Oppikoppi: Sings to the senses

When you go to Oppikoppi you must leave your anxiety at the gate.

There is no space for it inside.

There are just 20 000 other people looking to dance and jump and gurgle with laughter.

We all experienced Oppikoppi in different ways

Body

My knuckles are cracked, skin still dry. My hands held another’s. Weaving in and out.

Skin a sun-shade darker. Dust in every crevice. Black boogas.

My knees shook and they shook; and my feet throbbed from adventures in tommy tackies. Boots, next time.

My arms waved, in praise, and in happy hellos, and goodbyes.

My mouth screamed and sung along. It giggled and laughed.

I licked my lips over and over, dry air. Kiss, kiss.

 Ears

As we walked up and down our home stretch, Beton Boer road, there was a constant cloud of dust above us, punctuated by bursts of conversation. About shows, about beer, about philosophy, about race and about South Africa.

But we came for the music and we flocked to see Die Heuwels Fantasties on Friday night, as did many who reveled in the electric air “It gave me goosebumps” someone said. Not to mention 340ml, Bombay Show Pig, Kongos, Aking, and Jeremy Loops who all blew my skirt up. 

Lonehill Estate was my surprise band highlight. Donning green streaks and pink goggles the lead singer was cheeky and vivacious, drawing the crowd in with his antics and confidence on a hot day amongst the rocks. 

Shadowclub and Beast (and many other grand bands) also graced the stages, although I confess I was at that time holed up in my tent. I hear they were fantastic.

French band Babylon Circus were a feast, but Eagles of death metal

Eet en onthou: Woordfees 2012

Ek eet, en ek onthou. My herinneringe is gevleg met maaltye, met proe sensasies en eet rituele. Verlede kwartaal vanaf die 9de na die 11de Maart, is ek en vyf klasmaats, deur die Nederlandse Taalunie na Stellenbosch toe gestuur om die Woordfees, en onder andere die Neerlandistiekdag by te woon. Heel gaaf, dankie.

Ek proe die naweek nog.

Die nederige standbeeld wat ons na La Motte verwelkom het

Die Greyhound bus was, voorspelbaar, twee ure laat. Op ons tasse het ons in die parkeerterrein gesit en uiteindelik, verveeld, ons lekkers uitgedeel. Wine gums en saggeel dinosouruse bedek my tande met ’n laag soetgoed. My goedkoop pastel gekleurde lekkers was fassinerend op die rak, maar in die mond was hulle hard, en skreeu- soet. Ons probeer die smaak uit ons monde kry met ’n vodka – suurlemoen – ment mengsel. Die gevolg is ’n gegiggelery en ’n goeie begin.

Ek het nog nooit lang afstand bus gery nie. En as ek weer daaraan dink, weet ek wat ek sal onthou. Die reuk van my mede passasier se toebroodjies, toe sy 3 uur in die oggend haar dosie se deksel oop kliek en die gis reuk van brood laat ontsnap.

Met honger mage het ons op Stellenbosch aangekom. Voordat ons selfs kon stort het ’n vriendin ons opgelaai en La Motte toe geneem waar ons eerder geld aan wynproe wou spandeer as ontbyt.

Road tripping: The Garden Route

Storm's River  is a magical place. The background of dark trees, craggy rocks, course sand, and the wild sea make me feel sort of crazy and content simultaneously. We arrived just before sunset, and settled into our little forest cabin. Dammit; I like forest cabins. Then off to the beach for a look around. I reached happily back into memories of my childhood holidays there. Everything seemed to have shrunk, now that my lens was no longer that of a twelve year old's. 

Dinner at the restaurant surpassed all expectations (previous encounters had been tough, bland and poorly served). I had blackened sole,  the flesh melting tenderly in the mouth before giving way to a shock of well- selected spices.

The End of the Year

I love the end of the year, I really do.

It’s bursting with promises.

It unties the twisty knots that built up through the year.

It’s beach time. Families hanging out. Talking about 2011. And 2012. Stories and pipedreams.

It’s being silly with brothers and sisters.

Ching chong cha.

Road trippin’.

It’s ice cream and presents and listening to all the music on your iPod you’ve been neglecting. It’s finding new favourites.

It’s many cappuccinos and remembering how to be a tourist in your own country.

It’s moaning about the weather that’s never compatible with your plans.

Sunblock. 

It’s saying goodbye to sweet Grahamstown and its criss-cross networks of friends and people buzzing in and out from my home to the peripheries of this bubble.

It’s me getting the chance to go to Hermanus and private chef and play, play, play

The Wimbledon Experience

Oh I know its such a tourist-y bore. But its a delicious cliche.

