Fishing, shmishing…whatever…don’t get had!

~ Fiona ~ Leave a comment

Wednesday began as it usually does.  With dustbins and shopping lists.  The former is The Husband’s job and the latter is a kind of joint effort that starts with meal planning (yes, I know I’ve promised…it’s on another list…) and culminates with his famous spreadsheets.  He “translates” the paper scribbles, notes prices and, well, generally does what he’s done for the last nearly 20 years.  Shopping over the weekends is hell.  When the practice began, he didn’t have a regular day job.  Truth be told, he has a lot more focus and discipline than I.  He’s a lot less distracted by potentially interesting things might not be on the list.

Anyhow, not long after he’d sat down to perform the ritual, his phone pinged.  It was the bank:

Suspected unauthorised transaction ZAR 13k on your account. Phone xxx number.

The number looked legit: just like a Johannesburg number, and where the bank’s head office is.  The Husband called. 

To say that tech and the Internet of things frustrates The Husband is an understatement.  He views them as a mostly (un)necessary evil.  His phone is not smart.  Although after this experience, it will have to smarten up.  A lot.

They get you in a tizz

What followed got both of us in a tizz.  He’d gone into the garden to make the call. Because we live in what amounts to a Faraday cage so mobile phone reception is dodgy.  He came back into the office, phone stuck to his ear, white as a sheet:

Nigerian hackers – they’re active now!

Don’t log in!  We’ll help you!

He went to his computer, following instructions to open his browser to the Google search page.  There was an urgency because the implication was that he/we should be catching the culprits red-handed. Of course, under that pressure one does what one is asked.

At this point, I’m helping because of the level of The Husband’s discombobulation.  There is a little voice at the back of my head that’s a bit unsure, but the threat of someone clearing out what little money neither of us – mostly in overdraft – has, is nothing short of terrifying.  On speaker, with a heavy Indian accent, hard to understand, Mister F shrilly issues panicky commands.

At one point, I muttered to the Husband,

Are you sure it’s the bank?

His response,

He answered, XY Bank Fraud Division

Among the commands to follow was downloading an app Ultarviewer.  Believing one’s talking to the bank’s FRAUD division …

Letting them in

Now I’ve done some homework, some of Mister F’s evident excitement was because it’s a small app.  It’s a quick download.  I was taking too long, he was probably beginning to think he might be uncovered.

It was installed and yes, I let him in. That, too, took a while because his diction and connection were indistinct.  And, he did not understand me.

Another warning.  Had I paid attention through all the noise  – literal and figurative.  There was a great deal of evident background noise at the other end of the line.

Then, Google open, and interestingly not in the browser The Husband usually uses, but Microsoft Edge:

You see that?  That’s your IP address.  It’s public.  That’s how hackers get in.

Now, let’s log you in.

The Husband does.  To the bank.  Nothing’s amiss.  The Husband’s relief that “everything in order”, is palpable.  Mr F sees that there’s virtually nothing in the account.

Done with The Husband, he changes tack.  A victim not worth the effort.

Your wife, she also banks using this network, right?

Wrong.  Sort of.  Never from that PC, anyway, and using a different browser.  I say so.

But it’s the same internet connection.  Log in. We need to secure the account.

I try.  It doesn’t work.  Even with the correct details.  He doesn’t believe me.

More commands

I know I’ve not made a mistake, but now I’m in in such a state, I tell him

Stop shouting at me! You’re making me make mistakes!  Tell me exactly what you’re doing and why.

Then he, wait for it:  tells me where in my phone app to find all my login details.

Then

We’re in.  Next he says

On your phone, open the Playstore.

I draw the line.

Ok.

The “bank” screen is open.  My profile is there for all and sundry to see.  Like The Husband’s it has very few zeroes and a couple of minus signs, to boot.

The call drops.

The Husband tries to call back.  Twice.  We want to be sure that the accounts have been secured.  Each time the call drops.

Another cup of coffee

Having “seen” that nothing was amiss, we both kind of calm down and have that second cup of coffee.

Listening to that little voice

As I was staring into that coffee, that little voice began to boom.

Love, I think we should both change our passwords.

Notwithstanding the stress of having to dream up new usernames and passwords – and remember them – we both did.

The Husband also resolved to go into the bank when he was in town and to report it.  From the branch, they had him talk to the real fraud department.

Turns out, we’re not alone.  This is the flavour of the month and they’ve had a slew of similar, if not the same incidents, over the last few days;  with the same modus operandi, using the same apparently “legit” numbers.

Hindsight – what we should have seen

The first sign was the text message.  On closer inspection, it was definitely not the bank’s standard format.  In number, structure or convention. Given the threat of a breach on one’s account, one looks past that.

Lesson one.

Mr F’s accent and manner: our bank uses local agents with local accents.

Lessons, two, three, four…

Our bank’s “usual” call centre agents –

  • do not just speak clearly, they are calm and polite and more to the point, patient to a fault
  • work hard at calming the customer down and resolving the problem
  • never ask the customer to download an app to look around one’s computer – and profile.  They don’t need to.
  • always ask one to log in to one’s profile without asking one to share details
  • access one’s profile from the bank system without having access to one’s PC.  If need be, they can see what one’s doing.  Usually, it is not their business.

We learned, the hard way, about smishing.

Lessons learned.  Be warned.  Be alert.

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.

 

Decadent Mushroom Pâté

~ Fiona ~ Leave a comment

I suppose I should be writing something about the festive season and how festive it was (it wasn’t really, but it was better than 2020) and/or what I’m resolving for the New Year.  Resolutions seem moot given the curved ball that is Covid, and which has derailed the last resolutions I made at the beginning of 2020.  Perhaps, instead of resolutions, there is a smidgen of hope.

In the meantime…

It’s no secret that I am very fond of things mushroom.  It’s also no secret that I’m constantly on the look out for plant-based dishes that I could add to my repertoire(s) at home and at the market.  This recipe was a lucky find for two, no, three, reasons:  it’s a great market product, flavour combinations are heavenly and, best of all, it’s versatile.

Deep flavours

A miscellany of mushroom dishes (clockwise from the top left): stuffed, soup, omelette, pickled and risotto.

A restauranteur friend of ours, is of the opinion that fresh mushrooms have no flavour.  Years ago, he shared his secret for flavour:  mushroom soup – the powdered version.  I didn’t understand.  With hindsight, I realise that quality mushroom soop powder should have a goodly quanity of dried mushrooms.  Now they do have flavour.

I’ve always, and instinctively avoided raw mushrooms.  They have no flavour and worse, if they get wet develop the worst kind of slimy texture.  A pet peeve:  mushroom slices in a green salad.  Pickled mushrooms? Well, that kind of slimy silky texture I’ll take any day.  As a matter of fact, that reminds me of a salad that the chef at the hotel where I worked for a university vacation used to make, and which I must try to replicate (again) and write down next time we have a surfeit of mushrooms.

This pâté is a slow cook that both combines and develops deep flavours.  The combination and the process.

