SGSA: Culture and cuisine

Well, since culture comes from history, let's start there. SA history is, in a word: complicated. I can’t possibly do it justice here*, but let’s just give you the 60-second synopsis:

Cradle of humankind — pristine wilderness** — route to India — weird European politics — Portuguese explorers — Dutch settlers — persecuted French Protestants — English colonisation — Great Trek — bloody skirmishes with “the natives” — bloody Anglo-Boer skirmishes — Republic — apartheid — resistance — Nelson Mandela — 1994 elections — Rainbow Nation.

There. Are we all caught up now?

Our culture is as complicated as our history. But I'm too lazy to go into all that. To generalise, then: South Africans are friendly, outdoorsy and sporty. (Not me, though. Obviously.) Capetonians will tell you Joburgers are aggressive, money-obsessed yuppies who can’t drive; Joburgers will tell you Capetonians are sleepy, cliquey snobs who can’t drive.

There’s something of a class divide between the (more urban) English and (more rural) Afrikaans. There is, obviously, a class divide between white and black (and, for that matter, coloured*** – not the same as black, in SA – and Indian); there is also a class divide between the new black elite and the masses still struggling to stay alive and well in the townships, or the rural backwaters. It’s a very, very complicated country.

But you will notice one thing: almost everyone you see has a big smile. True. To my cynical friends back home: if you disagree, try leave the country for a few months, then go back. You will notice it. It’s amazing. Despite everything we’ve been through, SA is a happy country. (Where else would a dance serve as political protest?)

It's also a country that eats remarkably well. There is an Afrikaans word: “lekkerbek”. You might translate this as glutton, or epicure, depending on personal prejudice. But who wouldn’t be a lekkerbek with all that to enjoy?

In Cape Town or Joburg, you can pretty much pop into any random place you see on the street and enjoy a good meal (barring extreme bad luck). There isn’t, ostensibly, a strongly defined South African cuisine — we have the usual profusion of Italian, Thai, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, Lebanese, French, fusion, etc etc, but there are certain characteristic menu items: Malay curry, smoked snoek (a strongly flavoured fish), malva pudding, Cape brandy tart, Dom Pedro (essentially a whisky milkshake, or made with other liqueurs).

More deliberately South African fare includes ostrich steak (ostrich tastes much like lean, extra flavoursome beef; the chocolate-chilli sauce it comes with at Madame Zingara’s in CT is already legendary) and boerewors (a coarse textured, spicy, herby sausage). If you eat at The Ritz in Sea Point — a proper, cheesy, overpriced revolving restaurant, but with rather fabulous food, and you really can't complain about the view — you can sample crocodile carpaccio and Namibian gemsbok fillet. Afrikaans cuisine borrows from Malay and other traditions (with bobotie, for instance: a sort of crustless mince pie involving raisins, with egg on top) and is big on stodge and sugar. Even the vegetables are cooked with sugar, and koeksusters (essentially braided dough soaked in syrup) are toothachingly sweet. (I love them, obviously.)

Traditional African kos (food) revolves around a staple diet of mielie pap (maize porridge) and spicy sauce, with as much meat as can be found. Once upon a time mopani worms were eaten for survival when meat was hard to come by; now they're just a crunchy snack.

Biltong (smoked meat, anything from beef to springbok) is the number one bar snack and of course in Cape Town, there is an abundance of seafood (I especially recommend the calamari).

And don’t forget to visit the wine farms, the cheese makers, the pick-your-own orchards…

_____

* Plus, being a victim of Christian Nationalist education, I’m embarrassingly ignorant and am just now reading up to improve my knowledge.

** That is, it was bloody hard to get to.

*** An apartheid word for those of mixed race. The PC term these days is “formerly known as coloured” or something of that ilk, although generally “black” is preferred for all categories known, under apartheid, as “non-white”. Complicated, huh?

SGSA: Art and architecture

Being the Cradle of Humankind and all, we have ancient cave paintings, as well as tons of ethnic crafts (beading, weaving, carving etc – of course a lot of those traditional souvenirs you’re seeing were probably made in the Congo), and there are some rather powerful artworks that came out of the apartheid era (like the one above). And then (oh dear) there’s Tretchikoff and Beezy Bailey…

We’re a bit short on ancient monuments, although we do have at least one distinctive (and rather lovely) architectural style – the Cape Dutch farmhouse. Cape Town’s socalled Castle is a squat, pentagonal fort. Rhodes Memorial is a weird neo-classical temple that’s all about looking at the view, away from the building. Which I think is the main thing with the city: why look at buildings, when you could be looking at the landscape?

Oh yes, and Joburg has some skyscrapers and stuff.