The journey

The Thames River at Mortlake

I like the overland journey from Mortlake to Wimbledon.

The train tracks rumble so loudly.

We whoosh past allotment gardens

Carrot tops.

Roses- white and pink.

An artichoke bush!

And then, in the beat of an eyelid- a sprawling river with houseboats as colourful as flags; and a woman eating her toast on the river.

There is:

Graffiti

Peeking into people’s houses

Cluttered offices

Mary’s Terrace

“This is Twickenham”

“This is Strawberry Hill”

This is another place, and these are more people.

Travelling makes me feel tiny.

The Golden Ticket

I meet a tennis-groupie couple on the train, they were so sweet. They knew absolutely every detail about Wimbledon and tennis. They showed me how to get there from the station via the bus. It started to rain. We laughed at that misfortune and they wished me well in my ticket hunt.

The closer I got to gate 1 the more rain fell from the sky, and the more useless my mission seemed to be. As I neared the gate I was approached my a tall man in a beautiful brown leather jacket. He asked if I was looking to buy a ticket. Wary of touts that I'd heard of and being ripped off, I asked him to show me. £65 for court one. I was suspicious. But the ticket looked real and he looked sincere. This will only happen once in my life, I thought. So I followed him to the gate and paid him my due.

Pimms, Missing Links, and Henman Hill

Play, of course, was suspended.

The straight and the narrow- A welcome to England

The British are annoyingly organised. You can’t pick your nose without being caught on camera. You wouldn’t dare drive an old jalopy on the highway; and neither would you dare leave your car anywhere without first scrutinising the parking notices. I learnt this the hard way after I received a £25 fine on my first day in Newbury for parking in an area that I didn’t know was “pay and display”.

This country seems to me a land of more straight than narrow. A place of rigid white lines and tall, trimmed hedges; square little houses and bigger square mansions, all with their uniform chimney pots and their uniform people.

Of course, I judge the English too harshly. I do so because I am used to country where one will find litter in the streets. Where a burst of sobbing can save you from a traffic fine and the majority of square houses you find are in the townships where the poor live piled atop one another in a sea of reflective sink roofs and dusty roads. We are not as organised as the British. We have bendable rules and bribable officers.

And so, the British have wild things too- and these are the things that I like.  I saw a timid deer today when I went for a run. I saw two stark black sheep in a cloud of bleating white.  I got stabbed in the shin by an unruly bramble bush. But the cherry on top of my ice cream Sundae happened in Waitrose. The supermarket where its so damn cold and sterile you feel as if you’d welcome a broken refrigerator or a speck on the floor.

In my fresh baguette I found an embedded piece of white cloth, baked into the crust. I was so amused to find this evidence of human error that could not be avoided by law and rule that I didn’t even consider reporting it, or suing dear Waitrose.

So that was my first day in England. Also, we had a dinner party of five guests and Berkshire cook M and I tackled it together.

We had Ottolenghi’s delicious rice flour pancakes with veg for starters, you can find the recipe here .Its one everyone should have in their repertoire and it's great for all those gluten- allergies out there. This was followed by Elizabeth David’s pork cooked in milk, which was very tasty… and the list of the last three days’ cooking goes on. It’s been lovely to get at summer ingredients, and ones hard to find back home:

Rhubarb. Palm sugar. Broad beans. Fresh globe artichokes. Shallots. Plump raspberries, and salmon for tickets.  

And I wish, I wish, I could write you up the recipes I’ve been doing, with pictures alongside. But smarty pants didn’t pack her camera cable (a general note to all: It is advisable to get more than 30 minutes sleep the night before you fly) and thus I can’t upload photos and post them. It sort of kills my blogging mojo, not having the photo part. But I know George I will help me tomorrow, so I’ll see you soon- with more of the straight and narrow.  

Grahamstown Winter Minestrone

Winter is truly here, and it's being particularly rude to us this year. The mornings bite like startling bullets and bare feet are no more to be seen. My garden is giving up, the trees listlessly shedding their leaves. We students are studying for the ominous exams. Well, we are trying to study. To this end our bodies crave carbohydrates, throat- scorching tomato sauces and endless cups of tea and coffee for us to wrap our chilly fingers around before we commence with clutching our pens and pencils. It is time for hot water bottles and wrapping up in scarves. It’s a time of stress and sniffles- chewing fingertips, nails and our dry bottom lips. It is time for  minestrone.

