Flukes Fantasticlé

The great thing about freelancing is the freedom. My husband and I are both work from home bods, so when the notion of a spot of lunch seizes us, the world really is our clam shell.

Today, we’d had enough of our homely toasted sandwich and salad regime and headed across the vlei to Flukes at the Southern Right Hotel. For us, having Flukes down the road, is like having an extra dining room, with a great view. We like it so much that we moved to the area after a particularly good Sunday lunch and then got married there a few months later. Its charm is its inviting, laid back atmosphere coupled with incredible food. There’s no fancy stuff with no stuffing here.

We’ve worked our way committedly through the menu over the last few months, enjoying the super winter specials. From hale and hearty burgers, t-bone steaks and leather feather and fin combos to delicately prepared game fish and calamari steaks, Flukes delivers feel-good on a plate.

The wine list is diverse and reasonable, with a range of very drinkable wines by the glass including Excelsior and Porcupine Ridge varieties. If you want to bring your own, corkage is a steal at R15 a bottle.

The newly converted upstairs dining room adds an extra dash of romance to an establishment popping with old fashioned character and quirky charm. The hotel, originally a private residence built in 1904 and later the Glencairn Hotel, is a grand old building. The collection of Jurgen Schadeberg photographs of 1950s music icons including Miriam Makeba and Hugh Masekela will make a visual feast of your trip upstairs and the whales suspended in the main dining room and Walter Oltman’s striking metallic peacock in the hotel reception take wire art to new levels.

If art’s not your scene, the big screen sport on the verandah or at the Blowhole pub might impress. Watching rugby or cricket when you have the option of glancing over at the waves and kite surfers on Glencairn beach, is the only civilized way to enjoy a game.

There’s nothing showy or fancy about Flukes and the Southern Right and the potted plants on the veranda look a little weary, but the place has soul and a generous spirit.

Look out for the October 2007 Set Menu special, it promises to blow your taste buds to Smitswinkel. I typed it out from the flyer I nicked at lunch for the good of humanity. I’ll be back.

October 2007 Set Menu – 2 course @R95 and 3 course @ R120

Starters

Mussel and Coriander Chowder
With prawn crackers and chilli mascarpone

Or Crespolini
Italian pancakes filled with spinach, chicken livers and 2 different cheeses

Or Caesar Salad
A combination of cos lettuce, crispy bacon rashers, garlic croutons, parmesan shavings, anchovy filets and soft poached egg

Main Course

Lamb Tagine
(A Moroccan specialty dish, full of flavour) Slow cooked, with aromatic herbs and spices, served with minted couscous and sweet potato shavings

Or Fillet of beef & grilled prawns
Topped with béarnaise sauce, with braised vegetables & crushed baby potatoes

Or Calamari steak
Filled with crab, shrimp, line fish and cheese, crumbed and deep fried.

Or Springbok shank
Marinated in red wine and herbs, served with garlic mash, seasonal steamed vegetables and candied pearl onions

Desserts

Pavlova - with fresh berries & cream

Or Tiramisu – Coffee flavoured, spiked with fortified wine and dusted with chocolate.

Call 021 782 0314 to enquire

Photographs: Klein Karoo

Photographs: Images of Igoda

Jemima's -Touched by an angel

Jemima is rumoured to be a guardian angel of love, good taste and the finest cuisine who can be sensed at sunset by those open to experiencing a little magic. By the time we arrive at Jemia’s restaurant in Oudtshoorn’s Baron van Reede St, the sun had long set, but I can sense the restaurant’s namesake is every detail of the place.

Giant succulents, their spikey leaves topped with silver baubles, usher us towards the reception area. A tree rises idly through the roof of a tented outside area filled with heaters and people enjoying their dinner. It’s only 7pm, but the many inside rooms are also full. People seem to eat early in the Klein Karoo.

I feel like I’m being welcomed into the home of a favourite aunt whose youthful adventures have left a twinkle in her eye and her treasures on the walls. Oversized candelabra perch on polished wooden dressers and black and white portraits of Tannie Sannie and Oom Willem bulge out of oval frames next to colourful oils. My artist husband won’t complain that I’ve dragged him to a foodie heaven that assaults the eyes. He’s purring happily and pouring over the wine list. Dr Don also looks impressed, especially when our waiter deposits a plate of fig and Parma ham canapés compliments of the chef.

