write what I like, generally, only occasionally checking in on the prompt.  One was about music that resonated.  As usual, I’m late to the party because not only did Traci’s own life soundtrack resonate with me, but it reminded me of mine and thought I should revisit it which was reinforced after reading this post from a self-proclaimed Mad Scot whose music seems to track (ha!) mine.

About this iteration

I mentioned that first reprise of this post was a copy and paste excercise.  With hindsight, I realise that I wasn’t really in a space to properly revisit it.  As I mentioned the other day, lockdown was a difficult time.  I – like the rest of the world – seemed to have been just marking time and going through the motions.  This time, I’m looking at my sound track with new eyes and listening with a clearer ear.

I am as interested as you (I hope) are, to see how things have changed or unravelled….

Foreword

I wrote this in the third person:  it’s the first piece I ever wrote about myself using that technique.  I tried, and I think, succeeded in weaving my life story out of song and album titles.  I do use a little artistic license.  It was fun and, I’m told, makes a good read.  I hope it stands the test of time.

Arrival

With her parents, she arrived On a Jet Plane (John Denver) in Johannesburg, South Africa – a little Puppet on a String (Sandie Shaw).  With a Locomotive Breath (Jethro Tull), the family took a train to Port Elizabeth (and got locked in a lavatory.  There, she made friends with Jennifer Eccles (The Hollies) and another Jennifer, Juniper (Donovan), but didn’t find Atlantis (Donovan).

The house my parents built in East London 1968. Originally, it consisted of the gable, and the chimney and the two windows to the left. This photo was taken in 2010.

After a while, the family moved to East London where she started school and met Pretty Belinda (Chris Andrews) whom, full of Sorrow (David Bowie) she left behind, when the family moved.  Again.  At the new school, she was Only the Lonely (Roy Orbison), and just had to Get Down (Gilbert O’Sullivan), and face her Waterloo (Abba), until she headed to boarding school.

So you think your schooling is phony….

Hostel dance – 1976 – only just a teenager

Boarding school was all about putting Another Brick in the Wall (Pink Floyd) and avoiding the Bad Moon Rising (Credence Clearwater Revival).  ZX Dan (The Radio Rats) kept her company while she yearned for an African Sky Blue (Juluka).

In those teenage years, she was a bit like Sandra Dee (Olivia Newton John) looking for Someone to Love (Queen).

Then, like Greased Lightening (John Travolta), her Rhinestone Cowboy (Glen Campbell) rode in, but he had a Heart of Glass (Blondie), leaving her with The Sounds of Silence (Simon and Garfunkel) in the Purple Rain (Prince).

Asking, I want to know what love is? (Foreigner), she finished school and the Wild Thing (The Trogs), Like a Virgin (Madonna) headed to university.

There she found herself in the Eye of the Tiger (Survivor), saying, Papa don’t Preach (Madonna).

On the beach…

What a Feeling (Irene Cara), those years of Ebony and Ivory (Stevie Wonder) when, with a lot of De Do Do Do De Da Da Da (Police), Time after Time, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (Cyndi Lauper), it was a Never Ending Story (Limahl).

Days of “study” and fun at university

Following her heart, Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm, in someone else’s (Silver Dream Machine), she nearly ended up as a Crash Test Dummy(s).  That episode did end up with her Making Love out of Nothing at all (Air Supply), and singing the Redemption Song (Bob Marley).

(Wo)Men at Work

Working 8 – 5 (Sheena Easton/Dolly Parton – take your pick)

The Long and Winding Road (The Beetles) led to Johannesburg – Starting Over (John Lennon) which ended with Love on the Rocks (Neil Diamond), making her Brown Eyes Blue (Linda Ronstadt).

It was also time to start working Eight Days’ a Week (Beetles), joining the Men at Work (Down Under).  So, Here comes Tomorrow (The Dealians).  In Sugarman‘s (Rodriguez) company, her Last Dance (Diana Ross) took her to Meadowlands (Strike Vilakazi) where she did the Pata Pata (Miriam Makeba) and pleaded, Give me Hope, Joanna (Eddie Grant).

The odd Weekend Special (Brenda Fassie) didn’t go amiss, either.

After a while, it was time to Beat It (Michael Jackson), take the Paradise Road (Joy) and Go West (Pet Shop Boys).  Not the best decision because Another one Bit(es) the Dust (Queen) because of a Careless Whisper (George Michael) – Tainted Love (Soft Cell).  Again (Doris Day). This time, Weeping (Bright Blue), she headed to Mannenberg (Abdullah Ebrahim/Dollar Brand) and found That Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Queen) that was Simply the Best (Tina Turner).

Love over Gold

It felt like Another Country (Mango Groove) in a Mad World (Tears for Fears) where Love is a Stranger (Eurythmics).

She Put(tin’ )on the Ritz (Taco), and began another Walk of Life (Dire Straits).  It was totally Perfect (Fairground Attraction), for which there could be no Substitute (Clout) and best of all, in a Funky Town (Pseudo Echo) that would keep her Forever Young (Rod Steward and Alphaville).

That Total Eclipse of the Heart (Bonnie Tyler) didn’t last.  He was a Karma Chameleon (Boy George).  It was time to go Out there on My Own (Irene Cara), and with London Calling (The Clash), she headed for Barcelona (Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballé).  From then on, Believe(ing – Cher), it was going to be all Livin’ la Vida Loca (Ricky Martin).

It was More than a Feeling (Boston).

It was definitely The End of the Road (Boyz II Men).  She told him Don’t Bring me Down (ELO) and Jump (Van Halen).  She took The Long Way Home (Supertramp) after what felt like The Crime of the Century (Supertramp).  No such thing as Love over Gold (Dire Straits).