Update: How could I forget? There's a rich performing arts tradition in all sections of SA society, from gumboot dancing and pennywhistle jazz (as borrowed by Paul Simon on Graceland) to physical theatre, a form we have made peculiarly our own. The Cape Town ballet is particularly good, too. SA has produced some brilliant literature, not so much great films. While Capetonians will tell you eagerly about their booming film industry, mostly that means foreign crews are using the city as a location — indigenous product is still scarce.

ps

While I'm talking into the wind, let me just say that it's raining, and I want to knit, and I have way too much to do, and Parcelforce sucks, and I need chocolate.

*sulk*

Huh?

Has Blogger gone nuts while I was away, or is it just me?

I've lost the ability to set time and date on posts. Plus, the BlogThis! button opens a new post window, but doesn't insert a link. Any thoughts on this? Anybody?

SGSA: Geography and climate

As mentioned in the introduction, we have quite a lot of both geography and climate. It’s a fair-sized country, but as far as most visitors are concerned, it consists of Cape Town, Johannesburg (Joburg or Jozi), game farms, and everywhere else. This is probably quite reasonable; Durban is our third city*, but don’t go to Durban. Seriously. Don’t. The streets are full of beach bums and the (small, pebbly) beaches are full of jellyfish. Plus, it’s insanely hot and humid. Skip it.

Joburg (climate: hot and dry in summer, with superbly operatic thunderstorms; cold and dry in winter) is strictly for living in, doing business in, or passing through. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s a fabulous place to live – incredible weather, great people, brilliant nightlife. I just can’t ever think of anything to advise visitors to do. After all, you can’t spend all day in restaurants. Although I did try. (Actually, the theatre is excellent. But that still leaves a lot of daylight to fill.)

Cape Town — known as the Mother City, because European settlement started here — is quite possibly the best city in the whole world, ever. (I did warn you this wasn’t going to be an objective guide.) Unfortunately, Capetonians are aware of this, which makes them not only insufferably smug (I include myself in this statement) but also quite greedy. Prices have rocketed in the past few years, but it’s still a relative bargain for those with hard currency (the SA rand is a distinctly downtrodden beastie, poor thing). Frankly, it would be a bargain at any price, because just look at it! Spectacular mountains, forests, wine farms, beaches** and, oh yes, hordes of jaw-droppingly beautiful people. They’re all models, of course, and won’t deign to actually speak to you, but the ogling is good.

Also, CT (climate: warm to hot in summer, cold, wet and very windy in winter; extremely changeable and breezy all year round — it was originally dubbed the Cape of Storms, before some politically motivated rebranding as the Cape of Good Hope) has smartened up a whole lot from what it used to be, and is finally fulfilling its long-time claim to being “cosmopolitan” and “European”. Ten years ago, the V&A Waterfront was the big draw; now, head for De Waterkant. Named just to confuse Dutch speakers, it actually is a whole separate area — not all that close to the water, truthfully — and much, much sexier.

Cape Town is also small enough, and close to nature enough, to provide a lot of entertainment you might not expect from a "city". Go down to Cape Point, where smart-alec locals may try to convince you you can actually see the dividing line between the Atlantic and Indian oceans***, and you can spot whales (in season and with luck), ride ostriches, and otherwise enjoy the bounty of nature. (On a plate. With lemon juice and tartare sauce. Mmmmm.)

It's important to note, though, that you shouldn't actually try to get anything done in Cape Town. Firstly, why waste good beach time? Secondly, why waste the locals' good beach time? Centuries of sunshine and good dope have completely addled Capetonians' collective brains. (Again, I'm including myself in this.) As a group, we are friendly, cheerful, and pretty damn ineffectual. Need proof? Okay. Get in a car. Head downtown, towards the Waterfront. Near the beginning of the N2 motorway****, you will see a road to nowhere. Literally. There's a great big highway in the sky, that stops shortly after lifting off from the ground. Close by, but less often seen, is another. These were two parts of a flyover that never quite made it, because one of our sun-struck civil engineers made a miscalculation. Oops. That was decades ago. The road has of course been rebuilt, but the evidence lingers on. Obviously, pulling it down would be quite pricey, and besides, by now it's a landmark and source of strange pride for the denizens of Slaapstad*****. I do wonder, though, why nobody's used that structure to build, I don't know, a cool party venue or something underneath...

So much for the cities; what about the game farms? Well, there are plenty of them, to be sure, in all styles ranging from serious bushwhacking to keep-those-dirty-beasts-away-from-me luxury. Personally, I’m dead keen on the deluxe end – I’ll take cocktails, swimming pools and room service, please; hold the spiders, and don’t dare kick me out of bed for any of those ridiculous dawn game walks – but the downside is, a lot of those places are fairly low on actual wildlife. Still, if you want to trip over rhino****** just outside your own front door, while still enjoying five-star comfort, I know just the place. (Huge ants, though. Enormous.)