Chunky Mushroom Pâté

Plant-based, easy, but not so quick mushroom pâté

  • skillet or wok
  • serving dish or 4 ramekin dishes
  • 15 ml olive oil
  • 1 medium onion, diced
  • 1 clove garlic, finely chopped
  • 500g mushrooms, sliced
  • 15ml fresh thyme, finely chopped
  • ¼ tsp salt
  • ¼ tsp freshly ground black pepper
  • 60g nuts (pecan, walnut, almond)*
  • 125ml dry white wine

  1. In a large skillet (use a wok), sauté the onion and garlic until glossy and beginning to caramelise, 7 to 10 minutes.

  2. Add mushrooms, salt and pepper. Cook over a low heat until the liquid from the mushroom has evaporated, 18 to 20 minutes.

  3. Add the wine and turn up the heat and simmer until the liquid evaporates, 8 to 10 minutes.

  4. Then transfer mushroom mixture to a food processor, add the nuts and another tablespoon of olive oil. Blend for about 30 seconds, until the mixture is as smooth or as chunky as you would like.

  5. Pot into a single bowl or three or four ramekin dishes.  Chill before serving.

I have made this with walnuts, pecan nuts and almonds.  All work equally well although there are subtle differences in flavour.  If using the pecans and/or walnuts, toast before adding them to the mixture.

Appetizer, Drinks, Snack
vegan
appetiser, plant-based, snack, tapas, vegan

Versatile

I mentioned that this is a versatile product.  It is, for two reasons:  the pate makes a great addition to a plant-based tapas platter (some say it’s a great substitute for chicken liver pâté.  Others vehemently disagree.  I tend to make it a little chunky which makes it fabulous to stir through pasta.  Which brings me to my next point.

The process is the real secret

Mushrooms are like good wine and cheese:  they need time to develop their flavour.  If you read the recipe properly, the mushrooms are effectively cooked twice:  the first time to release and allow all the liquid to reduce and effectively cook out.  The second after adding the white wine which is also reduced so that there is little if no liquid left.  While this is going on the onion caramelises, softens and releases its sugars.  With the addition of garlic and fresh thyme, I’ve begun using this process for our regular pasta night.

The mixture is not puréed as it is for the pâté, but rather left chunky and the nuts are optional.  With a good glug (or two) of olive oil, a bit more fresh thyme and a Parmesan style cheese.  Or not.

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

A saint, lavatories and life

~ Fiona ~ Leave a comment

“Don’t close the door,” the mother said.

The three year old trundled up the grass banks to the ablution block, chose a stall, and closed the door.  It was a door with a staple handle and a ball and socket closure.  The three year old was not inclined to sit and perform with the door open.  Who knew who might wander into the cavernous caravan park ablution block?

'the toddler, 3-years-old, is sitting on the toilet for toilet training potty or toiet training is the process of training a young child to use the toilet for urination and defecation.'
Source

Safe behind the door, relieved, and carrying less of a load, she was ready to return to the family caravan. Standing on the tips of her tiny toes, she could just reach the handle.  She curled her fingers through it and pulled.

And pulled.

The door would not budge.  It was not locked;  the three year old had that much savvy.  She stood, barefoot, on the cold floor in a flutter of panic, staring at the door.  Her head dropped.

“Mum’s going to be very cross…”  A terrifying prospect.

That desolate dropping of the head was her saving grace:  like with so many public bathrooms – especially fifty five years ago – there was a gap between the bottom of the door.  Instantly, the little girl realised that it was her way out.

Through the gap she wriggled, and happily skipped her way down the grassy bank, back to the caravan.

Ditties and real life

I don’t think I ever told my mother about having been locked in that lavatory:  it was, as I mentioned, 1966 and not long after we landed in South Africa.  My father was working for the parks’ department of the then Port Elizabeth (now Gqeberha) municipality.  Accommodation was part of the deal, but not available.  Details elude my memory other than that we lived in a caravan for about three months and where my sister turned two. The caravan park is no longer there.  It’s been engulfed by a casino and hotels.  One of which I stayed in when I was at a conference in Port Elizabeth about ten years ago.

It was a peculiar sensation:  that three year old’s memories remain vivid.  As intense as that lingering memory, is the lifelong discomfort associated with not having privacy for personal biological functions.

I never confessed.  Not even when “they” trotted out that ditty about three old ladies getting locked in a lavatory, did I ever confess that as a little girl, I had been locked in a lavatory.  Least of all to my mother.

No-one, of course will believe I have, in my nearly sixty years, been locked in a lavatory twice more.  Forty four years later, I got locked in the lavatory.  Again.  Twice in relatively quick succession.  In 2010.  I remember the year because the third incident is memorable not because of the incident, but because I was on business – working for the same client that had me staying “in” the old Brooke’s Hill Caravan park.

The second time

The Husband and I, when we used to holiday, would often take ourselves down to Sedgefield.  We had honeymooned there and loved it.  We still do although we’ve not visited for a while.

We had heard about a walk around a water body that had extraordinary bird life and some historical significance.  It’s on the edge of an adjacent seaside town and by the time we’d finished the walk, it was mid-day.  We’d heard of a new, boutique hotel in the area: perched on top of sea cliffs and with a magnificent view.

“Let’s check it out,” I said.

Arriving in the car park, we really did feel a bit like the hot, sweaty walkers we were.  We were not quite kitted out for a place that was crisp, pristine, shiny bright and new.  The view was breathtaking.

Wilderness – a somewhat different angle but equally spectacular. Taken on another trip to the region in 2015.

It would have been a sin no to stop a while.  Mercifully there was a more casual outdoor dining and seating area.  I have no photographs – they disappeared thanks to mixed instructions from Kodak and the least said about that, the better.  I do remember that, venturing to the balustrade, there was a precipitous drop to the waves below.  The view was breathtaking.  The media reports and photos had not lied.

The restaurant was aptly called Sails.  This lady wasn’t glowing;  no, I was perspiring.  Retiring to the restroom was essential before any other indulgence. They were everything one would expect from a luxury and new hotel.  Suitably relieved, I grasped the door handle to open the door to the stall.

It came off in my hand.  The door stayed closed.

For some reason best known to the universe, I had actually taken my handbag (purse for my American blogpals) with me.  Had I not, The Husband might still have been sitting and waiting for me to emerge…

This time round, I instantly saw the funny side of things.  I fished my mobile phone out and rang The Husband.  Somewhat startled, he heard:

“I’m locked in the lavatory!” I giggled.

“What?”

“I. Am. Locked. In the loo.  The handle’s in my hand.”

“Oh hell.  I’ll get hold of someone.  Hang on, love.”

Ahem…clutching the useless handle, still laughing, a short while later, the hastily summoned maintenance man and a very embarrassed day manager set me free.

The last time:  I hope…

Flying the flag outside our Cape Town home in 2010

A few  months later, and in the throes of the 2010 Fifa World Cup, my Australian university client required that I attend gatherings hosted by its business and diplomatic presence in the country.  South African patriotism was at fever pitch.  We, along with many others, literally flew the flag.  I duly went along to the first such gathering.

The Australian contingent had hired a restaurant space in the heart of Cape Town’s iconic Waterfront and a stone’s throw of the stadium that has now become an equally iconic element of the Cape Town landscape.

Source

The husband joined a little later as my plus one.  When he arrived, I was in professional schmoozing mode, and when the front of house folk – all lovely, friendly Australians – realised who he was, they delighted in telling him that his wife had got herself locked in the lavatory.