Against All Odds

The Husband and I, exchanging vows – 2002

Then, My Oh My (Van Halen), completely unexpectedly, at the end of a long Telegraph Road (Dire Straits) she found A Groovy Kind of Love (Phil Collins) that was full of Honesty (Billy Joel) that had her Dancing on the Ceiling (Lionel Ritchie).  Jabulani (PJ Powers) – happiness was the word.  She had found her Charlie (Rabbit) and he wasn’t a Man on the Moon (Ballyhoo).  He did want to Kiss her all Over (Exile) on a Bed of Roses (Bon Jovi).

Afterword

Firstly, did you pick up the group, album, song title or lines from songs in the section headings?  If you didn’t this is each of them – in order:  Arrival – Abba; So you think your schooling is phony….is a line from Supertramp’s Crime of the Century (song and album); Men at Work – the band from Australia and, finally, Dire Straits’ Love Over Gold song and album. And finally, that iconic Phil Collins song, Against All Odds…

Secondly, I did stop the story where another story began 20 years ago.  I guess I might have to consider doing another post about the last two decades…

Finally, as I said, I was hard pressed (notice the joke, those of you who remember vinyl) to choose just one.  I have favourites that apply at different times and others that I hated and now love.  I thought that in my revision, I might change things.  I haven’t.  I have added more, and not just in the headings which I did with version two….

There are songs missing from this list and which I’d love to have included, like Johnny Clegg’s Asimbonanga (We have not seen him [Mandela]), but I really couldn’t work it in, but couldn’t leave it out, either.  It is up there with another evocative song from my youth, Bright Blue’s Weeping.  Both are iconic songs of the struggle against Apartheid.

However, I have saved my absolute favourite to the end.  It comes from one of the world’s greatest guitarists and whose music underpins virtually every stage of my life – from my teens, and until now.  Why this song?  I have no idea, but it resonated for me the first time I heard it in the summer of 1980.  At the time, I did not know that it was Santana, or the name of the tune – it’s instrumental.  It haunted me for years, and one of the first records I ever bought, was the Santana album that included this song.  I now have it on CD – the same album – along with a number of other Santana albums that are all precious and special for different reasons.  One of the memories and experiences I shall treasure forever, was seeing Santana live in South Africa – I had waited nearly 40 years.  It was worth the wait and every penny.  Especially when he played this.

If Santana visits South Africa again, I’ll move heaven and earth – again – to go.

Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script

I am participating in @traciyork‘s twice-yearly Hive Blog Posting Month.

If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:

  • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I am adding them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?
  • and “re-capturing” nearly two years’ worth of posts.

I blog to the Hive blockchain using a number of decentralised applications.

  • From WordPress, I use the Exxp WordPress plugin. If this rocks your socks, click here or on on the image below to sign up.

  • Join Hive using this link and then join us in the Silver Bloggers’ community by clicking on the logo.
Original artwork: @artywink
  • lastly, graphics are created using partly my own photographs and Canva.

Pickled Fish: a South African Tradition

Pickled Fish - a South African traditional recipe

Pickled fish is an iconic traditional South African dish.  I first ate pickled fish at the ripe old age of about seven.  It was the starter for Christmas lunch:  the first I really remember.  I was instantly smitten.  Auntie Doris made it every year and for all the years we “had Christmas” at number 10, I looked forward to it – more than the Christmas cake or the Christmas pudding.  In the intervening years, I don’t remember eating it very often.

Regional traditions

I grew up in the Eastern Cape, and not in a coastal town.  I think I’ve mentioned that although both my mother and I enjoyed eating fish, my father didn’t.  Fish was not a regular menu item.  I have no recollection of eating pickled fish other than at Christmas.  It was only when I moved to the Western Cape that I was assailed with stories of the Easter pickled fish tradition.

Making pickled fish

My original pickled fish recipes

I have no recollection of what spurred me on to making pickled fish.  I do know that the first attempt was probably nearly 20 years ago.  I don’t remember the occasion.  I do remember two things:

  • Consulting the lovely lady in “our” spice shop who not only gave me a recipe, but a few tips.
  • Hearing celebrity chef, Jenny Morris talking on the radio about making pickled fish.  Not long after, her regular newsetter – and recipe – arrived in my inbox.

I carefully copied, pasted and saved the email recipe.  After printing it out, I filed it with the other.  They still “live” together.

“My” recipe is “born”

Pickled fish starter: Christmas 2021

I now make pickled fish twice a year.  Before we moved to McGregor, it had become our standard Christmas starter and a tradition that continues.  Because of this, in addition to the traditional Easter “season”, I also sell it at the market.

An lockdown-related aside

Portioning pickled fish for the market

I know I’ve told this story elsewhere, but it bears telling again:

When we went into a hard lockdown, two years ago in March, Easter fell earlier than this year. Feeling the fear and now “un-normal” things were, l naively decided to try to retain some semblance of normality, if not cheer. So, I posted on our community notice board, something to the effect and that I was taking orders for pickled fish. As I had done, twice a year for the last several.

I say, naively, because our my understanding of the lockdown had not included word for word interrogation of the regulations. I discovered, thanks to vitriolic keyboard “police”, that even my suggestion could not be countenanced.

So, began for me, a very difficult patch. That was just one incident. Perhaps I will write about the others. Suffice it to say that I retreated, folded my wings and embraced the black that came with being locked down.

I recognise that, only now, am I beginning to re-emerge and really heal. Partly, too, because at least three of those self-appointed keepers of the village wellbeing have been spat out have left.