We order a bottle of Springfield Special Cuvee Sauvignon Blanc and its figgy, green pepper minerality has us composing short lyric verses to the genius of Springfield winemaking. Our attention turns to the menu as we enjoy the fresh sourdough bread with butter and peppercorn cheese mousse.

Paprika potato skins and Tsitsikamma Mozerella fritters compete with fresh fish, ostrich, venison and beef fillet for our affection. Eventually we order West Coast Mussels in a green curried sauce with julienne vegetables and garlic terracotta pot bread to start. The vegetables are the perfect excuse to ladle up all the sauce left over when bread is finished. This is sauce you don’t want to send back to the kitchen.

Grilled sole in saffron cream sauce follows with potato parmesan gratin. Besides a lack of a few greens, which could be acquired with a side order, the mains are perfect. I sample the lamb shank stew and duck confit in cranberry sauce and the meat drops off the bone in wanton abandonment to my tastebuds.

Having worked my way steadily through my own meal and that of my husband and best friend, I can’t accomodate another morsel. The others press on though, reclaiming the lost portions of their meals by enjoying home made peach and apricot ice-cream and Irish coffee. I find the Irish coffee topped with milk froth a bit disappointing, but the ice cream is everything homemade ice cream should be.

Before we depart, Dr Don and I head to the ladies room, a ritual born as much out of décor curiosity as anything else. We’re impressed. Handmade teddy bears huddle on a wooden bench and antique nick nacks have us loitering admiringly and using way too much Charlotte Rhys hand soap.

Back at the table, chocolate coconut truffles bid us a fond farewell from the angel who has enchanted us with her country hospitality and magical food.

A rather nice Gift

I once rode a camel. I made my younger, braver sister sit in front and when our ride rose onto his knees and then jerkily straightened, I whooped in terror. Unfortunately, I was not among strangers in the middle of a dessert, where whooping might be respectfully interpreted as a culturally appropriate response among my kind. I was at the Grahamstown festival, surrounded by artsy types who could smell terror when they heard a whoop.

That unfortunate whoop and a scolding by a friend who pointed out the potential cruelty of camel joyriding, has left me somewhat apprehensive of these large animals. Of course, whatever intimidates you, invariably fascinates as well, so one day driving towards Kommetjie beach I had to stop and investigate when I saw three camels lying in the grass on the side of the road. They were all togged out in saddles and were chewing away on whatever it is camels chew on. This was all rather fortunate, because although I stopped to ogle camels, I discovered the Imhoff farm stall, set back across a stretch of lawn. When I arrived at the beach, my friends were impressed by my haul of homemade pineapple beer and crunchies.

For years now, I’ve stopped off at the farm stall to stock up on pineapple or ginger beer when I pass by, but a few days ago I discovered that there is a whole lot more to Imhoff’s farm than fruit beer.

If, instead of going into the farm stall, you walk around it on the right, you pass into a courtyard where shops nestle among the old farm buidlings. A décor shop, a cheesery and a surf shop vie for attention with a craft store where products are made from recycled goods and a touch farm. The farm stall has an outside dining area and the old farmhouse has been converted into The Gift restaurant.

It was this dining establishment that I had overlooked for so long, that had me scurrying past camels to get to my breakfast last Sunday morning. The low chandelier, red walls hung with gilt framed portraits and the smokiness of last nights fire had me smiling pleasantly as the waitress showed us to our table outside. If I’d been impressed by the gracious, but relaxed ambiance of the interior, I was blown away by the view when we reached the veranda.

Before us stretched the wetlands of Imhoff’s Gift and Noordhoek and in the distance the waves rose slowly and crashed onto Long beach. Chapman’s Peak framed a partial view of Hout Bay and suddenly I was very hungry. We ordered coffee and read through the menu’s list of rather wholesome breakfasts. I settled for scrambled egg and jumbo toast which was a deeply satisfying thick slab of homemade buttermilk toast smothered in golden scramble. Pat’s farmhouse breakfast also went down a treat and we both ordered a second cup of coffee – a practice reserved only for places where the coffee is comparable to that made at home on the stove with our silver coffee pot.