“Again?” he asked…

I met a saint

I did.

Mother Teresa's 105th birth anniversary
Source

It was 1988 and it was Mother Teresa‘s first visit to South Africa.  At the time I was a volunteer leader in a street kids organisation in Johannesburg. One of the members of our committee was Irene, a Sister of Nazareth. She had joined the order at 18, in Ireland.  That, however, didn’t entirely tame her:  she was full of mischief and wasn’t beyond sharing the odd (very) naughty joke.  After a meeting, early one evening, and standing on the curb outside my ground floor apartment in Johannesburg, and before she took her leave, she quietly said  to the lingering, chatty committee members…

 But first

Let me explain:  our committee was an eclectic and cosmopolitan group.  At the time, and at the grand old age of 25, I was at the helm: a backslidden protestant and an as yet unavowed agnostic; there were at least two Jews, a Catholic priest and an Athiest or two.  We were all driven by a combination of social justice and a need to do something meaningful to help [black] children that had ended up on the streets of South Africa’s biggest (and richest) city.

Back to Sr Irene –

On the wonky pavement under the large jacaranda and in her Irish lilt, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other –

“I don’t know if you’d be interested.  I don’t know if you’d be wantin’ to, but would yer like te meet Mother Theresa?  She’ll be stayin’ with us [at Nazareth House].”

It was as if you had knocked us over with a feather.  Who would not want to meet one of the world’s foremost role models in caring for the ill, infirm and poor? Protestant and backslidden bedamned, she was a one of my heroes.

From the three of us, the “protestant”, Jewess and Athiest, it was an unequivocal yes.

The day arrived and we presented ourselves at Nazareth House at the appointed time.  Sr Irene was all of a dither – as was not her wont.  She told us that everything was running late.

That Mother Teresa was expecting us.

We were to wait.  We waited.  It seemed like an eternity – in a carpeted hallway – and while Sr Irene told us what it was like having Mother Teresa stay with them.

Then.  A door opened and out came the littlest, biggest person.   We all felt her before we saw her.  As I write, I know that it sounds crazy, but that is how I remember it and I remember that feeling – of tingling energy.  Impossible to describe.

“Hello Mother.  These are the people I was telling you about.”

“Oh you help the street children? Thank you for your work.”

If she said anything else, I don’t remember.  She, thanking us for the little we were doing, in comparison with her global efforts was breathtaking and humbling.

Next, her hand delved into the pocket of the black cardigan she was wearing.  When she withdrew it, it was full of Miraculous Medals. She kissed them, blessing the medals and charged us:

“For the children”.

I still have one.

Last word or three

These are “stories” I don’t often tell.  I don’t know why, but they don’t often come up in conversation.  The loony loo tales are probably the most told.  Lavatorial humour is a fact of life.

I rarely tell of my meeting Mother Teresa.  When I have occasion to mention it, it’s generally met with a

No!  You didn’t, did you?  Really?

She died a few months before Princess Diana.  The news hit the headlines and she was remembered for a while.  The grief and lauding of her work was nothing like that for the Princess.  Both humanitarians.  Both in their own ways controversial.  And saintly.  Only one, and the one whom I met, beatified and canonised in 2016.  Her death profoundly saddened me.

Finally

The opportunity to share these stories is thanks to a two-weekly community initiative on Hive, a cryptoblogging platform.  This edition’s prompt was inspired by fellow Hivean, @traciyork, and who also blogs on WordPress.  Pop over and take a gander?  That’s not all: she’s got a bunch of us doing a Blog Post a day for the Month of November, and this is one of my contributions.

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
    • I am participating in the twice-yearly initiative to post a blog a day for a month on the Hive blockchain.
    • I also share my occasional Instagram posts to the crypto blockchain, Hive, using the new, and really nifty phone app, Dapplr. On your phone, click here or on the icon, and give it a go.

Halloween: memories from the past, and not-too-distant past

~ Fiona ~ 1 Comment

When I grew up, Halloween wasn’t a thing. And it was.

In the 1970s, Halloween didn’t feature on the South African calendar. Somehow, though, it was always mentioned in our house. By my father. It had been a thing in his childhood and he’d talk of the night the spirits fly. He believed in things fey and in the second sight.  I was never poo-pooed for believing that fairies lived under the mushrooms that sprang up in the garden.  Nor was I disabused from believing that fairies had danced the night away in the garden when I found a circular ring in the lawn (after it had been mowed).  I have said before, that we have fairies in our garden.

My first, and only childhood memory of actually “doing” the Halloween thing, was an evening at church. Having gone to boarding school at 12, I have no memories of Halloween from my teen years.

Halloween 1973 or 4

I think it was 1973 or 4. I do know that it was preceded by a flurry of repainting and refurbishing the church hall.  In the photograph below, the hall is the building to the right of the church.

Trinity Presbyterian Church, Grahamstown (now Makhanda), as I remember it. Source

As I recall, my mother had been instrumental in sewing the new curtains and we’d all been involved in the painting.  More painted upon in the case of the children, than anything else.  I remember the only other members of my Sunday school class – two boys – chasing me around the paint tins and precinct;  both also went on to Rhodes, but that’s another story.

Dad’s bagpipes

When I was searching for a photo of Trinity Presbyterian – I have none of that evening – and very few of that time of my life – I came across this photograph (in the now electronic archives in the Cory Library at my almer mater).  My heart turned over:  the man playing the bag pipes, fondly known as Uncle Bob, was the minister that evening – and for my entire child- and young adulthood. A real blast from the past.

Rev Bob Donaldson playing the bag pipes at a Scottish evening. Source

Those bagpipes Uncle Bob’s playing, were my father’s. After my father’s abortive attempt at learning and teaching himself to play, they were sort of on permanent loan to Uncle Bob.  Himself also a Scot, having emigrated from Scotland, he played.  As he must have that evening, and as he did at every Burns Night at my parents’ home.  January jamborees that, after nearly 20 years, were Grahamstown legend.

As an aside:

The Cory Library which, then, was ensconced in the larger university library, was the site of my first ever paying job:  in 1979.

Back to that Halloween:

I’m not sure whether my memory’s playing tricks on me, or it’s what I want to remember, but I think that Scottish evening – Halloween – was a celebration of a job well done.

As I recall, there was Scottish country dancing, bobbing for apples and trying to catch scones covered in syrup and suspended by rope.  I also remember and looking for something – I cannot remember what, face first, in big (or so they seemed to me) zinc baths of flour.  Other details of the evening, I don’t remember.  I do, though, remember that it was one of the happiest of my childhood.  It was such fun!

Fast forward to the early 80s

Halloween 1982, I shall probably never forget.  Not because I did the “Halloween thing”, but rather because that week provided opportunities for trysts of a different kind.  I had not long met and fallen for a troepie.  As I’ve mentioned before, the 80s were a fraught time in South Africa; all young white men were conscripted.  Grahamstown (now Makhanda) is home to the Sixth South African Infantry Battalion which was also one of the camps at which conscripts “did” basic training.  And it is home to a university.  Quite a set of ingredients.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terror_Train

That year, one of the more “senior” conscripts was an old Rhodian.  His fiancé, until she graduated the previous year, had been in our residence; her sister was my contemporary.  Not only did said fiancé visit, but he brought some of his army mates along.