Back into the pickle

Over the years, and because I’m not a fan of deep fried foods, I decided that I would take Ms Simply Spice’s advice and bake my fish.  Not fry it – either with or without batter – which is the most common way of doing it.  That, and my use of fresh ginger and the ratios of curry powder are the result of trial and error.  My go-to curry powder is a blend called mother-in-law.  Yes, it has a bite as the name suggests.  And it has good flavour.  One of the women who cared for my ailing father, and of Cape Malay descent recommended it.  I’ve not looked back.

Flavour roots

As I’ve learned more about the smorgasbord of traditional cuisines with which South Africa is blessed, and as I’ve learned about cooking and preserving in general, I realise that pickled fish is deeply rooted in the miscellany of cultures that make us who we are: Malay and often Muslim, Dutch, Catholic and Protestant.  The consumption of pickled fish on Good Friday has Catholic roots;  the spices and sweet curry flavouring: Malay and Muslim.  I love it.

Advance planning and long life

Last  but not least:  don’t decide to make pickled fish tonight for tomorrow.  It needs to pickle.  It needs at least three days.  That means its a great dish for preparing ahead and copes well with being left over.

Market sales

The 2022 batch of fish ready to pickle

I don’t know how long ago I started making pickled fish to sell at the market.  Considering I’ve had a stall at the market for nearly ten years, it must be at least six or seven.  This year, at least six weeks ahead of Easter, I had somebody asking if I’d be making pickled fish this year.  Well, umm…is the duck’s…?

On the back of that, I canvassed my usual customers and had I made my regular batch, I’d have sold everything before it got to the market.  This year’s batch is the largest I’ve made in years.

Pickled Fish

A traditional South African recipe

  • 2 kg Firm fish (Yellow tail, kabeljou, snoek, hake, angel fish)
  • Oil (For baking/frying)
  • 3 cups vinegar (red wine vinegar adds an extra depth of flavour)
  • 1 cup water
  • 25 ml turmeric
  • 15 ml curry powder
  • 25 ml black pepper corns
  • 25 ml crushed, fresh ginger
  • 4 large onions, finely sliced
  • 6 lemon leaves
  • 2 bay leaves
  • 1 cup sultanas
  • 40ml cake flour
  1. Cut the fish into portions, season and dust with flour and a little of the curry powder.
  2. Bake in a moderate oven for about 20 minutes or until cooked; turn half way through.
  3. In a large, stainless steel, ceramic or enamel pot combine the vinegar, water, sugar, turmeric, curry powder, salt and pepper corns. Bring to a boil.
  4. Add the onions, lemon and bay leaves. Simmer for about 10 minutes.  Be careful not to overcook the onions – keep them crunchy.
  5. Place the flour into a small bowl or jug and gradually add a little of the sauce to make a smooth paste. Add this to the sauce and stir over a high heat until it thickens.
  6. Add the sultanas.
  7. Starting with the onions layer them with the fish in a glass dish (do not use plastic or metal). Pour over the sauce.  Cover and allow to cool before putting it into the fridge.
  8. Allow to stand for at least three days before eating. Keeps for up to three months.
  9. Serve at room temperature with brown bread and butter.
Appetizer, Main Course
South African

If you find that awkward to print, you’ll find a downloadable copy of the recipe here.  If you download it, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?

To all are celebrating religious and cultural festivals over the next few days, I send blessings.

Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script

I am participating in @traciyork‘s twice-yearly Hive Blog Posting Month.

If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:

  • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I am adding them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?
  • and “re-capturing” nearly two years’ worth of posts.

I blog to the Hive blockchain using a number of decentralised applications.

  • From WordPress, I use the Exxp WordPress plugin. If this rocks your socks, click here or on on the image below to sign up.

  • Join Hive using this link and then join us in the Silver Bloggers’ community by clicking on the logo.
Original artwork: @artywink
  • lastly, graphics are created using partly my own photographs and Canva.

 

 

Sandwich Memories

It seems I’ve written quite a bit about sandwiches over the years.  They were the subject of one of my earliest (and surviving) blog posts.

Fionas Favourite open sandwiches
Open sandwiches – 2014

Given that a sandwich is food – a filling – wrapped up – or between two slices of some sort of bread – I really have. Quite something given that about five years ago, I stopped eating bread:  commercial bread, anyway.  That’s a story for another time.

First memorable sandwich

My first real sandwich memory goes back to 1969 and my first day at school.  I think it’s memorable because, actually, the sandwich was not. Memorable.  I think.  That January morning, at mid-morning break, I opened my square, yellow lunch box and found a Fray Bentos sandwich.  I remember sitting by myself on the “playground” which was a tarmacadam tennis court.  I didn’t really know what was expected of me.

I heard a cacophony, not wanting to join in and retreated into my lunch box.

In it:  a single slice of white bread, cut in half and then cut again, into two squares.  Fray Bentos – with butter or margarine – on white bread – was my most frequent tea time snack for the next eight years.  The only variation was after we moved to Grahamstown.  In late summer, the garden produced a glut of tomatoes.  Soggy white bread and warm slices of tomato were not an improvement on Fray Bentos.

Boarding School

Going to boarding school introduced me to sandwiches of an entirely different sort.

Last year, at the behest of a school mate, I wrote about a tuck shop favourite. I alluded to the sandwiches that we boarders would get each day.  I specifically mentioned the egg sandwiches which were my favourite:  grated, with salt and pepper and on fresh brown bread.  My mouth is watering now, as I think about them.  They were a definite improvement on the Fray Bentos sandwiches.  In her defense, my mother probably slapped them together either the night before, after cooking dinner or after we moved to Grahamstown, as she cooked the family breakfast.