Oh yes, and of course there’s plenty of countryside that isn’t in the game farm category. Tell you what. Take six months off, hire a car, and call me for guidance. You might be able to fit in most of the must-see priorities. If you work at it.

_____

* Well, sort of. We actually have three capitals, and Joburg isn’t even on the list. Cape Town has parliament, Bloemfontein has the supreme court (and absolutely nothing else), and Pretoria has the Union Buildings (where they actually run the country from). But Pretoria’s practically a suburb of Joburg these days anyway.

** CT beaches are, however, a trap for the unwary. The most popular beaches – Camps Bay and Clifton, with the sunset views – are strictly for showing off your designer bikini, the one too expensive to actually get wet. If you want to swim, head to the other side of the mountain, where the currents won’t actually freeze the teeth out of your head. Boulders is nice. And it has penguins.

*** Actually, the oceans meet at Cape Agulhas, a fair drive to the east. But Cape Point does see the meeting of two ocean currents, which explains the warm beaches/icy beaches phenomenon.

**** I do believe it's also adjacent to Oswald Pirow street. Oswald Pirow, one of SA's more infamous statesmen, was basically a Nazi. While a frenzy of renaming has swept SA since 1994, this street appears to have been left alone. See? Sleepy Cape Town.

***** An Hilarious Pun. Slaapstad=sleepytown; Cape Town in Afrikaans is Kaapstad.

****** The friendly, square-jawed ones, of course. Nothing you wouldn’t want to trip over.

The Scroobious Guide to South Africa

In the 1980s South Africa was very much a global pariah. With sanctions and censorship both in full swing, we didn’t get to see much of the outside world, for good or ill. In consequence, the apartheid government drove a massive “stuff you, world!” campaign — creative efforts such as making petrol out of coal were aimed at proving, to South Africans as well as forruners, that we didn’t need anyone else.

One aspect of this was the tourism advertising slogan: “The world in one country”. Now that I’ve seen a (very) little bit of the world, I can confidently assert that this was an Untruth. Search as you might, you will not find the Eiffel Tower, nor the Great Wall of China. We’re a bit low on pyramids (either Egyptian or Aztec), leaning towers, ancient castles, grand canyons, igloos and such. So the apartheid state lied. (Frankly, I’m shocked.)

We do, however, have tropical rainforest, desert, mountains, rocky coasts and sandy beaches, buzzing cities, sleepy hamlets, hippie outposts, penguins, ostriches, elephants (including some that are small and furry), baboons (lots of 'em), flamingoes, eagles and a truly terrifying parade of insect life. We also have a history rich in heroes, villains and nutters, a glorious climate, and some of the best food in the whole world, ever. Join me, if you will, for the Scroobious Guide to South Africa — it may not be objective, but the research is frrrresh.

Post-holiday correspondence

Dear Cape Town,

My, but you've grown up. Love what you've done with De Waterkant. You're so sophisticated these days. So sexy. I mean, you were always fabulous, but wow. I'm impressed.

And you've done a great job of looking after my mountain. I do miss you, you know. Especially now you've shown me this new, smarter side. Trying to win me back? I could be tempted... Anyway, thanks for putting on such a great show while we were there. The weather! The food! (Actually, my thighs would like to have a word with you later.)

By the way, where was everyone? It was great not having to fight off hordes of tourists everywhere, but honestly, where did you put them? Are they really all in Plett this year? Or was it the fuel crisis keeping them at home?

Which reminds me. About that fuel crisis. And the weekly power cuts. Temper, dear! Isn't it time to put such childish things behind you? I know, I know, responsibility is so boring. But these adolescent tantrums... it just doesn't suit your new image, darling. Try to walk the talk, hm?

All right then. You're so lovely. If you really want me back, we might be able to work something out. But you're going to have to sort out that temper of yours. Oh, and you might as well know, until you can offer me fast, cheap broadband, it's just not going to happen.

Ta-ta, darling. Kisses. Love you always.

Scroobious.

***

Dear London,

Okay. I get it. You're in cahoots with Cape Town. The mothers — mine, Beloved's, the Mother City — pulled some strings, and you agreed to give me the cold shoulder. Bravo, well done and all that, you succeeded admirably. Grey skies, bare trees, gloom all around, very effective contrast with sunny SA. Tesco was a nightmare, you got that right too. Ambushing me with fights with Parcelforce and British Gas — bit over-the-top, no? But okay, okay, you've made your point. Now give it a rest. We're stuck with each other for now, so just deal, okay?