One of them had a mop of wiry blonde hair, bright blue eyes and the most glorious smile.  He was beautiful.  I fell.  So, it seems, did he.  In those days, getting out of camp was an issue.  Gentleman visitors in our residences (dorms), well, were not permitted beyond the common room. When eventually they were, it was certain evenings of the week, and from 7 to 10pm.  He and I spent a lot of time at the bioscope. Sort of watching two films in particular:  Terror Train and My Bloody Valentine.

I must have really been smitten.  Even snogging in the back row of the  movies, I saw enough of both, to neither forget them, nor ever want to see them – or any other horror film – again!

I remember it as a fun, happy time, though.  It fizzled because – well this is my story – my parents would not allow me to go home with him (by train to Cape Town), and meet his parents. Of him, and the merry band from that short patch, I do have photographs.  However, in the interests of protecting the “innocent” involved, they remain stashed in a shoebox….

Grown up Halloween: in the second decade of the second millenium my silver years

Halloween 2019

It really is true that one’s never too old to have fun or to recapture some of one’s youth.  That Halloween wasn’t a “thing” in my childhood or youth hasn’t stopped me from getting into the spirit (ha!) of things in my more recent past.  Two years ago, and before Covid-19 was a thing, friends who had returned to the village and opened an establishment, “did” a Halloween evening.  The Husband and I got into the spirit of things:  he as a wizard, I as a witch. We were the best dressed couple (!).

I have to explain:  I shall always be a witch.  I was first accorded that title by the son from another mother.  Apparently, it was a no brainer because I drank lots of tea and had a familiar.  A ginger cat.  The Husband, when he arrived on the scene and tried to label me, was disappointed to discover that he was too late.

Now, I claim it.  Along with my own, designated transport, and which is generally parked next to the kitchen door.

This year, The Husband was my Pirate Wizard.  Always, and in deference to his and our roots, in traditional garb.

This time, I decided to lighten things with what I like to think of as my “fairy” witch’s hat.  Courtesy of our bloomin’ garden.

It’s never too late, especially with what we’ve all had to face in the last two years, to have a little fun and make new memories, as we did on All Hallows Eve, 2021.

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
    • I am participating in the twice-yearly initiative to post a blog a day for a month on the Hive blockchain.
    • I also share my occasional Instagram posts to the crypto blockchain, Hive, using the new, and really nifty phone app, Dapplr. On your phone, click here or on the icon, and give it a go.

Carrots – yes ways – three ways

~ Fiona ~ Leave a comment

Foreword

This post first appeared in 2015, and since then, the recipes have gone through a number of developments/iterations/whatever word you’d like to choose.  Originally, it was carrots, two ways.  Now, I’ve added a third.

Growing carrots

One of our earlier harvests – around 2104

Our soil is rocky and very clayey.  Certain root vegetables grow, but very differently from what one would expect.  Short and stubby or a bit twisted, so they’re right at home.

However, working the garden the last eight ten or so years (with a break thanks to the drought and other crud), has improved the soil quality:  fewer stones helped along with our own compost and locally sourced manure.  Of course, crop rotation – a necessity – also helps.  Carrots are a crop we can grow all year round – with patience.  They are a slow crop.  They are also versatile because they are great for eating raw and cooked;  hot or cold; in salads and as sides.

Putting up my hand

Let me nail my colours to the mast.  Again.  I am not a fan of the local traditional carrot salad which is just too sweet, or the salad of finely shredded carrots with pineapple and raisins.  They are in the same category as coleslaw – with slightly less vehemence.

As happens when there are two of you, and a crop is ready to harvest, the choice of accompaniments for meals becomes somewhat restricted.  We go through patches of wonderful (and ongoing) crops of carrots, but there is a limit to the number of carrot sticks one can eat.

But now –

I can get quite creative with carrots and love growing heirloom ones of different colours.

Carrots make great table decor. Especially with my bunnies which often graced the Sunday Supper table.

A word to the wise:

Don’t be conned by the lovely colours of heirloom carrots:  I thought they’d make my pretty pickle extra pretty. Well, they did, until the colour faded into the pickling brine…overnight!

“No!” to the death boil

I definitely don’t do boiled carrots.  I had too many of them as a child – boiled to death, they were.

A few years’ ago, thanks to celebrity chef, Jamie Oliver, I learned about finishing carrots off in the oven.

I subsequently found the recipe, by which time the practice of parboiling* and finishing off in the oven, had become a Fiona SOP.  I have to agree with his sentiment that the practice makes the carrots “meatier”;  it certainly does intensify the flavours and it’s become my favourite way of preparing carrots – whether they have the full Oliver treatment or not.

* save and freeze the water you drain off – for gravy or vegetable stock

Photo: Selma

The “pukka” Oliver treatment involves orange, herbs, butter and garlic.  Of course.  Bung them in a pot with some salted water, bring to the boil for about 10 minutes.  Drain and spread on a baking tray with butter (or olive oil), squeeze the orange juice over the carrots, doing the same with the garlic.   Now, whack that into a pre-heated oven for about 15 minutes.  Serve hot or cold. With extra herbs.

I have also created variations – with or without the oranges and herbs – used my spicy plum jam as a glaze and served them cold with blue cheese on a bed of rocket (arugula).

Rocket and me

Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not overly fond of hot, peppery stuff and for years I really didn’t like rocket in anything other as one of the leaves in a green salad.  When it was the vogue to have rocket with everything, I was often found to be picking it out of my salad or asking for an alternative.  Yes, I can be that customer, and if it can’t be done, I’ll find an alternative restaurant dish.

Then, a few years ago we visited Babylonstoren and toured the garden.  I left with their book which is less about recipes than it is about ingredients and combinations that work.

Among these was beetroot with rocket and goat’s cheese (chevin to be precise).-It’s become another favourite combination.  The sweetness of the beetroot works really well with the pepperiness of the rocket, rounded off with the saltiness of the cheese.

That combination gave me the idea of trying carrot with rocket as I did for this dish – and with the saltiness of blue cheese.

 

Monster rocket leaf from the garden

I am now a whole lot more adventurous open to recipes that include rocket and am now exceedingly annoyed if anyone tampers with my self-sown rocket plants.  Because, theoretically, once you have rocket, you always have rocket.  Unless someone frantically weeds it all out.  This monster plant survived the last weeding frenzy.

Which brings me back to carrots.

Going back some a few years, I built a stash of carrot recipes, many of which I’d rejected or not tried. Because, well, just because.  Then, because of Sunday Suppers, and because I keep an eye open for dishes that are vegan and vegetarian-friendly, I have a somewhat different lens.

Among the recipes is one with almonds, olives and cranberries.  Yes, you guessed right:  with rocket as more than garnish.

I gave it a go.  It’s a winner.

The best carrot salad(s)

Carrot salad with rocket, almonds and olives

What makes this salad best of all, is its versatility and with various additions or subtractions, it can form a main course for either vegetarians or vegans. What’s more, it stores well so one can make it ahead of time.

In summary:  roast the carrots, slivered almonds, garlic and salt and pepper.  Set them aside and then combine with pitted olives.  Serve on a bed of salad (and rocket) leaves dressed with apple cider vinegar and honey, or spicy plum jam. Garnish with more rocket leaves and flowers.