Thankfully, minestrone is characterised by the varying list of ingredients, which differ from region to region. The very specific region of my fridge resulted in this simple recipe- Use it as a base from which to make your own Italian- inspired bowl of contentment.

Feeds four

• 1 onion, finely chopped
• 1 clove garlic, crushed
• 2 tablespoons olive oil (or normal oil)
• 4 large carrots, peeled and roughly cut into 0,5cm cubes
• 4 courgettes (zucchinis, baby marrows, as you will), cubed
• 2 tins whole, peeled tomato
• 200ml homemade beef stock (I recommend this recipe - please don’t be tempted to use powder- it’ll kill it. Rather use water if you don’t have stock)
• Dash of good red wine
• 1 tin red kidney beans
• Handful fresh oregano (or basil, or dried if your garden is dying, too)
• About 2 cups cooked, fresh linguini (I happened to have made pasta and chilli-herb tomato sauce the night before, and thus had left over fresh pasta. Otherwise put some fresh pasta in earlier to cook with the soup; and if you can’t get fresh at Pick n Pay then I recommend using noodles or macaroni)
• 1 spring onion, sliced
• Handful cherry tomatoes, quartered
• Salt, pepper, and sugar

1. Sauté the onion and garlic in the hot oil until golden. Add the carrots and sauté until the carrots are starting to soften; you can leave the heat on quite high to get some nice colour on them.
2. Add the tomato, red wine and beef stock. Add a teaspoon each of sugar and salt. Cook for 15 minutes. Add the beans and simmer 5 minutes.
3. At the last minute, add the oregano, and pasta. (If you’re using dried or raw fresh pasta, add it earlier and simmer until softened, remembering that you’ll need to add extra water)
4. Adjust seasoning and serve with sliced spring onion and fresh tomato. We spread some fresh basil pesto on rye bread and dipped it in. Warmth from the inside out.

Noted: I got my spring onion from Common Ground’s communal garden… How rewarding to rinse off the earthy clumps and slice up our own produce. 

House of Gimp

Living in digs on a low budget comes with its challenges. The biggest issue is one of household appliances. All four girls bought their own kettle to the party, and there was one resident when we arrived. The big question is: Which one to use? Nemo proposed a kettle race.We’ll line them all up (in separate rooms so as not to trip the power) then:  ready, steady go.

Since then we have decided on hosting an Appliance Olympics.

Fish: “My kettle will definitely lose, it doesn’t switch itself off.”

Nemo: “Yeah but it will cross the line ahead of the all- burning toaster”

Whale: “But wait! The gimpy vacuum cleaner might be a strong contender.”

Squid: (me) “And in the left corner we have the retarded oven with only one rack and no concept of constant temperature.”

Whale: “Limping in last is the fridge.”

Squid: (groans) “The non- sealing fridge.”

Nemo: “The fridge rounds the corner…it’s sweating, no wait- it’s actually leaking.”

Squid: “Actually, we need to have a separate paraplegic Olympics for the oven and the fridge. Also the telkom line that got cut off, with the double handicap of a hazardous cross-passage extension cord…”

Fish( interruping): “What about my bleeding bed?”

Wait. Bleeding bed?

Well: “The mattress is red. So it got wet, I think I drooled on it; and it made a red puddle on the floor.”

Digg this

And… she’s back. Things have changed.

Gone are the joys of living in a seaside town, of fresh fish, Woolworths food stores, and drinking cappucinos in between shopping missions. Gone is Mrs X’s purse; which granted me the opportunity to flit from store to store to store like Robert Mugabe’s wife (just buying veggies- not diamonds.)

Gone is my kitchen with a million baking trays, a functional oven, and the stove that boiled water in two minutes.  Gone is the German electric slicer, three fridges and two freezers that I used to fill to the brim.

Most sadly, I am removed from the three people who used to wash my dishes as fast as I could fill the sink.

It’s time to start varsity again and I am back in Grahamstown. Lectures start tomorrow (gnnnnn gnnn gnashing teeth).

I’ve moved myself into our house. We call student communes diggs, and mine is an old wooden-floored, high- ceilinged relic that I share with three other girls. Allow me to introduce Fish, Whale and Nemo: Tenants of The Respectable House.

We arrived to find mould covered walls, and boxes of useless junk left by the last tenants who were clearly not concerned with hygiene. It’s been a deep- scrubbing, box- heaving week that sucked up the last days of vacation in a blur of happy reunions and new discoveries.

The weather has lived up to Grahamstown expectations; it’s been murky, a little rainy and generally mad hot. Nemo and I were wilting so we made some iced tea. (i. e. heaven)

Refreshing Iced Tea

Wakka wakka. Cook on holiday

So, Mrs X normally likes to extend her stay in Hermanus to escape the grossly cold weather in th UK.