The lunch and dinner menus had me trying to schedule in a second visit as soon as possible and featured a good range of interesting steaks, stews, seafood, salads and pizza’s, which are a specialty.

I have a feeling that this charming spot with its jaw-dropping views is going to become one of my favourite local haunts.

The Gift restaurant is at the Imhoff Farm Village on Kommetjie Road. 021 783 4545

Wine and Restaurant: Manolo salutes Hamilton Russell

I’m very grateful that Anthony Hamilton Russell hasn’t taught his daughters to share. “I have four daughters and I can’t leave them to fight over one small farm,” he explains as he introduces wines from his various ventures of Hamilton Russell Vineyards, Ashbourne and Southern Right at a gourmet evening at Manolo restaurant in Kloof St.

Hamilton Russell Pinot Noir and Chardonnay have long been objects of desire on the local and international wine scene, with Top US gourmet magazine, Saveur, calling Hamilton Russell Vineyards the most Burgundian Winery outside Burgundy. It’s the Southern Right Sauvignon Blanc however that’s sending me into guavary raptures as we sit down to Amuse Bouche of Prawn with guava crumble and lime cordial.

The tasty morsels of prawn and lime froth soon disappear, but the wine lingers. A starter of scallops, hazelnuts and pear with beurre noisette and citrus follows and this time it’s the Hamilton Russell Vineyards Chardonnay that holds her hand out to be kissed by our appreciative lips. Dr Donne, my intrepid dining companion and self-confessed fool for Chardonnay, is positively euphoric. It’s the best she’s ever tasted. She smiles coyly as she lists past favourites. I have to agree, this wine inspires devotion.

As we move onto mains of mushroom crusted lamb terrine with dashi flavoured potato, simejii and bacon wafers with Szechuan red wine jus, I have to resist caressing the bottle of Hamilton Russell Vineyards Pinot Noir presented by our waiter. Perfumed, with uncompromising mineral intensity and focused fruit, this Pinot Noir is a rare pleasure. I start to feverishly try and phantom how to increase my disposable income.

While pondering how I might fare as a contortionist in a traveling circus, I am surprised by dessert. Chocolate ganache, berry and pinotage ice-cream, curry leaf marshmallow and a banana wafer flutter their eyelids at me and they don’t have to ask twice. Dr Donne is not impressed with the marshmallow, but I find it delightful. Richard Carstens is such a clever man to dream up these wonderful concoctions.

Dessert ushers in a duo of Pinotages: the Southern Right Pinotage 2006 and Ashbourne Pinotage 2004. John Platter gave both these wines four and a half stars. As I contemplate their respective subtlety and virtue, I think I lean towards favouring the fresh heady fruitiness of the Southern Right. The structure and integration of the Ashbourne scolds me for my flighty ways in preferring the younger wine.

I happily resolve to make a pilgrimage to the Hemel and Aarde Valley to visit the hallowed ground responsible for these seductive wines.

The evening is drawing to a close and appreciative noises are echoing off the elegant walls. The food was remarkable, the wines sublime. Thank you, thank you, thank you and come again.

Photographs: Neighbourhood watch

Winelands Eatery – Barouche at Blaauwklippen

I recently found myself staring at a pair of black swans walking chest deep in snowbells at the Blaauwklippen estate between Stellenbosch and Somerset West. We were checking out whether the farm would be suitable for a family wedding and as soon as the swans strode into view, their red beaks exploring the foliage around them, I was convinced.

To be fair, if the swans had been off swimming in the river than runs along the property, I might have been won over by the shear number of gracious old buildings littering this unpretentious estate. The gabled Manor House is fronted by oak trees planted to give the tower of Babel a run for its money and flanked on both sides by long lime washed buildings. From the Manor House veranda you look out onto a wide lawn and beyond to a pasture, more farmland and blue mountains. The perfect place to say “I do”.