In a jar – better storage and/or for a picnic

Regular readers and followers of my Insta feed know that I have a stall at the Saturday morning market in McGregor.  Last winter, I resumed my soup offering (which had ground to a halt because I served the soups at Sunday Suppers).  Now the seasons are changing and the weather’s warmer, soup’s not quite so popular and instead of ditching the jar idea, I am now offer either a seasonal soup, salad or meal in a jar. This wasn’t the first – that was the Butternut and Lentil salad that everyone raves about.

Remember I said that this salad stores well?

It really does. It also looks very pretty in jars.  I sold a few at the market and those I didn’t, I stored in the fridge.  As a test.  The rocket leaves stayed crisp, for a full seven days. That makes it a great market/street food product and a winner for the busy person who plans and prepares ahead.

The full, recipes are available to download here.

Oh, and if you do download the recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?

Post script:

The spicy plum jam to which I refer, is a condiment I’ve been making for a number of years.  I did share the recipe, and that post, like so many others, went the way of an erstwhile website host.  A new post – with the now tried and trusted recipe – will appear during (or after) plum season.  I shall be making more.

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
    • I also share my occasional Instagram posts to the crypto blockchain, Hive, using the new, and really nifty phone app, Dapplr. On your phone, click here or on the icon, and give it a go.

A pretty pickle

~ Fiona ~ 14 Comments

I’m in a pickle:  I have been revamping a post from a while ago.  About carrots.  After creating a variation of a salad I’d done before and I wanted to add it.  I discovered not only that it had disappeared, but the references to other posts no longer worked.  Not because they were wrong, but rather because the posts no longer existed. Like this one.

A bit of a pickle.

And pickles need time.  And revamping posts take time.  Especially when one realises how far one has come in the nearly five years since the original post in 2016.  Water under the bridge, as they say.

However

The McGregor Board offering at the 2015 McGregor Food and Wine Festival

Another reason for revisiting this is keeping my promise to “pretty up” the recipes and make them available to download in a printable format.  The pickle (the real one) that’s the subject of this post, has become one of my “signature” products at the local market.  I first made them for the McGregor Food and Wine festival in 2015.  It no longer happens…and which is only partly attributed to the dreaded C-lurgy.  Since that first effort, I’ve adapted the recipe slightly and learned a few things.

Colourful Pickled Vegetables

The 2021 fennel seed harvest

When I decided to have a stall at the Food and Wine Festival that year, I wanted to do something different.  But something that would work on a ploughman’s platter and, of course, with wine.  I was not going to do picalili.  I’m not a fan.

I’ve adapted this from a quick pickle recipe and, to be honest, the end result is better because, well, at the risk of repeating myself:  pickles take time.  The brine includes a number of different herb and spice seeds, like cumin, coriander, mustard and fennel.  This last comes, in abundance, from the garden.  Among other essential ingredients are garlic, ginger onions and apple cider vinegar.  And turmeric.

Which vinegar, and why

I’ve used both white wine and apple cider vinegar for this pickle.  I now tend to stick with the latter:  it’s a softer vinegar and better flavoured.  Oh, and also this brine makes a great addition to a vinaigrette if you retain it after you’ve eaten the pickles.

Vegetables

One of the challenge of this pickle is that not all the vegetables one needs are in season at the same time. Here, carrots are available and grow all year round;  the cauliflower is a winter crop and the bell peppers, spring and into summer.   Consequently, and  sometimes, I do fiddle with the ratios and with the cauliflower is the base vegetable.  The turmeric turns it a lovely golden colour.

The quantities are hard to work out exactly, but there is more cauliflower than other bits – the ratios are more important.

Packing the jars

Although I often mix the vegetables, I do monitor the distribution of vegetables between the jars.  I have ended up with a tail-end jar of mostly one vegetable which ends up on our table rather than in my market stock.

Don’t be afraid to press and pummel the vegetables into the jars.  They shrink a little during the pickling process,  anyway.

Once the jars are packed, pour over the hot brine.  This is a messy process and if you’re worried about turmeric stains, take the necessary precautions.  Distribute the seeds and other solids between the jars, making sure that there is sufficient “space” for expansion when they’re sterilised.  Before putting the lid on, make sure there are no lurking air pockets:  tap the jar and poke a plastic or wooden (not metal because of the vinegar) skewer, kebab stick or swizzle stick down the sides to liberate any bubbles.

Do not over tighten the lids: when the jars cool, they will seal, forming a vacuum.

Processing and sterilising

Place the jars in a large (stock) pot and fill with water (do this on the stove – don’t try to lug the full pot and the jars from the sink to the stove and give yourself a hernia … or worse…)  Oh, and before you begin, put a tea towel at the bottom of the pot so that the jars don’t rattle around.  Bring to a boil and then reduce heat and simmer for 10 minutes.  Remove from the water and allow to cool.  The lids should all pull in and form a vacuum at the top of the jar as they cool.

These pickles keep their crunch and can be stored for a good few months.

What else I’ve learned

For this batch, we had lots of red onions and some beautiful heirloom carrots, from the garden, and I thought that they would add to the colour of these pickles.  They did.

But only for about a week:  the vinegar bleached the colour out so that the red carrots ended up just being orange and the red onion lost its blush and went slightly yellow from the turmeric.  The flavour is not affected and the pickle is just as pretty because of the red of the pepper, the gold turmeric which is absorbed by the cauliflower and, or course, the orange of the carrots.

This time, and because they were baby carrots, I left a bit of the stalk on them and then quartered them longways.  Just adds to the character and texture of the pickle.

The full, recipes are available to download here.

Oh, and if you do download the recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?

Finally, the post that links back to this – with the carrot salads – will be out soon.

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
    • I also share my occasional Instagram posts to the crypto blockchain, Hive, using the new, and really nifty phone app, Dapplr. On your phone, click here or on the icon, and give it a go.

 

Marvelous Malva

~ Fiona ~ Leave a comment

I can’t remember the first time I ate this dessert.  It’s one of our favourites – when I “do” dessert.  I don’t often.  I don’t have a sweet tooth.  I am was not much of a baker.  My chef friend and market pal reckons mine are among the best she’s tasted.  I brimmed with pride when she said that.  

Confused

I do remember thinking that its name confused me.  I knew that malva(lekker) is a marshmallow (sweet) in Afrikaans.  In my head (and mouth), the dessert bore bears no resemblance to marshmallows.  

That’s just the beginning.  Because, of course, I am fascinated by words and need to know how things get their names.  

When I developed an interest in herbs – edible and medicinal – I discovered that Malva is a plant genus into which the mallow falls.  This includes the indigenous South African geranium – scented and otherwise.

The red geraniums one sees in Mediterranean window boxes, as I did in my trip to Mallorca in 1999, all originate not far from where I grew up.  I remember them from the regular trips between boarding school in East London and Grahamstown.  They grow wild through the cracks in the road cuttings on either side of the Great Fish River.  Some of the scented ones grow in our garden.  I use them for iced teas and garnish in summer, but that’s another story. 

All of that’s a long way of saying that nobody, least of all me, has any idea as to why this pudding is called “malva”.

