Pickled Fish: a South African Tradition

Pickled Fish - a South African traditional recipe

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

Regional traditions

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

Making pickled fish

My original pickled fish recipes

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

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

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

“My” recipe is “born”

Pickled fish starter: Christmas 2021

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

An lockdown-related aside

Portioning pickled fish for the market

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

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

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

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

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

Back into the pickle

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

Flavour roots

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

Advance planning and long life

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

Market sales

The 2022 batch of fish ready to pickle

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

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

Pickled Fish

A traditional South African recipe

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

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

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

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

Photo: Selma

Post script

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Sandwich Memories

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

Fionas Favourite open sandwiches
Open sandwiches – 2014

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

First memorable sandwich

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

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

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

Boarding School

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

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

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

More white bread

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

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

Back seat

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

Twenty years of Lunch (mostly) sandwiches

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

Favourite unconventional sandwiches

Sandwiches cover a multitude of sins.

Fat cake

curry fat cake
Curried Vetkoek

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

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

Flatbreads, buns and wraps

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

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

Flat, or naan bread is a frequent menu item.

Then there are my tortilla trials.

Last but not least, the buns.

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

Musings about memories

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

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

Photo: Selma

Post script

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

Of licenses, liars and scrambled eggs

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

“Umm….ye-e-s…”

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

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

Languages and learning languages

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

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

The examination

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

Burble, mumble…um… Good morning!

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

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

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

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

“O!

“Sê my, wat van motorbestuur?”

Oh, good, I could answer this!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons

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

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

Ukranian diplomat poet

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

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

“How would you like your eggs?”

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

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

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

“How do you make them?”

Fiona’s Mum’s creamy scrambled eggs

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

Second:  making scrambled eggs is not a quick exercise.

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

Ingredients

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

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

Breakfast stacks

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

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

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

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


Last word

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

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

Photo: Selma

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

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

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

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

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

 

Unicorns, bunnies and fishes: a reality check

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

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

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

Rabbit holes and dead ends

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

Nothing.

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

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

The writing was on the wall

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

Plan B

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

If you can’t beat them, join them

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

Huh?

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

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

Remote jobs

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

What I learned

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

I am a creative

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

Guess what?

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

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

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

Playing to one’s strengths

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

What, on earth is she on about?

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

I know that because –

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

Unicorns do not exist

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

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

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

Why don’t I want to be an expert?

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

Sunday supper preparation. Photo: Selma

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

More Sunday supper prep. Photo: Selma

prepare any of those things.  If that.

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

 

Accepting my fishy, rabbit status

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

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

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

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

That is my reality.  Check.

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

Photo: Selma

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

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

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

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

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

 

Is it a scone? Is it a biscuit?

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

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

Learning curve

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

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

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

You know what Thought did?

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

 …planted a feather and thought a hen would grow…

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

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

Then there are words

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

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

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

The chosen one

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

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

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

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

Buttery Sourdough Oven Scones

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moral to the story?

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

I promise I’ll share those recipes next.

The learning and the journey continues.

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

Photo: Selma

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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.

 

A saint, lavatories and life

“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

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

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

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.