Okay.

Happy Christmas.

Scroobious.

Things to do in December

1. Rub my sister's incubating belly. Meet my nephew and godson for the second time.

2. Talk to much missed old friends. And talk some more. And some more. And have another drink. And keep talking. And see more friends. And so on.

3. Spend five days in the glorious African mountains, lolling by the pool, gazing out over valleys, watching wild animals, doing very little that can't be done with a cocktail in my hand.

4. Reassure myself that Cape Town is still there. Bask in its glory.

5. Eat my own body weight in seafood, at a stunning open air beach restaurant, over the course of a mellow and champagne-fuelled afternoon, for about the price of a pizza here in the Big Smoke.

6. Walk in the forests. Walk on the beaches. Wonder why I ever left.

7. Picnic in Kirstenbosch with waatlemoenkonfyt and Simonsberg camembert with green peppercorns.

8. Long evenings with glorious Cape wines, food* and friends, under the Constantia trees or overlooking the sea.

9. After three weeks of this, get back to London, and let my cats console me.

...Things I won't be doing in December:

1. Selling any more needles. But that's okay. We've done remarkably well so far. *happy glow* Roll on January...

2. Reading Tis the Season. More's the pity. You don't have to share my pain, though. Go forth and giggle!

_____
* Yes, it's ridiculous how much I'm looking forward to the food. Sorry, but SA restaurants are just so much better than in London. Really. Also, Simonsberg cheese, and konfyt. Mmmmmm.

Eureka!

I think I have discovered the secret of success.

Don't sleep.

This works on so many levels. First, you get more done. Second, you lose weight. Third... um, you get more done.

Right now, though, it's the getting thinner part that has me excited. I've just realised that when I'm sleep deprived (as I have been all this week), I feel slightly nauseous all the time and hence, no appetite. Is genius! I will be thin and elegant and successful!

Do not doubt the link between thin and successful. It's perfectly obvious. Especially, but not only, for women. Thin people get better jobs, get paid more, get more opportunities. They just look more successful. And appearance, we know, is all.

So from now on, I will stay up until 2am every night. Every. Night. And do lots of useful things (or at the very least, knit in front of the TV). And I will sleepwalk through my days being grumpy and sick, therefore more aggressive and less hungry. My first million can surely not be far away.

Doesn't sound like a fun holiday, though. Tell you what: I'll start this Success Strategy after my return. Meanwhile, sun, sea and sauvignon blanc await. Sleep, too. Mmmm... sleep...

Don't expect anything more to happen around here till Christmas. Have fun without me.

Terrible thing, procrastination

In five days I get on a plane for a very long-anticipated trip home. Three of the intervening days and evenings will be fully occupied with such trivialities as work, getting a haircut, taking the cat for a blood test, catching up with a friend just passing through London, and panicked last minute Christmas shopping. (To you, it's early days yet. To me, since gifts must be packed by the time I hop on a plane at 6.30am — yes, insane, we'll have to book a cab for 3am — on Friday morning, it's last minute.) Leaving two "free" days for those other small details:

Huge (and really annoying*) editing project
Re-ordering stock for Purlescence
Preparing a knit design submission
Completing the knit project that is one of my Christmas presents
...and so on.

Of course, almost all of these things could have been done ages ago, but, um, weren't. As can be said, too, of my completely failed plans for my blog birthday (tomorrow). I wanted to do something special, but it would take time, and I'm kinda busy. So I realised this morning, my present to my blog will have to become part of the great tradition of handmade birthday presents: it'll happen. Just not right now. (A common knitter's rule of gifts is, it has to be delivered within a year of the occasion for which it was intended. That's acceptable lateness.)

Meanwhile, I'm going to do some editing. See ya.

_____
* I'm increasingly fed up with academics. (Extemporanea, of course, excluded.) Particularly the particular brand that I usually find myself dealing with, i.e. very clever and creative people studying something 100% up its own ass**. To be fair, a lot of what they're doing is highly innovative and has very interesting — even potentially useful — practical applications, compared with traditional arts subjects like English Lit***; but they make up for it with more rarefied, pretentious, jargon-laden and self-important "discourse" than any other field I've encountered. All of which I could forgive if they were just a bit more efficient about it... but inevitably, deadlines are not so much stretched, or missed, as warped into an entirely different dimension (years late is not uncommon), where the writer constantly lies to you about when things will happen, keeps you waiting for months (at least), then suddenly hands it over and demands that it's done right now, because you see, they have a deadline. And the work itself, dear goddess, it's so sloppily put together you'd think they have no interest in their own writing. Plus, frequently there is a remarkable absence of academic rigour or understanding — and these are PhDs; since I'm way below them in the degree stakes, I probably don't have a right to comment, but seriously.