Many roads lead to The Sandbag House

Of course, I’ve digressed.  I had wanted to tell the “proper” story behind this recipe last week – ahead of South Africa’s Heritage weekend and having already “done” some heritage food.  I was derailed by having to revisit this post to give the context I needed:  Sunday Suppers @ The Sandbag House and the smorgasbord of guests who sat around our tables. 

The note in the banner for this post is from guests from Germany.  They insisted on a photograph with me, and which they subsequently sent via WhatsApp:

Malva pudding was also on that evening’s menu, and as I recall, they also went home with a jar of my spicy plum jam. 

January 2020

Unexpectedly, last February, and before lockdown, I received a WhatsApp message.  It went along the lines of…

Hello, we so enjoyed our dinner.  The Malva pudding was the best we had in South Africa.  We are planning a dinner with a South African theme.  Would you be able to send me the recipe?

Well, I had to scrabble around a bit.  My recipe is not in any of my books.  I wasn’t sure if I’d ever typed it up.  It’s in my very tatty, dog-eared file.  Too tatty for a photo.  Typing it up had been on my ever-growing “to-dos” forever.  Now, I had to do it.  I did. 

It went, through cyberspace to Sweden.  

The thanks:

Thank you so much! I’m very grateful. I will make Boboti and Malvapudding for my guests. I will share photographs.

Then the pandemic was declared.  I don’t know whether they had their South African dinner.

Another back story

Our Sunday Suppers were a thing.  That delightful Swedish couple joined us for the penultimate supper at which we had guests:  January 26th, 2020.  There were two other diners.  A couple who live in America. She is South African and they are were annual visitors to South Africa to see her mother and family.  During the evening’s conversation, we learned that they’d tried to join us before Christmas, but we’d been full.  This time, they were determined and drove from another town. 

The menu and our Swedish guests’ note in our book, that evening.

The proof of the pudding

Malva pudding is, as I’ve already said, a baked dessert.  I have no idea why I offered this menu in mid-summer because all of those are winter dishes.  We must have been having an unseasonal cold snap.  

I don’t know where my recipe comes from, or who gave it to me.  For years, this was a dessert I didn’t do because a chef friend of ours in Cape Town is the Malva King.  It was often his contribution to one of our gatherings. 

Traditionally, it’s baked in a large square dish and served in squares with custard, cream or ice cream.  Personally, I prefer custard.

Perfect Practice

They say two things:  practise makes perfect and with practise comes the confidence to experiment.  This was case with much of Sunday Suppers, especially the desserts – and my graduating to individual desserts.  As I did with the Malva Pudding.

Mini Malva puddings: just out of the oven (left) and then ladled with the sweet, creamy syrup (right)

Fortunately this recipe serves ten, and I use the ten little enamel cups I bought a few years ago.  Much to The Husband’s confusion.  I used these often during the time of Sunday Suppers.  They, along with a few other bits and bobs have gathered much dust on shelves in this time of disuse. 

Enamel “crockery”

One finds enamel mugs and flatware in virtually every South African kitchen.  In my childhood, in middle class and white households they were reserved for the servants.  Perish the thought.

Before that, though, and now, they are the sensible utensils for camping and the fireside (braai).  I remember them in piles in the trading stores of my childhood and youth in the Eastern Cape. 

Using them to serve Malva pudding, a traditional Afrikaans dish, which probably harks back to the great trek, just makes sense to me.  Sometimes they sparked conversations.  Sometimes not.

Regardless, this traditional South African favourite is a hit every time.  Download the recipe here and if you do, please buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?

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
    • I also share my occasional Instagram posts to the crypto blockchain, Hive, using the new, and really nifty phone app, Dapplr. On your phone, click here or on the icon, and give it a go.

Sunday Suppers: A season past?

~ Fiona ~ 2 Comments

Around May 2017, around the time, my regular blogs became increasingly sparse, as one chapter in my life ended, and others began.  One of these was Sunday Suppers @ The Sandbag House.

Two years later we were still doing it. Menus went out weekly to a WhatsApp group and via various social media and e-news channels in the village.  The menu for the second anniversary supper, was the same, except for the soup.  The third anniversary, courtesy of the pandemic, didn’t happen.  We haven’t done a Sunday Supper, or planned a menu in over a year.

At around the time that we marked the first anniversary of Sunday Suppers, we implemented a suggestion from regular diners, and started a book in which they could leave notes.  It’s also an interesting and easy way to keep track – mostly of the countries from which our village visitors came.  In the those years, we hosted folk from England, Ireland and Scotland;  Sweden, Denmark and Germany;  Spain, Italy and India.  We welcomed old friends – from far and near – and made new.  I was surprised by university friends, neither of whom I’d seen since those days, who came to McGregor – especially for Sunday Supper.  That was a trifle nerve racking, I confess.  Then they recommended to friends, Sunday Supper @ The Sandbag House.  And the friends came.

The lovely notes that folk leave are a delight and add to my general enjoyment of cooking and feeding people

Not long into the journey, friend and photographer, Selma decided that she wanted to document (her word), a Sunday Supper @ The Sandbag House.  Her photographs are infinitely better than I could have wished.  We did have great fun and, I have forgiven her:

I don’t want to be in front of the camera, I whined.

You won’t be, she assured me, batting her blue eyes at me, smiling broadly.

Well.

She lied


All photos in this collage and the header image: Selma

I learned

I a great deal from Suppers @ The Sandbag House.  Not least that we could do it, and I learned that I could/can do things I never thought I could.  Don’t get me wrong, I have most definitely not morphed from being a home cook into a chef, but there is truth in the old adage, practise makes perfect.

At the beginning, not only do I like doing pretty tables, but I figured that if the tables were pretty enough, people would forgive the food.

Bottom left and top right photos: Selma

Like wine and cheese do, I improved over time

Perfection has not been realised, but there was most certainly a significant improvement in things like desserts – never my forté – and how they are presented.  I discovered that I can bake and make mousse.

The other thing I learned, was how to better manage portions and plating.  I went from slopping things about (or over diners – which nearly happened when we had a group of 10!), and serving vegetables ( that don’t get eaten) in side dishes (and wasted), to plating entire courses.

And now

As I said, thanks to the pandemic, Sunday Suppers came to an abrupt halt.  Now, and ironically last Sunday morning, I had a WhatsApp message:

I know it’s late, but can I book supper for three….

Politely, I recommended another establishment.  Which brings me to the next point:  we started Sunday Suppers because there was no spot in the village where folk could get supper on Sunday evenings.  Now there is.  At least one spot.  And we cannot do walk-ins.  And with Covid, and even vaccinated, would we be putting ourselves and our guests at risk?

Finally

I originally wrote this two years into Sunday Suppers and the original post went the way of many others.  I was going to simply re-post as is was.  Then that Sunday morning message and a subsequent conversation made me think and wonder.  Whether we’ll do Sunday Suppers is a question we’re now also asking.  I guess, well have to answer the question.  Properly.  Right now, the answer is:

I don’t know.

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

    • I also share my occasional Instagram posts to the crypto blockchain using the new, and really nifty phone app, Dapplr. On your phone, click here or on the icon, and give it a go.