Of the variety of sandwiches we got at boarding school – different every day – my least favourite was peanut butter.  Just. No.  I’m not a peanut butter girl.  I’m not a fan of peanuts, period.  When they “happened” and, I admit, it wasn’t often, I just gave them a miss and/or happily passed them on to someone who lurved them.

More white bread

Still at boarding school, with seniority came certain privileges.  One of these was leave to leave the school property and walk either to the local bakery or to the hospital kiosk.  The latter was closer, but the bread wasn’t quite the same as from the Prem(ier Bakery).  We knew exactly what time it came out of the oven and if we timed it right, we could make it back to the hostel while the bread was still warm.  Back in the boarding house, armed with butter or margarine (I don’t remember which) and bags of salt and vinegar chips (crisps), we’d sit on our beds and make sandwiches.  They were out-of-this-world-delicious.  And crummy.  We did not care.

Truthfully, I have, in my adulthood been known to buy a sandwich with a packet of crisps and then proceed to open the sandwich and add the crisps.  Always salt and vinegar.  Only salt and vinegar.  For the crunch, you understand.

Back seat

After leaving school and at university, sandwiches didn’t feature. At. All.  Nor in my early working years until I worked for a company that had no canteen.  For a while, the tea lady, as a side line, made toasted sandwiches for the staff.  I remember their being delicious.  I remember, too, that that was the first time that I began to make soup.  Not like my mother’s.  Another story for another time.  Perhaps.

Twenty years of Lunch (mostly) sandwiches

When I started working from home – now more years than most people would like to contemplate – a sandwich was the logical, quick, on the run food.  Oh, but before that, and when I lived alone, bread and open sandwiches were essential for survival.  Toast and avocado remain one of my favourites.  For a while, I was lucky to work with someone who had an avocado farm.  For that year, I lived on avocado on toast.  It was never boring.  It would have been even more exciting had I discovered Mexican flavours and chilli.  However, in 1989, cuisines of the world were less known – an popular – than they are now. That said, I still love plain avocado, with a fresh slice of bread and butter, salt and freshly ground blace pepper  and Worcestershire sauce.  Also, incidentally, one of my Dad’s favourites.

Favourite unconventional sandwiches

Sandwiches cover a multitude of sins.

Fat cake

curry fat cake
Curried Vetkoek

Another favourite and not often indulged in – although we may… is the vetkoek.  It’s a traditional leavened dough that’s deep-fried and stuffed.  Often with curried meat.  It’s another tuck shop favourite from school.  It’s an iconic local streetfood.  It’s delicious.  The last time I ate one, was the day I got the jab was just last night.

At a farewell for Swiss swallows who’ll return for the summer later this year.

Flatbreads, buns and wraps

When I really applied my mind, I realised that we eat a lot of sandwiches – if I stretch the definition.

asian slaw, hummus, flatbread, naan
Flat bread with hummus and Asian slaw

Flat, or naan bread is a frequent menu item.

Then there are my tortilla trials.

Last but not least, the buns.

broad bean burger, sourdough, vegetarianSince I began my sourdough journey and I bake buns for the market, it’s an excuse to eat the iconic sandwich:  the burger.   I also make the patties: plant and meat-based.  The latter’s recipe a work in progress.  When I post it, I’ll edit this add the link here.

Musings about memories

I had not thought much about my school lunches until sandwich memories came up as a topic.  I also had not realised how indelible a memory that first-day-at-school sandwich was.  That memory was the first thing that jumped into my head. It’s a memory that makes me neither happy nor sad; I just remember it.  Perhaps it’s more about feeling overwhelmed in that playground.  In the crowd but not part of it.  It’s a feeling that’s persisted for most of my life.  Again, neither happy, nor sad but rather just the way it is.

Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script

I am participating in @traciyork‘s twice-yearly Hive Blog Posting Month.

If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:

  • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I am adding them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?
  • and “re-capturing” nearly two years’ worth of posts.

I blog to the Hive blockchain using a number of decentralised applications.

  • From WordPress, I use the Exxp WordPress plugin. If this rocks your socks, click here or on on the image below to sign up.

  • Join Hive using this link and then join us in the Silver Bloggers’ community by clicking on the logo.
Original artwork: @artywink
  • lastly, graphics are created using partly my own photographs and Canva.

 

 

 

Of licenses, liars and scrambled eggs

She came into the kitchen, clearly distressed, and asked, “Do you vear licenses?” pointing at her eyes.

“Umm….ye-e-s…”

“So could I pliz have some of zat liqvid to clean mine?”

Then the penny dropped.  LensesContact lenses.  I had taken a flyer and thought that our Ukranian house guest was talking about prescription spectacles.  This was after her first breakfast in The Sandbag House.  Each day, it consisted of fresh fruit salad, homemade meusli, yogurt and honey.  Snuggled in the wax wrap is a muffin – for later.

Languages and learning languages

I’ll come back to the breakfast, but that exchange about the contact lenses got me thinking about languages.  I am a pretty proficient English speaker and writer.  At school I was compelled to learn a second language – Afrikaans – then South Africa’s only other official language.  It was not a language to which I had any exposure:  neither parent spoke another language fluently having been born and brought up in the UK.  My mother had a smattering of French and my father, having worked in the Parks’ Department in Kampala, was at one time, relatively proficient in Kiswahili. That I managed, somehow, to scrape through Afrikaans with a passing grade at school and, subsequently, a one year course at university, is nothing short of a miracle.  I have dabbled with learning French – an opportunity offered by the Alliance Française, a million years ago.  I picked up less than a smattering of isiXhosa when I lived in the Eastern Cape doing community development work. I learned a smidge of Spanish from having spent three weeks in the Old City in Palma de Mallorca.

The view across the way from the room where I stayed when I was in Palma de Mallorca.