The estate’s Barouche restaurant is housed in one of the old buildings remodeled inside along more contemporary lines. Being a closet old world charm junkie, the trendy décor and geometric dark wood furniture in the restaurant seems to me a bit at odds with the vintage personality of the rest of the farm. What the restaurant lacks in décor soul though, it makes up for in the kitchen.

The menu emphasizes fragrance and flavour, with old favourites getting a new lease on life with novel ingredients. You can have the caesar salad in a variety of guises: topped with pan-fried line fish or prawns, stir-fried chicken or beef paillard or try the ultimate in healthy salads – the beef bobotie samoosa salad with pineapple and sweet chilli compote.

The double baked blue cheese soufflé, tandoori rubbed ostrich sosatie and crispy duck leg confit set on red cabbage, caramalised apple and bread dumpling with a balsamic jus, also had me swabbing away drool as I agonized over which meal to make my very own.

I eventually settled for the fragrant stir-friend chicken breast strips and prawns with chilli and ginger which made my tastebuds and my waistline smile. The rest of my party went on to dessert and while my girth strained to get at the dark chocolate tart and duo of coffee mousse, I tried to appease it with a skinny cappuncino.

After lunch, a stroll to the carriage museum and bonding time with the cart horses in their paddock sealed everyone’s opinion that this was a special place, perfect for celebrating a very special event.

Blaauwklippen

Small dogs on a cloudy day

What can I say, my hairy children are seriously sweet.

Sky dog

I couldn't resist snapping this German Shepherd staring at the sky.

Fishhoek beachfront photographs

Trusty Tortillas

A few years ago my friend Claire hosted a Mexican dinner and I was so impressed by her homemade tortillas that I made sure I got the recipe. As often happens, I tucked the neatly handwritten sheet into my recipe file and forgot about it until I found myself scavenging for a trusty tortilla recipe on the internet. The search engine results were a lot easier to navigate than my messy recipe file, but I decided Claire’s tortillas were worth braving the pasta sauce spattered plastic sleeves. My courage was rewarded when I found the tortilla recipe without too much difficulty nestling between a chicken curry and baileys cheesecake.

Burritos are great if you’re having a lot of people over for a casual meal and don’t feel like bankrupting yourself on a gourmet soiree. That is if you’re prepared to make the tortillas. The ready made supermarket variety at R40 for 10 are pain free in a “microwave in 1 and a half minutes” kinda way, but leave me resentful and expecting more than floured flatbreads when I open the bag.

Here is my trusty tortilla recipe and some rolling instructions I put together after being tutored by Helen. She recommended I get a decent rolling pin that wasn’t simply hewn from one piece of pine. Point taken. This recipe can be doubled.

Tortilla Recipe
(makes 12)

450ml cake flour
100ml maize meal
10ml baking powder
3ml salt
75ml butter
About 275ml water

• Sift dry ingredients together into a mixing bowl
• Rub in butter till well blended and add just enough water to form soft dough
• Knead dough for about 5 minutes or till smooth
• Roll into sausage shapes and cut into 12 even sized pieces.
• Cover with plastic wrap, leave at room temperature for 30 minutes.
• Roll out on a lightly floured surface into 20cm circles (see rolling guide)
• Heat large ungreased frying pan
• Fry each tortilla briefly on both sides until specked with pale brown flecks.
• Remove from pan and keep warm by storing in a large bowl lined with a clean kitchen towel folded over tortillas
• Serve with spicy chilli mince, grilled meat and peppers, guacamole, salsa, grated cheese and sour cream, each in a separate bowl.

Rolling guide (see image)

MAXIM - Flour is your friend!

1. Put your dough ball on a floured surface.
   
2. Pat the ball into a circle and sprinkle flour on the top
   
3. Roll the dough firmly in each direction once or twice to form
   
4. a small round
   
5. Pick up the small flattened dough round and reflour your surface, turn over the dough, sprinkle it with flour and now roll to your hearts content, sprinkling the tortilla with flour when necessary
   
6. The result should be a very thin piece of dough which you can further stretch out by tossing it between your hands.

To make burritos, I make tortillas and then have a number of fillings like guacamole, sour cream, grilled meat, sweet peppers, salsa and grated cheddar. The secret to a well folded burrito is to take it easy with the fillings. Don’t cover the whole tortilla with filling, even though this is quite tempting. Make a stripe of filling, leaving a space at the bottom and sides for folding. Flap the bottom of the tortilla over the filled section and then bring one side over the filling and bottom flap. Secure the burrito by folding the remaining side over everything.