When Cape Town Burned

~ Fiona ~ Leave a comment

Fire is devastating:  we had a fire in the mountains above our village in spring (September) 2014.  It burned for what seemed like a month and because, to start with, it was in inaccessible parts of the mountain, it could not be effectively fought.  So it spread and threatened prime agricultural land and vineyards.  So it was with the Cape Town fire which started on the 1st of March 2015.  Fire is devastating and scary.  As I learned two or so years ago.

Cape Town surrounds the iconic Table Mountain – a national park and wilderness area – something residents often forget and take for granted.  I know.  I lived there for nearly twenty years.

Courtesy of Hilka Birns

So when the mountain burns, as it must, effectively in the centre of a city, the events that unfold are beyond imagination.

Although the mountain must burn – as part of the most diverse floristic kingdom in the world – this fire was started through human negligence.  And, while the fire burned, and homes were threatened, people criticised the work of the various fire services, the authorities and the outpouring of support.

Learning from a crisis

A crisis teaches one about humanity and community.  The good and the bad.  So it is, I have learned in the virtual community in which bloggers “live”.  Fiona’s Favourites started on a whim, and I chose a platform.  Little did I know that it is not merely a platform;  I discovered that the blogosphere is a microcosm of any community with all the power dynamics and politics that characterise real life.

My journey into this new sphere was precipitated by a very simple motivation:  when I posted pictures of dishes that I cooked on social media, friends asked for recipes.  On the back of this, and years of “made-up” dishes that I often couldn’t replicate and The Husband unsuccessfully suggesting I write them down, Fiona’s Favourites was born.  If I am to be completely honest, the conception of Fiona’s Favourites also coincided with a time of very little work and few prospects.  Not a good place to be if one has been self-employed for more than twenty years and if one’s area of expertise is quite specialised.

What could I do to begin developing a body of writing that was quite the antithesis of my professional life?  Trawling the internet and freelance websites all seemed to suggest that a blog was a way.  I might, if I were to find the right “recipe”, even make some money out of it (that, is still a pipe dream and no longer a driving force).  More importantly, I was tired of the heavy, intense, argumentative type of writing that is my mostly “professional voice”.

Writing and stories

I have always enjoyed the writing process.  Writing, for me, has been both healing and cathartic at different times of my life.  Not that any of that writing was shared – with anyone.  The prospect of personal writing was one thing, but how to walk the fine line between personal and private was a huge challenge.  The Husband is intensely private and cyberspace, the great unknown, is potentially full of dragons and many-headed monsters.  He is also fiercely protective of what he sees as my intellectual property:  “You can’t just put your recipes on social media and the Internet – they’re yours!”

A “website” of my own seemed to be a potential compromise.

My first posts were tentative and quite sterile; I was aware that recipes are two-a-penny on the World Wide Web;  just typing up a recipe is, in a word, boring; reading recipes can be equally boring.  This, and actually having known the original intended readers, almost all my life, even if they are now scattered all over the country and the world, resulted in my, almost sub-consciously writing “around” the food.

Then I ran into a friend in the village.

“I really enjoy your blog,” she told me, “I love the stories!”

I was blown away.  I didn’t even know that she had been following the blog!

Knowing that people eat with their eyes, photographs of the food I cooked were important.

Pictures also tell stories and, in text, they play an important role in breaking up dense material.  I have also long “fiddled” with taking pictures and when we moved to McGregor, I began looking at things around me with new eyes.  I wanted to capture and share what I saw.  So, with that, the content began to go beyond what I had originally conceived.

Initially, I was nervous.  Would “my” readers like the change?  Well, again, I learned something – people began commenting and the stats told me what I needed to know:  they did.

What have I learned about blogging?

The blogosphere is a virtual village, filled with people and personalities, rule makers, rule-breakers, nice people and nasty people (trolls, I learned they’re called) – just like in any community. They scrap and bicker, live and laugh together (or not), just the same.  They live in my computer but came from all over the world to partake of the fare I shared.  We all have blogs;  not all of us enjoy writing;  we’re all motivated by different things and we certainly don’t always agree.  And that’s not just ok, that’s good.

At the core, I’ve learned that Fiona’s Favourites is all about my favourite things and that’s what my readers seem to enjoy – surprisingly, to me.  From this learning, and from advice from bloggers like Opinionated Man*, I have created a set of rules for myself:

Fiona’s blogging rules

I’m a wannabe fulltime blogger.  I do this because I enjoy it – when I no longer enjoy the process, or it becomes a burden, I’ll stop.  Which I did for a while in 2017 when my world seemed bleak.  My rules:

  • I only claim photographs as my own if they are.
  • If I’m not sure of my facts, I’ll check them and acknowledge the source.  If I discover that something I thought was true, is not, I’ll correct it.
  • The stats interest me;  they don’t drive me.  I’m delighted with every new follower and every comment is appreciated and acknowledged.
  • I follow blogs that interest me, make me think, laugh, or both!  I don’t get irritated if I don’t agree with the blogger’s view, or if a topic doesn’t interest me:  I just don’t read it.  No offence intended and I’m sure, none taken.  It’s not realistic to read every post from everyone one follows.
  • I comment if I want to, and I’ll share my thoughts.  I don’t get mean – there’s no need.  Life’s too short for all that negative energy.
  • I don’t blog about blogging – on Fiona’s Favourites – anymore.  My readers don’t care if that they’re reading my 75th post or the 175th.  Nor do they really care how many likes or views I’ve had.  Why would they?  I reserve that for opportunities like this*, and only fourteen months into it, was thrilled with my 200 “likes” and just over 4,200 views from 78 countries.

Life lessons and the blogosphere

I was quite shocked to learn about bullies and trolls.  Quite naïve of me, I suppose.  Still, I don’t get it that people have nothing better to do than to stalk others and to be mean for the sake of being mean.  That said, the blogosphere “real” people do look after their own, as we saw when the Opinionated Man was forced to take a sabbatical.  Caring people power prevailed and a phoenix rose from those ashes.

And so it was in Cape Town.  Hilka, who took these photographs, and whose home and family were threatened with destruction, posted this on Facebook:

At the height of the terror on Sunday night, I was wondering whether it was worth living here, considering that this has been the 2nd major mountain fire we have been lucky enough to have survived in the 18 years we have lived in Noordhoek. Any brief doubts I may have had have been wiped away by the amazing community spirit and response to the crisis. People have really pulled together and supported each other and the firefighting efforts! I love this place! Wouldn’t live anywhere else!

So it will be for the moonscape the fire left on the mountain.

Some final thoughts

Firstly –

* This article was originally published in 2015 on Jason Cushman’s A Good Blog is Hard to find, who blogs under the pen name, Opinionated Man.

The nom de plume perfectly describes Jason;  he is unapologetically so, and often deliberately provocative.  All of that said, he is a crusader for new bloggers and very generous with his time and his space.  This was abused by someone who decided to publish something s/he had plagiarised, on his blog, then called HarsH ReaLity – as a guest.  As a consequence, Jason has had to deal with the repercussions and has taken the regrettable decision to no longer offer space (and, of course, his time), to guest bloggers.

I don’t get all of Jason’s posts and yes, there have been times I know I would have been offended if I had read some of them, but this belies someone who has encouraged and supported hundreds of novice bloggers.

I remain, all these years later, appreciative of his time, his space, his tenacity and his sense of humour!