And of course the best part is that they are all so enormously impressed with their own subject, they think it's an enormous treat for you to be working on it. Really, every time, the writer or editor tells me proudly, "You're going to enjoy this, it's really fresh, really exciting, really amazing stuff."

But of course it is, dear.

Phew, that rant came out of nowhere. Sorry.

** Try Googling "site-specific media arts".

*** Which of course I love dearly, but I've never yet managed to convince myself that it's useful. Essential, yes, but not useful. (I can just see the irate comments brewing even now...)

Twiddles and ornaments

Random plug: those of you with operatic tastes should take a peek at Vivaldi's folio, where the commenter formerly known as Anonymous is indulging in some scandalous baroque gossip. (Not enough, mind, but some encouragement from a rapt audience should help to draw him out.)

Ode to a Coat

(A Pome in the style of Ogden Nash)

Let me sing you a song of my life in unhappier times,
Freshly arrived in London from more temperate climes.
I was prepared for the ice and snow, or so I thought,
Thanks to the big grey overcoat that from home I’d brought.
But when you think about it, I really should have known better,
Because while Cape Town, compared to London, is windier, wilder and wetter,
When it comes to temperatures that invite comparison to a witch’s titty
I think you can guess which is the worser city.
Shopping at “Coats for Africa” should have tipped me off.
I wasn’t going to Africa. I was going much further norf.

Now, that was my first visit to this great metropolis, but not the last;
Five years later I returned for a longer stay, minding the lessons I’d learned in the past.
But I still only had that painfully inadequate big grey overcoat, and why?
Because I was broke and coats were expensive, and I thought I could manage if I had to try.
By Christmas time, suffice to say,
I was simply desperate to try my luck in the coat departments in the sales on Boxing Day.
The which I did, and when I found what I had come for,
At last I understood what all those joyful carols were being sung for.

I took my coat home. Ever since it has treated me well.
And every winter I am freshly reminded of why I love it more than words can tell.
It’s not just the soft black fabric, the furry trim on the cuff,
The high fluffy collar that just about reaches my ears and warms them enough
That I could, if I chose, do away with the scarf and hat.
(Which is excellent news considering I prefer my hair more bouncy, and less flat.)
Plus, in a happy accident of fashion,
This year the coat is highly en vogue, being of a style distinctly Russian.
All these attributes are wonderful, to be sure,
But the root of my love is something deeper, more pure:
This coat, you see, with its magical properties has quite simply changed my life.
It has ended the annual elemental strife.
This coat means I can now get from A to B without turning blue,
And if you think I’m exaggerating, all I can say is, be glad it has never happened to you.
What is more, it comes into its own in this silly party season,
Justifying its entire existence with this one fantastic reason:
I can, and have, venture into the deepest darkest wilds of (say) icy Essex, almost wearing something utterly scandalous and with nothing to protect me from the sub-zero breeze but this amazing coat,
Which I think you’ll agree is worth rather more than a groat.

Forget what the poet tells you, beauty isn’t truth, beauty is warmth, and warmth alone.
No one can be beautiful when they’re bundled up in six layers of clothing and despite this they’re still freezing cold and having a good moan.
If in the depths of winter, you want to get some use out of that “Ode to a Grecian Urn”,
I suggest you light a blazing logfire, take the poem and let it burn.

So now, when the days draw in and the roads are turning slippery,
My heart leaps with joy as I haul out my winter frippery.
Hat, scarf, gloves and boots all do their duty,
But nothing can match my fabulous, furry, phenomenal winter coat for sheer cosmic beauty.

PS. If, through no fault of your own, you failed to enjoy my verse,
Count your blessings. I could have done it in the epic style of Homer, which would have been infinitely worse.

Stockholm syndrome in cultural consumption

(In which the Scrivener once more lays herself bare* to charges of prudery. And possibly racism.)

Daring to question Page 3, Kira Cochrane writes:

A recent survey of 2,000 15-19-year-old girls found that 67% considered "glamour model" their ideal profession... With the proliferation of these images, is it any surprise that young women have further embraced it?

Warning: this next bit is quite upsetting.

In 2002 I read a report (in SA's Weekly Mail & Guardian) that researchers had found young girls in the townships were more likely than not to describe gang rape as "cool". Now, I've written before about the harrowing stats on rape in SA. If you're living in the township, you're pretty much going to get raped, sooner or later. And it's three times as likely to be gang rape as a solo attacker.