The examination

Returning to Afrikaans:  a prerequisite of my teacher’s qualification was oral proficiency in that language.  I was automatically credited with written proficiency (ha!) by way of having completed that one-year, watered-down university course.  Four years later, I had to do an oral exam in a language that, to be frank, I had rarely heard spoken, let alone understood.  Preparation had been a weekly group discussion in which, I suspect, I was largely silent.  Unless required to speak.  Because I couldn’t.  The appointed day arrived and I presented myself.  The panel consisted of the local school inspector and our tutor.  She also happened to be a family friend which makes what transpired all the more mortifying, and which is why the entire episode is etched in my memory.”Goeie môre Mejuffrou Cameron.”

Burble, mumble…um… Good morning!

Pleasantaries done, the serious stuff of working out whether I could “praat die taal” ensued.

“Sê my, hoe bak jy ‘n sjokelade koek?”

Let’s not get stuck on the stereotypical question by a man of a young female student, because my response:

I’ve never baked a cake, let alone a chocolate cake.  Besides, I don’t like chocolate cake.

“O!

“Sê my, wat van motorbestuur?”

Oh, good, I could answer this!

“Ek bestuur nie motor nie, maar ek is van plan om in die volgende tyd, my leuenaars licensie te kry…”

So you don’t drive?  You need to get your learner’s license?

“Ja, seker in die volgende paar weke, sal ek my leuenaars toets gaan doen…”

And I warbled on happily about my leuenaars liensie until I took my leave.

It was only a looong time after I left that room that it dawned on me that I was was not planning to get my leerlings lisensie but rather, my liar’s licence…

Needless to say, I scored the lowest possible grade in Afrikaans proficiency – an “a” as opposed to an “A”.  It allowed me to qualify and to teach only at an English medium school.

Lessons

That is a lesson that lives with me.  Learning, let alone becoming proficient in, a language not one’s mother tongue when you are not immersed in it, is inordinately difficult.  My Afrikaans is much improved – because of where I live – it’s the mother tongue of most folk in the community and people who work with and for us.  Improved proficiency, however, hasn’t given me the confidence to hold an entire conversation in the language, let alone read and write it with any comfort.

English, is a complex language with many equally confusing words. Having not only trained as an English teacher, but having been an online writing tutor where many of my students were second language English writers, I have great empathy with the struggles of speakers and writers of second languages.

Ukranian diplomat poet

Returning to our Ukranian guest:  she was in McGregor for the seventh edition of the annual weekend of Poetry in McGregor.  Through our conversation I learned that she’s been in South Africa for only a year.  Her work as a poet and academic, had put her in touch with some South Africans and her proposal to the Ukranian government, earned her a diplomatic role.

She fell in love with McGregor – and my scrambled eggs – which brings me back to breakfast.  Her three-night stay was punctuated by Saturday and the only morning I make it clear to guests that there will be no cooked breakfast.  A continental breakfast will be set on a tray and/or put in their little fridge.  The first morning:

“How would you like your eggs?”

“Oh, any vay.  Vot iss easier for you? Boiled, scrambled…”

I’ll scramble eggs any day.  As it so happens, eggs, scrambled is one of my favourite ways of eating them.  I confess that I’m fussy.  I like them the way my father ate them.  I loved sitting on his knee and insisting on eating them off his plate:  creamy on buttery toast and with a good grinding of black pepper.

Our guest enjoyed her scrambled eggs so much, she contemplated no other choice for her last breakfast. And –

“How do you make them?”

Fiona’s Mum’s creamy scrambled eggs

First, I don’t do scrambled eggs in the microwave.  Nor do I do them in a frying pan.  I do them in a small saucepan.

Second:  making scrambled eggs is not a quick exercise.

Thirdly, it’s a study in concentration:  take your eye off them and they spoil.

Ingredients

2 eggs per person
2 generous knobs of butter – even if you’re using a non-stick pan
a dash of milk – proportional to the number of eggs, of course
salt and pepper

  1. Beat the eggs.
  2. Add the milk if using (I always do).
  3. Season to taste.
  4. Heat a saucepan with a good quantity of butter – it must coat the base.
  5. When the butter is sizzling, pour in the egg and stir.
  6. Continue stirring frequently until the egg mixture begins to cook – it sticks to the sides and bottom of the pot.
  7. Now it is essential to stir continuously, making sure you move the cooked egg into the middle of the pot, agitating the mixture all the time, so that it doesn’t stick.
  8. Do not overcook them otherwise they go watery,
    and remember
    scrambled eggs continue cooking in the hot pan after you take them off the heat.
  9. Once they are creamy and lumpy the way you like them, take them off the heat and add a knob of butter.
  10. Serve either on their own, or use some of the ideas below.
Oksana’s delight at her Scrambled Egg Breakfast

Breakfast stacks

I cobbled this breakfast together a few years ago, the morning after we had returned from a short trip and we hadn’t had time to shop.  I ferreted in the fridge and wandered round the garden and discovered eggs, bacon, spinach and tomatoes, as well as fresh chives and parsley. After a week of hotel breakfasts, I wanted something different.  I made a thick, rich tomato sauce starting with onion sautéed in the fat from the crisply fried bacon which had been set aside to drain.  Once the bacon and sauce had been sorted, I wilted a small bunch of young spinach leaves and made a batch of creamy scrambled eggs.

While all that was going on, plates were happily warming and waiting to have the breakfast bits piled on them.  First the wilted spinach and then a dollop of the tomato mix, followed by the scrambled egg and, finally, the crispy bacon.  Before garnishing with a sprig of parsley and a fresh chive flower, I chopped some and sprinkled chives over everything.