Secondly –

There has been some bullying and trolling happening on Steemit, and which has had a nasty impact on people I care about.  Simultaneously, there has been an interesting discussion on Narrative and where I shared a little about why I blog, earlier today.

Revisiting and sharing these thoughts seemed appropriate.

Until next time
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa


Photo: Selma

Acknowledgements:

Thank you to Hilka Birns for allowing me to use her photographs.  Follow her on Twitter @Hbirns
The photographs of the proteas are courtesy of Boesmanskloof Accommodation, McGregor

Post Script: First on my blog in 2014.  Sadly it remains relevant as cyberbullying and so-called keyboard warriors “gun” for folk with whose views they disagree.

Not killing mother

~ Fiona ~ 5 Comments

In December 1999, I spent my last Christmas with my father.  Three days earlier, we’d bade my mother a final farewell.  As I’ve probably said before, her death was a shock.  Six weeks prior, she’d had surgery.  By all accounts, it was successful although the procedure meant a protracted stay in hospital.  Cleared of nasties, she was doing well and then suddenly took a turn for the worse.  Back in ICU;  back into theatre, twice; organ failure and dialysis; in and out of a coma.

Skipping the long version

If you aren’t inclined to reading, scroll down to the short version.

Things in common but not friends

Let me be clear.  I loved my mother, but she and I were not friends.  It was, to say the least, an uneasy relationship.  We had little to say to each other and although we would have had things in common, now, I doubt they would have been enough to have transformed our relationship.  Some of my profound enjoyment of traditional crafts – knitting and crochet – I get from her. And cooking.  She was a good cook.  My parents’ dinner parties were legend.  The celebration for my 21st birthday was a garden party which, except for the cake, she catered.

Mum and me at different times in our respective lives.

This collage, is of photos of Mum and I.  At different times in our lives. The first time I came across the one of her in the centre, it was like looking at myself.  I’ve never forgotten that weird feeling.  The bottom right photo is one of me, at about the same age.

Opposites in magnets (and in life), attract, but the like poles repel.  Perhaps that was my mother and I:  too alike. It took fifty-odd years to acknowledge that – even after she had died and I found that photograph.  More than twenty years ago.

No conversation – then

Having little in common, there wasn’t much to talk about. I don’t remember any profound or really adult conversation with her.  Only once, that I can remember, did I ask for advice about cooking.  When I cooked my first Christmas turkey nearly thirty years ago.  Next time I wanted to ask her advice about something – also cooking related – some eight years later, I couldn’t.  Although it made me momentarily sad, it did make me remember her kitchen ritual for the sauce I had wanted to make.  Also for a Christmas meal:  traditional British bread sauce which is traditionally served with roast chicken or turkey.

Not a baker

After she died, my sister wasn’t interested in our mother’s personal recipe book – to which I refer, pretty frequently.  My now famous chicken liver paté, and which I sell at the market is hers, and in that book. She also had two different editions of the Good Housekeeping Cookery Book.  I got one, my sister, the other.  I still use it and it taught me how to make marmalade and it’s my go-to for certain basics.

While my mother was an excellent cook, she always said she couldn’t bake.  One vivid memory of such an effort was a birthday cake.  My sister had commanded pink.  Pink. Very. Pink,  it was.  And hacked sculpted to turn it into a cake shaped cake.  For years and for some reason, I believed that I, too, could not bake.  That I have become a relatively accomplished baker of certain desserts, shortbread, biscuits and now, sourdough bread is, to say the least, ironic.

A selection of baked desserts that I used to serve at our regular Sunday Suppers

The absence of conversation, however has changed.  Over the last year or so, I’ve had more conversations with “mother” than I had with my real Mum in the thirty six years I knew her.

Blame it on Lockdown

Last year (2020 in case you’ve forgotten), and when we were in hard lockdown a chef friend in the village started a Facebook group – what’s for supper? It started, among other things, my now ritual photographing of our supper, stretching the imagination (and the budget) as far as it (would) will go.  The other starter was, literally a starter:  a mother or natural yeast for making bread.

Having been scared of yeast, I resisted baking bread.  Also, it’s not something one can do on impulse.  Until then I had tried baking bread a couple of times and had long wanted to literally do it from scratch.  That included my own “mother”.  With no other distractions, let alone plans, and with encouragement from Pixie who, at that stage, had her own, well established jar of glop, I started my journey.

Uncle Ritchie and Auntie Doris

The first “rule” of making one’s own mother, I’m led to believe, is giving her a name.  Of course, being who I am, I was not going to give her a conventional name.  Not female.  I chose “Uncle Ritchie” because he was the only baker to trade I’ve ever known.  I remember the bakery next door to his and Auntie Doris’s (she of my birthday cake) house. And the big ovens…  Nearly forty years ago, it was demolished to make way for a block of flats (apartments).  I digress.

So, in late March, my sourdough journey began.  I mixed equal parts of flour and water in a jar, religiously closing the top, feeding Uncle Ritchie every day.  On day two, I think, there were a couple of bubbles.  Then, a few days later.  Nothing. Dead.  Like baker Uncle Ritchie has been for the last thirty something years.

I killed suffocated him. I’d closed the lid too tight. He couldn’t breathe.

Rinse and repeat

I don’t do well being challenged thwarted.  I was determined to try again;  if Uncle Ritchie wouldn’t oblige, I was sure Auntie Doris would.  She’d come through for me before.  So again, I mixed equal parts of flour and water in a jar, religiously closing the top – not too tightly, but tightly enough to keep the fruit flies out.  I  fed Auntie Doris every day.  On day two, there were a couple of bubbles.  Then more. But I noticed a layer of water forming at the bottom of the jar. A few days or so later the water had risen to the top.

I had drowned Auntie Doris!

Third time lucky

I was not going to accept defeat.  Not from a fungus.

The universe was sending me a message.  I’d resisted, right from the beginning, the obvious choice – my own mother’s name.  Her given name was Ursula, but she was always known as Ula (pronounced Yoo-la).  “Ursula” has significance for another reason:  it’s the name of a former teacher who became a mentor and good friend.  I tried again.

By the end of April, Ursula was a bubbling jar of glop with a veracious appetite and which needed to be used.

It had taken just over a month, bit with hindsight, seemed longer.  As everything did when we were in that hard lockdown.

The short version

For detailed instructions on making your own natural yeast, download them here.

The first sourdough bake off

Having consulted GoG*, I found that although Ursula was growing out of her jar, I didn’t really have enough for anything worth while, and I found recipes for “discard”. As it’s called, and for when mother grows out of her dress jar.  My first effort was scones (or as my American friends call them, biscuits).  I chose those because I wasn’t confident of my kneading skills and, and, and….

For a patch, I made those quite frequently.  I took a batch along or our first skelm social engagement when lockdown restrictions eased a little.  They were a hit.  The recipe’s here.

If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine….?

Graduation

Then I graduated to rolls and bread.

Early efforts at sourdough bread loaves and rolls

I’ll save stories of those journeys (and how they ended up on my market stall) for another episode time.

*Good old Google

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

Photo: Selma

Post Script

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  • If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:
    • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I plan to add 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 on the image below to sign up –

Image: @traciyork

  • I also share my occasional instagram posts to the crypto blockchain using the new, and really nifty phone app, Dapplr. On your phone, click the icon below, and give it a go.