And, oh yes, it's pretty certain that your brother, your boyfriend, and all your male friends are out there doing the raping. Because this is what they do. The term "traumatised society" has become quite the South African cliche, but that's what it is. Things got fucked up. And this is one of the ways in which it's playing out.

So the victims themselves have come round to thinking that yes, gang rape is a cool thing for boys to do (I don't recall whether the researchers were brazen enough to ask if they thought it was cool to be raped, too), because how else can you cope with that reality?

Now, I'm not trying to compare being exposed to tacky topless photos with rape. That's one accusation I'd really rather not face. But there's a certain echo there, not so? Everybody's doing it, your dad loves the Sun, so it must be okay. Why not join in?

_____
* As it were.

The secret is out

You may remember lots of self-important hinting about my Special Secret Project. That's right, the one that was supposed to be done by the start of October.

Now, by this time half of you have already figured it out and the other half never cared anyway. But let's just pretend this is still the eagerly awaited Big Reveal, okay?

Reveal!

Edit: Credit for the awesome website goes to my Beloved, whose MA Communication Design seems to be coming in useful after all, and to Strawberryfrog, who has provided crucial technical assistance in getting the shopping cart software to work the way we want. And who is, even now, conjuring up a little extra magic.

Just do it. And do it again. And do it again. And admit that it's still crap. And do it some more.

I have, alas, absolutely no interesting comment to make on this post by a wonderful artist, but anybody with any desire to create anything worthwhile should immediately go read it.

Government as a substitute for parenting

Sometimes when I hear people banging on about rights, I'm reminded of Fay Weldon's line that "right" simply means "it would be nice". This is definitely one of those times.

Would it be nice if teenagers talked to their parents before getting an abortion? Yes, absolutely. Mrs Axon is quite right that they should do so. But if a kid isn't going to talk to her mom, she's not going to talk to her mom. In that case, she's probably terrified of what her parents will say and knowing that the doctor will have to tell her mom anyway will probably put her off going to the nice clean NHS doctor. Coathanger city. Now that's progress.

Wouldn't it be nicer if parents made their children feel comfortable talking to them first? Isn't that something that only the parents can achieve — not the law?

I smaak you china!

A South African love poem, with annotations*.

I smaak you stukkend**, please say you'll be mine,
You're my moon, my stars, my Camps Bay*** sunshine.
Better than a degree from WITS or RAU****,
Better than a proper Durban bunnychow*****.

You're my beaded love letter***** **, my breeze in the night,
You're my tea, my koeksister***** ***, my Blitz firelight***** ****
You're my Discovery, my Tracker, my ADT***** *****
My pap***** ***** *, Mrs Balls Chutney, my Nandos***** ***** ** for free,

You're my lamb chop, my chakalaka***** ***** ***, my partner in crime,
My chilli, my roti, my samoosa sublime***** ***** ****.
The list is just endless and that isn't all.
You're my Lotto jackpot, my Bioplus***** ***** *****, who needs zol***** ***** ***** *?

Biscuit, you're my 4X4 when the road is hilly,
You're the Clover pure butter on my mielie***** ***** ***** **.
One look from you and I can float to the sky
I feel like the Springboks***** ***** ***** *** have just scored a try.

At this rate Kulula's***** ***** ***** ***** popularity might die,
'Cos for me you're the only and best way to fly :)
And this, my snoekie***** ***** ***** ***** *, is only the start,
'Cos you've taken the cable car***** ***** ***** ***** ** straight to my heart!

Forget Patricia, Amor and Winnie the ex-wife***** ***** ***** ***** ***
'Cos, babe, you're the tomato sauce on the slap chips***** ***** ***** ***** **** of my life!