2013-11-17 09.58.34
Back to our guest:  when she departed, she left not only a beautiful beaded bracelet with a traditional pattern from her beloved Ukrania, but a note in our guest book that stole our hearts.

And when I expressed my appreciation for both on Facebook, her riposte:


Last word

I wrote this in August 2019, before the pandemic was imagined and before Russia invaded Ukraine.  Needless to say, she, her family and the people of her country have been much on our minds the last two days.  The original went the way of so many of my 2019 posts and I thought that given the events of the last few days, appropriate to share it again.

Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script
If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:

  • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I am adding them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?
  • and “re-capturing” nearly two years’ worth of posts.

I blog to the Hive blockchain using a number of decentralised applications.

  • From WordPress, I use the Exxp WordPress plugin. If this rocks your socks, click here or on on the image below to sign up.

  • Join Hive using this link and then join us in the Silver Bloggers’ community by clicking on the logo.
Original artwork: @artywink
  • lastly, graphics are created using partly my own photographs and Canva.

 

Unicorns, bunnies and fishes: a reality check

I’ve not had a rant for a while.  My last few rants were more than a year ago.  I railed against aspects of the restrictions associated with the lockdown.  Truth be told, I was probably railing at the virus itself.  As if it gives a damn.  I might come back to that but I suspect we’re done with it. In more ways than one.

That said, it’s been a rough couple of years.  My work all but disappeared and my side hustles, bar one (blogging), hustled themselves into oblivion; one for three months, another for at least 18.  A third may never sidle back.  We shall see.  Those that have returned form, in combination, how we’re beginning to get back on track.  Sort of.  Very. Slowly.

With hindsight, the FUD (fear, uncertainty and doubt) we all felt in the early days of the pandemic, paralysed everyone.  I look back and other than those relatively regular rants, there is nothing.  I remember planting myself in front of my desk.  Every. Day.  Except Saturday and Sunday.  Then it was the couch.  With the laptop in front of me.  Having anticipated shifts in the economy and my working life (I wrote a little about it here), I brushed up my teaching knowledge and skills with a course on teaching English as a foreign language.  I passed with flying colours and was happily introduced to a slew of new and exciting online resources and tools.  The UK-based entity helped “graduates” to find jobs.  Or so they said.

Rabbit holes and dead ends

It was not help as I understood had expected it to be.  Rather, it was a jobs board and, I suspect that they benefitted from each placement;  there was no real effort to match a successful student with a suitable job.  During and after the course, I painstakingly set up a website, a wikki and profile after profile on so many sites I lost count.  Talk about a digital footprint…  I found myself down rabbit hole after rabbit hole.  I applied for online roles and did the mandatory (unpaid for) tests; sent the certificates, CV and blurb.

Nothing.

Well, that’s not entirely true:  the feedback suggested that I was one of a few things:  too old;  too diffident; over-qualified and to add insult to injury, South African.  The last suggested I was not a first language English speaker – even with a degree in English Literature (from a reputable university and which regularly “sends” proportionately more Rhodes scholars to Oxford and Cambridge than any other South African university), born in the UK and of British parentage.  It was all rather insulting, but I sucked it up. If there was feedback at all.

Many of the platforms expect one to upload share rather intimate information and then wait.  One even required a criminal check and when our local police station issued it, didn’t accept it.  Because it didn’t come from a “recognised private provider” which, incidentally, required a 200km drive to another city and an exorbitant fee.  (Which, in turn, begs more questions…)

The writing was on the wall

As the virus spread across the world, not only did everybody go home, but everybody went online.  What had been a very large pond, suddenly shrunk and was teeming with little fishies that were willing to work for next to nothing.  I’ll return to this.

Plan B

I did have a plan B – or so I thought:  I’d focus on online writing tutoring.  People still need to write and hone their skills.  I’d offer an asynchronous service that wasn’t time zone sensitive.  That didn’t work, either.  People don’t have to learn to write:  they make use of online tools, job platforms and writing mills.

If you can’t beat them, join them

If there is one thing I know I can do, and do well, it’s write:  for a range of audiences.  I returned to a couple of online gig platforms that I’d joined a million years ago before they had become ubiquitous, and, truth be told, still in the days of dial-up internet. I got a job:  in a writing mill.

Huh?

It took me a while to work out two things:  rates are usually per word – completed.  No consideration is given to time involved in research, let alone revisions.  Rates don’t correlate for the country in which I live, but rather for countries where folk can survive on US $ 10 a day.  I kid you not.  They say so when they bid for work.  I need six- to seven times that.  Secondly, looking at the briefs:  coherent, quality writing is not the priority.  One erstwhile “client” had me write articles that never saw the light of day and had a modus operandi that is, at best, described as questionable.

Looking for local work was impossible:  the country had shut down and people were being laid off.  It didn’t matter that I live in a remote little village.

Remote jobs

When gigs didn’t materialise, I started applying for part time, remote jobs.  Part time because what I make from my stall at the village market, once it resumed in July 2020, paid the grocery bill.  One doesn’t throw the baby out with the bath water.  For a patch, I did have a job – locally – and for which I was hand-picked.  I loved it.  The company ironically, was a victim of the intra-pandemic, between lockdown-euphoria.  More lockdowns happened and the small, already vulnerable company had to downsize.

What I learned

I learned something very important:  I could potentially get a job and move away from gigs.  That, locally, my contribution was valued;  I am not too old.  However, this was not the space in which I had played for thirty years and although I have a prodigious portfolio of work, it is specialist writing, and I didn’t have a network in the creative sector.

I am a creative

Learning and embracing that I am a creative has been quite a thing.  I’d never been encouraged to think thought of myself as creative.  That was the preserve of artists, novelists and published writers.  Not play cooks and researchers who cook for a village market and write for other people. A fellow creative and photographer started connecting me with online groups.