For a period last week the weather on our fair coast became ghastly. Howling winds, rain, the works. Consequently she cut her visit short prematurely. Of course I'm sad because well, I love my job and still had loads of recipes I wanted to try. But people always leave and thats ok. I just pack my bags and go squat with friends and family in Cape Town (squat in the informal settling sense of the word).

I made cupcakes and veg for my Aunts 60th Birthday. I love these family affairs. We all bring salad and men braai and wine flows, and tears too, (if its something as special as a 60th where the best stories get told).

Yes, for those who live in Grahamstown, these bad boys will soon be on sale from Black Pepper Plum catering. 

I've helped to move my little sis into her flat, and dropped her off at things like the UCT freshers braai.  Oh my word it's fun to be a student. But you don't care what I've been doing. What, you may ask, has she been eating?

Memorable meals include last night's wrap. My friend A reckons he has solved the admin of buying fresh chicken, he just marinades it out the freezer and then slow cooks them- semi- defrosted breasts. Surprisingly yum. Have decided that coriander is pivotal to wraps; and Woolworths red pepper pesto also does it's bit in perking things up. 

Dinner at the Ocean Basket in town ( the original one where the test kitchen is) was disappointing. The food took more than an hour to get to the table and the calamari wasn't that sha-na-na. In their defence I was down with some serious sinusitis at this point (sorry, I know; a word that shouldn't appear on a food blog but hey that's how it goes). Sometimes one has to taste with your eyes and pile on the fresh chilli in an attempt to coax your tastebuds into function by burning them into oblivion. 

I went for lunch in Camp's Bay at The Pepper Club. Very average food but lovely wine and a lovely view. I had some Sinful Ice- cream for dessert however and that made my day. Honeycomb ice- cream certainly does like to be studded with chunks of dark chocolate. The passion fruit sorbet, I reckon, cured my sore throat and gave me back my voice which was disappearing into a haggard cough at that stage. It makes sense doesn't it? You ice your hamstrings when they hurt, why not ice that throat when it's itchy and sore and sick?

If you're worried that that the back of Mrs X means no more foodie posts: never fear. The cook is just on holiday. I'll be stopping off in Herms on the way to Grahamstown, where from I shall continue to post news of my cookings. 

In the meantime I'm just absorbing some sunshine and enjoying the view.

Grappies en Grapes

A note to English readers: This post is about two days I spent at a grape- farm in the Hexriver with my brother and friends. I intended to translate pieces so that you could understand. And then. Google Chrome offered to translate the page into English for the reader. I strongly recommend that you allow this option and then read and roll with laughter. Suffice to say that Google Chrome is not strictly bilingual. Anyway, the pictures say it all. 

Dis vyf uur namiddag en ek skarrel om op die pad te kom. Ek het ʼn kans gekry om van Hermanus af te ontsnap vir twee dae en ek vat koers na De Doorns in die Hex Rivier. Dit is die plek waar dit lyk asof reuse lank terug die prag- berge skeef geklap het.

Market Pickings

On Saturday mornings I try to avoid the glare of  supermarkets and head off to the HermanusPietersfontein Food and Wine Market.

My first stop is always the cheese man. He’s a big fellow, with a whiskery face and a large apron with a towel tucked in it. He stands behind a large table, sagging under the weight of his hard parmesans, oozing camemberts, ripe blue cheeses and shiny, light goudas. There are flies flitting about, but he ignores them, leaving them for the obliging customers to bat at.

It’s not the cheese that draws me to the table. It’s the cheese man. You ask for a taste of this and that, and he slivers off pieces and poffers the large knife blade in your direction. For every bite that you take, he pops a bit into his own mouth, as if to remind himself for the hundredth time this morning what his pecorino tastes like. His method of charging is also interesting. The prices for all the meats and cheeses are chalked up behind him, but he pops each slab onto his scale, allows a second or two for thought then announces a random (I assume), rounded off figure. We don’t complain.

Sunday night dinners back home are always light- sandwhiches and maybe some left overs. Mrs X and Mrs Y went out for dinner so I treated  C and myself to a market- tribute cheeseboard. The balls on the left are Greek Yoghurt Cheese balls ( that are delish! with olives) , the ham is the Cheeseman's parma, sliced as thin as I could dream of and perfect on the palate with his parmigianno and sharp pecorino. Since I find bocconchini (from Woolworths) quite dreary and disappointing, I marinade it in the best balsamic and olive oil, and chiffonaded basil from the garden. Biltong belongs on cheeseboards in South Africa, I think, and tomaraisins are my special ingredient find of the year, available for a limited time at Woolworths.