_____
* Not written by me. Thanks to my friend Pip for sending it on. Note: so many annotations, I'm breaking the stars up into constellations of five. Pretty, no?
** Lit. "I like you broken". But it sounds a lot less creepy in Saffer. It does not, for instance, mean "I like you in a broken format"; rather, it suggests that the poet likes his inamorata to the point of brokenness. His love for her (or hers for him, or hers for her, or his for him — in the interests of simplicity, feminism and bloodymindedness I propose to assume a female lesbian poet from now on) is so extreme, he — sorry, she — feels destroyed by the strength of her passion. But in a cute way.
*** Cape Town's most popular beach, being long, sandy and facing into the sunset, with very expensive real estate on the mountainside above. The water is notoriously icy, but the sunshine, we are to take it, is quality.
**** The University of the Witwatersrand and the Rand Afrikaans University, respectively. We are to take it that the poet is a Joburger. (There's no burger like a Joburger!)
***** Further proof that the poet is from Gauteng, since only Gautengorangs****** actually like Durban. A bunnychow, however, everybody likes. It consists of a hollowed out half-loaf of bread, filled with slap chips (see below) and, possibly, sauce. Mmmmm. Carb overload. KFC in South Africa was selling chicken bunnychows, last I saw. Bunnychows are not only sold in Durban but are perhaps associated with the Indian population there. I'm not sure.
***** * Pejorative term
***** ** Beading is a traditional Zulu craft; bracelets etc are often made with special messages encoded in the colour and placement of the beads. A bracelet might often be beaded with romantic messages as a gift and love letter in one.
***** *** A tooth-achingly sweet pastry: dough twisted into a braid and soaked in syrup. Fantastic.
***** **** Much used at that great South African tribal gathering, the braai.
***** ***** Hi-tech anti-hijacking systems. If you live in Gauteng, you will be hijacked or have your car stolen at some point. It's a given.
***** ***** * Mielie-pap: corn porridge. African staple diet.
***** ***** ** Popular chicken restaurant/takeaway. Styles itself Portuguese but is really more Mozambican. Peri-peri sauce. Great ads, chicken only okay. Has expanded to London and, I believe, Israel.
***** ***** *** Spicy sauce, usually eaten with pap.
***** ***** **** SA has a large Indian population and hence, lots of Indian food. Strangely, though, curry has not quite taken over the way it has in London.
***** ***** ***** Vitamin-rich "aid to concentration" targeted at students and other desperate sleep-deprived types. Pretty sure it's mostly caffeine.
***** ***** ***** * Marijuana.
***** ***** ***** ** Corn. See "pap".
***** ***** ***** *** The national rugby team, also known as amaBokoBoko. There are periodic mutterings about changing the name to something less strongly associated with the Bad Old Days of apartheid, but it'll never happen***** ***** ***** ****. Even if it does, they'll still be the Boks.
***** ***** ***** **** Even as I type this, I'm expecting a flood of comments telling me it already has.
***** ***** ***** ***** SA's budget airline.
***** ***** ***** ***** * Snoek is a Cape fish of remarkably strong flavour, often eaten smoked, which makes the taste and aroma even more pungent. I'm pretty sure our lesbian poetess isn't being crude, though, so put that disgusting thought right out of your head.
***** ***** ***** ***** ** That would be the cable car that takes you to the top of Table Mountain. A great ride, by the way, I recommend it.
***** ***** ***** ***** *** Ok, gonna need some help here, I've been away too long. Winnie is of course Winnie Mandela. Amor, I seem to recall, was a TV presenter — the Lotto I think? Patricia... who?
***** ***** ***** ***** **** French fries. "Slap" is an Afrikaans word, pronounced "slup", and connoting hot, greasy, salty goodness. Naturally, while good slap chips are one of the experiences that make life worthwhile, lots of thick All Gold tomato sauce is their essential, inseparable partner, so I think we can all agree that this is a truly romantic sentiment.

TWENTY-FOUR FOOTNOTES. I'll never beat that.
However, I would like to assure you all that I did not post this just for the footnoting opportunities. Really. I didn't. I swear.

The Scroobious Chef: How to make butternut soup

1. Plan to make pumpkin soup. Send out an invitation that prominently features the words "pumpkin soup". Borrow an enormous pot for the express purpose of boiling pumpkins in. Scour the interweb for pumpkin soup recipes. Decide the recipes all suck*, I'll just make it up. Plan recipe in head.

2. Discover that no one actually eats pumpkins, they just cut them up to stick candles in, and Halloween was last week, so requests for pumpkins at Tesco are met with impolite laughter.

3. Decide to make butternut soup instead. Look for bags of diced butternut, because I'm not crazy. Find two pathetically tiny packets of diced butternut and sweet potato. Resign myself to doing it the oldfashioned way. Grab four butternuts. Ponder what else needs to go in this soup. Buy sour cream and cashews. Go home.

4. Realise forgot to buy onions. Panic. Discover onions in fridge. Stop panicking.

5. Check clock. Realise I'm going to still be cooking when guests arrive, so I'd better change into party clothes first. Don cute suede miniskirt. Look for apron. Beloved has hidden apron**. Resign myself to being very, very careful not to mess up suede skirt. Get cooking.

6. Chuck some butter in enormous pot. Whizz some onions in wonderful magic food chopping device. Chuck onions in butter over low, low heat. Instruct onions to look after themselves while I deal with the butternut. Boil some water.

7. Check instructions on butternut label for helpful tips on chopping. Find that cooking instructions, for either oven or microwave cooking, start with "butternut must be chopped into 2cm cubes".