Guess what?

I started finding work.  Not in spades and not at rates comparable with my old day job, but at rates recommended for the sector in South Africa. Equally important:  the work was valued.

I also discovered that the low level, casual design (as I’ve now learned to think of it) might earn me a couple of bucks.  No, I’m not trained, but my leaflets and flyers are good enough for an internationally acclaimed stylist and a former international photo journalist, so they’re good enough to start another portfolio.

Then, like with writing, the more I fiddle about – with real projects – the “betterer” I get.  That said, I am by no means an expert; I defer to the experts for real, professional graphic work.

Playing to one’s strengths

Having blown my own trumpet, about what I can do, I also prefer to play to my strengths.  There is a lot of truth in the expression, Jack (or Jill) of all trades and master (or mistress) of none. Similarly, the cautionary spreading one’s self too thin also applies. Related to that is the wonderful Afrikaans expression, goedkoop is duurkoop.  The literal translation:  that if one buys something that’s cheap, it ends up being a very expensive experience.  This last, by working for writing mills, I’ve learned, also works in the reverse.

What, on earth is she on about?

I am increasingly seeing advertisements for unicorns. The job specs are shopping lists:  employers and contractors will only consider candidates unicorns (their word). They must have expert skills and be qualified in everything from writing, newsletter creation, design and management, to virtual bottle-washing.  Literally and figuratively.  For a pittance. Applicants need need only two years’ experience.  To have honed those skills and acquired that knowledge, I’d hazard a guess, applicants need to have several qualifications and worked – without a break – 24/7, 365 days a year for the years they’ve studied and for those two years.  And, in (my perhaps not so) humble opinion, will still not have reached a level to be considered expert in all, let alone one of those specialities.

I know that because –

It’s only since I’ve been blogging – now into my ninth year – that my other writing skills have really developed.   And I’ve been writing – if I include my university years – for forty years.  Why only now?  Because I have been writing different things, experimenting and stretching myself.  Again, blowing my own trumpet, I can write.  Well.  Now.  Better than I could when I started my blogging journey.

Unicorns do not exist

Do these employers know that a unicorn is a mythical creature?

Anyone who is stupid enough applies for that type if position, I’d suggest, sets themselves up for failure the moment the honeymoon is over.  If one gets that far.

Having said that I’ve dabbled in design, I also manage my own and others’ social media presences.  Again, it’s low level and, to be honest, I’m not sure I want to reach expert level.

Why don’t I want to be an expert?

Because I like writing and I’m good at it.  I am already an expert.  Suddenly taking on jobs that get me out of my comfort zone is one thing – there’s plenty about writing jobs that do that – but diluting my focus, will neither earn me more, nor make me, from a client’s perspective, more productive.

Sunday supper preparation. Photo: Selma

Also, good writing takes time.  It’s an iterative process and, with some clients, can also be discursive.  Just like preparing a good meal or a training session, the 80:20 principle applies.  The time it takes to read a good piece, enjoy a delicious meal, or run a training session, is probably 20% of time it actually takes to write or

More Sunday supper prep. Photo: Selma

prepare any of those things.  If that.

That’s often the bit that readers, clients and diners (who don’t write, cook and host dinner parties), just cannot will not comprehend.

 

Accepting my fishy, rabbit status

Unlike mythical unicorns, there are certain fish and bunnies that are considered kind of real – Pisceans and Chinese rabbits.  Millions of people around the world follow their precepts.  I admit that when I read this, I do see elements of myself. I acknowledge that I’m an often flappy Pisces, chasing my tail.  Similarly, I see bits of myself in among Chinese rabbits.

Over the decades, along with writing, I have developed other skills:  like strategic and lateral thinking, planning and management.  I’ll not labour them except to make the point that along with writing, I can (and evidently do) add value to projects, which enriches my writing work.

I’ll stay my course, but don’t confine me to a single, narrow lane. As a more mature, experienced gig-working writer I plan to continue adding value, based on my qualifications, life and work experience where I am able.

I am no unicorn and nor am I super woman.  I’m happy with that.

That is my reality.  Check.

Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script
If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:

  • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I am adding them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?
  • and “re-capturing” nearly two years’ worth of posts.

I blog to the Hive blockchain using a number of decentralised applications.

  • From WordPress, I use the Exxp WordPress plugin. If this rocks your socks, click here or on on the image below to sign up.

  • Join Hive using this link and then join us in the Silver Bloggers’ community by clicking on the logo.
Original artwork: @artywink
  • lastly, graphics are created using partly my own photographs and Canva.

 

Is it a scone? Is it a biscuit?

Nearly two years ago, and when the world was first locked up, and as mother survived, I had to confront the very real possibility that I might have to actually bake something.  Probably bread.  I wasn’t ready.  The entire process from the kneading to the proving and everything in between, terrified me.  I’m also (if you didn’t already know), I’m a bit Scottish:  I have great difficulty chucking things out.  Quite a conundrum.  However, with nothing but time and the greatest resource in the world, the interweb, I couldn’t get away with pretending I didn’t know.  I needed to start with something simple.

I found a recipe for biscuits. I don’t recall whether or not there was a picture.  It doesn’t matter because when I save recipes, I do save the URL, but I save them in text form – to save paper.  Or I don’t even print them.  I scribble them on a scrap of paper…

Learning curve

When one discovers a new interest, there’s always a learning curve.  So it was, and continues to be, with sourdough.   For example:  sour dough is actually not sour.  One allows the bread dough to sour ferment.  It’s during the fermentation – the first and often long proving – that the dough sours.  Mother, aka the starter, is not a dough.  She really is just the host for the wild yeast that she’s collected from the atmosphere.  The flour and the water that I feed mother feeds the yeast that grows.  That’s what makes mother outgrow her clothes.  So to speak.