The next stall along sells artisan chocolates: handmade on a small scale they focus on drawing out the flavours of different beans from the America’s, Africa and Madagascar. I always appreciate stalls that have loads of tasters, and the DV chocolatiers are generous. As I approach the stall, the owner leaves things up to his two young sons to manage. They cannot be older than twelve at most, but they take their job seriously, explaining earnestly how their microbatch, pure chocolate can make you age slower, and make exercising easier.  I buy two slabs, at a reasonable R25 each. They are truly delicious- snappy and bursting with flavour. The perfect after- dinner treat. See their list of nationwide stockists at http://www.dvchocolate.com/

Hermanus is a small town. The lady who runs the Greek food stall is married to the man who comes to fix our intercom and lights. She’s lovely and her home- made Greek yoghurt is heaven in a cup with fruit and granola. I walk away laden with yoghurt, greek cheese, olives, feta and sun- dried tomatoes.

Next up is the grey- haired oyster-and- bread man. The oysters are expensive- but they are huge, with gorgeous silky molluscs inside, and so fresh that you can see the little sea shell animals living on the outside still breathing in and out. The queue is long; he apologises sweetly to everyone that has to wait as he skilfully shucks his luxurious goods.   

I bought a healthy brown loaf from The Incredible Fish Stall (Which also sells bread and traditional pumpkin fritters that are all sold out by 10 30). I sliced it into 1 cm wedges, and stuffed it with the Cheeseman's Pecorino, fresh basil and generous helpings of butter for a new take on supermarket garlic loaves. I  wrapped it in tin foil and popped it on the braai while I cooked Rick Stein's amazing Cambodian marinated steak and some wors. Lovely.

The Swiss lady is my best. She sells vegetables, home- grown and delicious. ‘Yez, yez,’ she mutters. ‘Zis one is five rands, zis one is ten rands.’ I have big love for anyone who sells bags of soft- leafed basil, and potatoes with earth still clinging on to them.

Crispy Potato Wedges

• 4- 5 large potatoes, scrubbed and cut lengthwise into wedges
• 40ml cake flour, seasoned well with salt and pepper
• 30ml canola oil
• All Gold tomato sauce, to serve, (because I can't fit 36 tomatoes in one bottle and they can.)

1. Heat the oven up to 180C.
2. Pour the oil into the bottom of a deep roasting dish. 
3. Dust the wedges in the season flour and shake off the excess. Place the them, skin side down, in the roasting tray and pop into the oven. 
4. After ten minutes, remove from oven and shake around to coat in the oil. Place them all skin side down again and return to oven for another 30- 40 minutes until crisp. 
5. Serve immediately. 

The market also holds a terrific spice and preserve shop, a jaffle and pancake stall and a collection of other baked goods. There is also a coffee stall that, by some ingenuity, produces fresh filter coffee in Styrofoam cups. The tables in the square courtyard are all packed, as families try to inch all the benches into shady spots under the umbrellas. I perch on the wall next to the fountain. I love how they place floating ducks, boats and toys in the water for the children’s amusement. A gorgeous little boy comes to befriend me (shame, he was probably thinking, who is this lady who sits by herself?) He says ‘ice- cream, ice- cream’ and pokes at my yoghurt. Then he starts drinking my coffee, spilling the remainder of my cup into the water as he bangs it down. He ends up finishing my yoghurt by licking it out with his finger, and batting his eyelashes at me. More grown- ups should do this, I think.

As I leave I hesitate at the HermanusPietersfontein wine stall. I glance at my watch; it’s not eleven o’ clock yet, so can I start drinking?  I shake my head at this silly thought, and ask for a glass. I enjoy the nr 7- a white blend, and the red Arnoldus, but it’s a bit pricey. And then I try the limited edition sweet wine, on ice. It’s soo refreshing. Called ‘Bloudruk’, this light, non- syrupy sweet(ish) wine made of viognier by junior winemaker Kim McFarlane really tickled my fancy. I bore it home and dared to offer it to Mr Y, a wine connoisseur as a dessert treat. 

Niles came into the kitchen, looking grim. “They want to talk to you chef”. Imagining that I was about to be disgraced by my wine choice (I never get to pick the wines on other days) I was delighted to hear Mr Y in raptures about it.

The HPF food and Wine market is a classy and fun venture which I heartily approve of (and not just because  I get to share my yoghurt with strange men and start drinking at ten)