8. Spend half an hour fighting with one damn butternut. Realise this is not a workable method. Chuck that first butternut in the pot, add hot water and stock, turn on oven, chop remaining three butternuts in half. Chuck five butternut halves in oven, stick one in microwave (that being all that will fit in small microwave). Proceed as follows: nuke butternut for 5 minutes, remove, take next butternut half from oven and nuke, skin first butternut while burning fingers and swearing, dice and chuck in pot, remove, etc. Repeat until last two butternut halves are removed from oven and by this stage don't need any nuking. Congratulate self on cunning plan which has only taken, ooh, another half an hour?

9. While 8 is still in progress, greet guests who are arriving on time, the bastards***, and are looking quizzically at state of kitchen. Apologise for glaring absence of promised gluhwein or prepared snacks. Gratefully accept offers of help and ply them with alcohol, or rather, get them to ply each other with alcohol because I'm still busy with damn butternut.

10. Soup is looking disgusting. Worry that this might be a repeat of the Surprising Purple Cabbage Soup**** experience.

11. Whizz coriander seeds and cloves in magic device. Chuck into pot.

12. Chuck cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and black pepper into pot. Colour worse and worse.

13. Whizz cashews in magic device. Chuck into pot. Colour improves! Turn down heat.

14. Chuck two tubs of sour cream and a bunch of milk***** into pot. Colour now quite lovely.

15. Realise I forgot the damn bay leaves. Send horticulturally challenged guest out to get bay leaves, with strictly non-botanical instructions ("In the pot, one of three pots, on concrete strip, it doesn't have flowers in, it only has bay treelets****** and thyme"). Success! He brings bay leaves, saying proudly "this isn't thyme". Correct. Well done.

16. Run out of stuff to chuck in pot. Stir.

17. Soup starts to get into the Guy Fawkes spirit and explodes. It starts with friendly little "plops" but soon is attacking me with great viciousness. Seriously. I have big red spots on my hands today. Also, there is butternut soup on the ceiling. And — inevitably — on my cute suede miniskirt.

18. Try to remove soup from heat, but that requires getting close to it, and it's still attacking me. Finally activate brain, quell the Butternut Beast with lid on pot. Aha! Safety.

19. Make gluhwein. Drink gluhwein. Wait for soup's savage breast to be soothed.

20. Fearfully check soup. Looks soupy. Chuck in some parmesan. Serve.

21. Best soup EVER.

22. Try to persuade Beloved to pay for drycleaning my miniskirt. Fail dismally.


Feel free to adapt this recipe as you see fit. Using diced butternut, for instance, is highly to be recommended. But don't leave out the cashews. They're the special secret ingredient that makes all the difference.

_____
* For one thing, they were all weird "Thai curry pumpkin" or "pumpkin and mussel" type recipes, not basic pumpkin; for another, none of them specified how many servings they made, when what I most wanted to know was how much pumpkin I needed to feed a party; and finally, none of them had any useful information on how to actually prepare the pumpkin. They all started with "500g of diced pumpkin" or — my personal favourite — "15oz can of pumpkin". A can of pumpkin? While I appreciate that this is a fabulous idea, I've never in my life seen such a thing. Not the most useful, then.
** Beloved of course denies doing any such thing, but I present to you two pieces of incontrovertible evidence. One: apron used to live on back of kitchen door. It's not there now. Two: Beloved has habit of finding new homes for things that he does not, himself, use very often, on grounds that they'd be more out of the way somewhere else. He then forgets where he put them or, indeed, that such a thing ever existed. "What apron?" indeed.
*** This is the problem with inviting South Africans and Germans. English guests are always properly late (at least two hours). But the forruners, we're a punctual lot. (That whole "Africa time" thing? Is a total lie.)
**** Tasted great, looked bizarre. Everyone refused to eat it. It turned navy blue when kept in the fridge, then reverted to purple on reheating. Fascinating stuff.
***** Technical term.
****** Another technical term.

Inevitable, really

We're throwing a small bonfire party tonight. The weather forecast? 13 degrees, but clear skies. The sky up until five minutes ago? Blue as the blessed virgin's mantle. The sky now? DOOM.

I do hope it gets over itself quickly. And preferably a mile or so south of here. (Or anywhere, really, but the wind seems to be northerly.) I was really looking forward to those toasted marshmallows.

Update: It did get over itself. We had a wonderful clear, cold night. Good party. I like parties. Lots of lovely people and lovely food and drink and fire. Okay, there isn't always fire, but there was this time. Good party. (According to the only criterion that counts: did I have a good time? Yes. Ergo, good party.)

Just for Hen

In the interests of restoring gender equality, a totally gratuitous shot of barechested firemen. No big hoses, alas.