If baking bread isn’t on the agenda, the “overflow” is the “discard”.  I learned that by osmosis (my preferred way of learning) and when I was looking for beginners’ easy recipes with sourdough.  I wasn’t at all sure about the kneading, proving, resting – and stuff.  My prerequisites during my research when I scanned recipes were that there shouldn’t be much kneading and proving.

Eventually I chose a recipe.  For biscuits.  Or so I thought.

You know what Thought did?

That was one of my father’s favourite questions.  Of course, we all know the riposte to that childhood question  admonishment:

 …planted a feather and thought a hen would grow…

One of the things I love about the blogosphere is its cosmopolitan nature – a virtual Babel. I am not talking about the miscellany of languages, but specifically about English.  My entire working life demanded that I pay attention to the English language.  Bar a short stint in corporate, and during which I mastered Chamberese a version of bureaucrat-speak to which I can revert if the need to be pompous formal arises, and with aplomb great ease, I either wrote for people whose home language was not English or for an international audience.  It made me pay even more attention;  it also fed my fascination for words – and where they come from and how they are used.

I think, too, it’s a fascination that was fostered growing up in a home where neither parent had the same accent.  Nor were their accents those of the country in which I was growing up and now live – South Africa – also the home of ten official languages other than English.    My English mother hated it that I might would grow up with a regional accent and constantly corrected my pronunciation.  She wasn’t aware, and I never told her, that when I started “big” school, I realised (was probably told) that I spoke funny differently from my peers.  I didn’t like being different;  I concentrated on mimicking my peers so that I spoke more like them.  I still switch accents.  It’s subconscious – until I hear myself.  Even then, I can not.  I gather it’s a thing that’s been studied

Then there are words

English, as is any language, is a living, evolving thing.  English communities around the world have their own versions of the language and I have a blog pal (@dandays) who always addresses me using my ubiquitous social media handle and follows it with the parenthetical comment:  with a U.

Then there are biscuits and scones. I grew up with both.  I’ve written about the latter which were much my father’s domain.  Literally and figuratively.  My mother never made a scone that I can remember.  I always understood them to be either of the potato or flour version or dropped.  The last, drop scones, the English (and South Africans) call Flap Jacks;  the Americans call them pancakes.  In South Africa, a pancake is a crépe.

Confused yet?  Welcome to my confusing entry into “sourdough world”.

The chosen one

The recipe I found, said I would be making biscuits.  I understand biscuits as flat, often brown and always crunchy sometimes savoury, often sweet.  Yes, they have a lot of butter in them, but no raising agent.    I’d heard about biscuits ‘n gravy but hadn’t really bothered to investigate.  Anyhow, in my travels web search, I came across this site and found a recipe for yes, you guessed it, biscuits.  

I set about making it.  There was no kneading, and no proving.  Just mixing, rolling and cutting.  Followed, of course, by a short stint in the oven.

The result.  Not biscuits, I tell you, but in my kenscones!

I admit to having been delighted.  Scones are to me, a whole lot more versatile than crummy biscuits.  I have subsequently made them a few times and they were a hit at our first ever in lockdown slightly illegal essential get together with friends.  It turns out that these biscuit scones are excellent with savoury or sweet toppings and spreads.  They also make great bases for canapés if one adjusts the size.

Buttery Sourdough Oven Scones

Scones, or what the Americans call biscuits using discard sourdough starter.

  • 1 cup plain flour (120g)
  • 2 tsp baking powder
  • ¾ tsp salt (omit if using salted butter)
  • 8 tbsp unsalted butter, cold (113g)
  • 1 cup sourdough starter (unfed/discard)
  1. Preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C) – best towards the upper third of the oven.

  2. Grease a baking sheet, or line with parchment.

  3. Combine the flour, baking powder, and salt if using. Rub/cut the butter into the flour until the mixture is resembles bread crumbs.

  4. Addt he starter, mixing (pulse if using a food processor) gently until the dough pulls together.

  5. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and gently pat it into a round and then roll gently to about 2,5cm thick.

  6. Use a sharp 6 cm biscuit cutter to cut four rounds, cutting them as close to one another as possible. Gently push and pat the scraps into a rectangle. Cut two more scones. Finally, pull the last scraps together into round;  the final scone will probably be slightly smaller than the others

  7. Place the scones onto the prepared baking sheet, leaving about 5cm between them because they spread as they bake.

  8. Bake in the upper third of the oven until they're golden brown (20 – 25 minutes)

  9. Servewarm.  When they’ve cooled and store atroom temperature for several days

  • They freeze well.
  • Freshly baked using a smaller cookie cutter, these make 12 fabulous canapé sized scones to serve with savoury or sweet accompaniments.
British
sourdough starter, sourdough discard, scones, biscuits, canape, snack

Moral to the story?

I’m not sure there is one.  Since that first effort, Ursula’s approaching two years’ old, and come July, I’ll have been baking buns and bread (yes, you read right) for the local market for two years.

I promise I’ll share those recipes next.

The learning and the journey continues.

Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script
If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:

  • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I am adding them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?
  • and “re-capturing” nearly two years’ worth of posts.

I blog to the Hive blockchain using a number of decentralised appplications.

  • From WordPress, I use the Exxp WordPress plugin. If this rocks your socks, click here or on on the image below to sign up.

  • Join Hive using this link and then join us in the Silver Bloggers’ community by clicking on the logo.
Original artwork: @artywink
  • lastly, graphics are created using partly my own photographs and Canva.