Yum.

Cape of Pointy heeled shoes

The day commemorating the liberation of the Bastille and the beginnings of the French Revolution dawned to the strains of Billy Blanks encouraging me to kick that little bit higher. The sun had just risen and it was Tae-Bo hour, or Tae-Bo abbreviated 40 minutes, fast forward to the cool down.

Kicking wildly, fists punching the air as my dogs looked on through the front window with concern, I showed the forces of morning lethargy a thing or two.

A filter coffee and some muesli and Bulgarian yoghurt later, Pat and I headed out for a Saturday morning wander. Our destination was the Cape Point Nature Reserve, a local attraction we’d both visited as kids, but not since moving to the area. We forgot to pack a flask of coffee and nutritious snacks and off we went.

Cape Point Nature Reserve is rather spectacular. It is strangely desolate with fynbos clinging to the rocky landscape and bays and coves carving up the mountainous shoreline. Rolling breakers that would have the saltiest sea dog intoning the rosary, crash far out to sea and the sky sends lines of thin white clouds to scout for baboons.

Arriving at the parking area below the lighthouse, the clouds are not the only ones keeping an eye on the baboons. Marshalls patrol the area with catties, those beloved childhood toys made from forked twigs and bits of tyre tube rubber.

The funicular trip up the hill to the lighthouse was R25 per person one way, so we decided we’d walk, but not before some tea and a bit of sustenance at the Two Oceans restaurant. Perched on a cliff face, overlooking False Bay, the views from the restaurant are impressive. There’s a lot of sea, a pretty shoreline back towards Simonstown and then the smokey blue Helderberg mountains across the bay. There is also the tower of Babel playing itself out before your eyes with folk from every corner of the earth sipping beer and wine and ordering seafood at 11am. If you want the serenity, the Two Oceans restaurant on a Saturday morning is not the spot, even in the middle of winter.

After hand to claw combat with a starling to protect our cheesecake, we headed up towards the lighthouse. Billy had already scuppered my thigh muscles with his round house kicks and squats, but I trotted after Pat, pausing to take tasteful shots as an excuse for a bit of leg rest. The climb is not that arduous, but the occasional muscle did twinge and we were both puffing by the top.

Our efforts were rewarded with beautiful views, but again, the magic was broken by the rabid buzz of stiletto booted tourists. It seems that for some, a holiday is no excuse to skimp on accessories and uncomfortable shoes.

We jostled; we vied for good photo angles and then made our way down to the car park. We could see what all the fuss was about. The mountains, the sea, the lighthouse on a mossy cliff face and the foamy beaches far below, but I think I prefer my natural splendor with a little more peace and fewer stilettos.

Ainsley Ardour

Years ago, as a young graduate with my first job in the big city, I used to watch Ainsley Harriot on BBC and marvel at how adorable he was. A big man with a big heart and a big love of food, he had an endearing way of smacking his lips together in delight as he described his creations. He was positively bursting with food loving energy. I was in London in mid winter, a small rat on a big treadmill and this guy’s fabulousness gave me hope that there was more than smog and endless tube rides in my future.

My hope proved well founded. Years passed and that malaise that can be finding your feet in your twenties passed. The big man’s cheerful face faded in my memory as I returned to Africa and never really watched television

But it seems the power of Ainsley stretches beyond the airwaves and his cooking books. The other day I rediscovered Ainsley magic on a supermarket shelf as he grinned at me from a box of cup soup. I had managed to resist his chocolate cake bars, but cup soup on a cold day is instant mix heaven. I took in the range of flavours: Shropshire Pea, Hot and Sour, Wonderfully Wild Mushroom, Scottish Style Potato and Leek. Soon I was drooling like Homer Simpson.

I checked the nutritional information – normally I wouldn’t buy cup soup as the calories outweigh the taste experience – but here I liked what I saw. Low fat, low kilojoules and no MSG, but they weren’t branded Lite. Give me healthy, don’t give me gruel. I grabbed a box of each flavour.

Unpacking the shopping at home, I put on the kettle. A little healthy instant gratification never hurt anyone. New England Style Vegetable Chowder was first to be sampled. The cockles of my heart rejoiced. I had found the elusive healthy treat that actually hits the spot. These soups are comfort food on a winter’s day without the guilt.

So far, I have worked my way through Shropshire Pea, Hot and Sour, Wonderfully Wild Mushroom and the Vegetable Chowder. I only have reservations about the Shropshire Pea – it doesn’t totally work – but this hasn’t dampened my enthusiasm for these soups in the slightest. They’re easy, taste great and are relatively guilt free. Ainsley is once again warming my winter- what a hero.

A heady Aromatic Fog

It was a dark and rainy night in the south peninsula and I didn’t feel like cooking. I was in the mood for comfort food and a bit of adventure, but didn’t want to change out of my jeans. Going through the list of local eateries in my head, I happened upon my long catalogued intention of visiting Aromatic Fog in St James. The name was evocative and I had heard good things about the food. On went a smear of eye shadow and the little black coat and we were on our way.

The restaurant occupies a gracious space with a high beamed ceiling and floor to roof glass windows fronting the view onto Main Road. The rain, street lights and passing cars provide soothing visual background music while big band classics and jazz standards encourage you to make the most of the comfortable chairs and order another glass of wine from the well crafted wine list.

The menu is full of old favourite like Lamb Shank, Pork Loin and even a T-bone steak which is paired with Tafel Lager. I respect the happy incongruity of a T-bone, beer combo alongside a crispy duck, Pinot Noir combo on a menu. I opted for the T-bone, but decided against the lager and went for a Kleine Zalze Sauvignon Blanc instead. Who says you can’t enjoy good white wine on a rainy day with a steak?

Both food and wine were delicious. The size of the steak was generous and the pepper sauce not overly rich. A hint of fish sauce, or was it a dash of Tafel Lager, added an interesting dimension to the dish which left the table with only a well gnawed bone of the plate. The pork chop with apple mash and crackling was a firm favourite with Pat and Dr Don.

The dessert menu was also a blast from the past, with that eighties posh nosh Baked Alaska tempting me to another course. I’ve never had a Baked Alaska with sorbet and this one was a bit icey, but nostalgia for the days of big hair and bubble skirts had me tucking in with relish.

I’d definitely brave another rainy night to enjoy the warm hospitality and inviting aromatic fog of this feel good local haunt.

Kalk Bay harbour on a Sunday afternoon

Nothing like Nairns

Perhaps in Scotland oat cakes wouldn’t be considered a fad, but in the land of white bread and boerewors, slightly west of Down Under, oat cakes have never been mainstream.

I hadn’t heard of an oatcake until one rainy afternoon, paging through the Holford Diet, I came across a mention of this supposed wonder food. Crispy and light, yet substantial, these disks of oatey goodness could be piled high with hummus or avocado and eaten as mid morning and afternoon snacks. That was my kind of diet! Not only that, but the guy recommending these golden disks looked lithe, healthy and friendly without being creepy.

An approachable face is so important for a diet or healthy lifestyle guru. Fresh-faced and quietly confident is so much more appealing than high wattage bronzed showmanship. On the strength of Pat Holford’s smile and the promise of hummus endorsement, I went in search of oat cakes.

I didn’t have to look far. My local health shop had a respectable supply - 2 brands and a home industry option. Being on occasion a carrot juicing, pseudo health fiend, I felt chastened for having been oblivious of this health store staple. To compensate, I bought three boxes.

I was converted by my first mouthful. Crisp, with a wholesome texture that leaves grainy nibbles in your fillings for later, oat cakes have become my self-righteous snack of choice. Hummus and avocado have been joined by chunky cottage cheese when I am feeling saintly and camembert and gorgonzola with fig preserve when I know Pat Holford’s not watching.

They just feel nutritious. My cells clap their little cellular hands when I pop an oatcake, instead of swooning with pleasure and then turning cranky and insolent when I down a sugary treat. Be sure to drink lots of water if you develop a penchant for oat cakes though to avoid swooning under less pleasant circumstances.

Although I like to think of myself as a brand skeptic, when it comes to oatcakes, Nairns smokes my chimney. Their latest organic herb offering with rosemary, thyme and pumpkin seeds is nothing short of seductive. Thank you Nairns for creating the biscuits that have become an enduring hit on my life’s nutritional soundtrack.

Siege-era desserts reinvented

Twenty years ago, South Africans didn’t know their crème brule from their profiterole, their crème fraiche from their mascarpone. Today, you’d be hard pressed to find a self respecting urban yuppie without a set of ramekins and a kitchen blow torch.

The world has opened up to South Africa since it opened up to the majority of its people. But there was a time when down at the tip of Africa sanctions excluded us from much of the world’s economic and cultural life in payment for our sins.

The impact on the dessert life of South Africans was telling. Neapolitan ice cream, that tricolor brick of vanilla, strawberry and chocolate, reigned supreme and fridge tarts adorned doilied cake plates. Amidst political upheaval and fiery words from “die groot krokodil” we buried our unease in bowls of ice cream and piled high the milktart and cheesecake.

With liberation, the winds of change blew vanilla and lavender scented life into popular desserts. Stracciatella and cappuccino eclipsed Neapolitan and biscotti gave Ouma a run for her money.

Maybe I’m over politicising the dessert profile of the last few decades, but when Cadbury’s recently launched their Local n Lekker range of chocolates, the comforting flavours couldn’t help but remind me of my childhood years when the country was crazy.

Fortunately, my husband Pat’s illustrations on the covers of the slabs look nothing like eighties food photography. Because Pat had hewn the images from naught on his MacBook and they had come to rest on the slabs, we had to try all the flavours as soon as the range was launched. I sublimated my less edifying associations and focused on determining the winning flavour.

After much consumption and debate, we both agree that the Mint Fridge Tart is the winner with the strawberry filled top-deck style of the Neapolitan a close second. Cheesecake and milk tart come in third and fourth.

I wonder if the prisoners on Robben Island ever got milk tart.

Hannibal rides again

The historical novel genre seems to have a his-and-hers split personality. On the one side you have the sweeping epics of James Michener and Clavell, taking in battles in graphic detail, abounding in tales of fraternal loyalty and political intrigue. Then you have the tales of sweeping skirts, coy smiles and rippling muscles scantily covered by flowing muslin shirts tucked into snug riding trousers outlining the rock hard contours of manly thighs.

On occasion, I have been known to succumb to the muslin shirt, coy smiles brigade. I feel though, that my completion of Hannibal – Pride of Carthage, by David Anthony Durham, a 635 page epic about the Cathaginian commander who nearly conquered Rome, has mitigated any flaky dalliances (past or future) with less rigorous works of historical fiction.

Besides being weighty and as such quite good toning work for the forearm, the book is gripping. I’m not saying it’s a literary masterpiece. It isn’t, but nowhere do you baulk at poor writing, a shaky plot or sentimentalism. Perhaps the story is a bit protracted and the pace not exactly racy, but that said, if you’re a fan of ancient history, it’s good fun.

I’ve always had a bit of a thing for Hannibal. Perhaps it was the elephants and the sheer arrogance of his venture, challenging Rome, crossing the Pyrenees and the Alps. It’s such an unlikely story and Durham tells it with evocative skill. If you’re a history buff, it will be compelling – that most loathsome and lazy word to describe a rollicking read.

For the last week or so I have been moving through the ancient theatres of war – Iberia, Umbria, North Africa – and discovering a wealth of engaging characters, cultures and facts that will prove invaluable when playing trivial pursuit. Empty spaces in my understanding of ancient history and geography have been coloured in and detailed by something other than blockbuster movies featuring digitally enhanced torsos.

I’m going to miss Hannibal, his muscly brothers, their scheming, pouting wives and perhaps even the young Roman consul desperate to make good. It’s been a crazy ride. I know my legion from my phalanx, my short stabbing spear from my scimitar, in spite of being a pacifist. Fortunately, the novel is not an unreflective endorsement of war and violence. The futility of armed struggle, the quest for glory and hatred of others is constantly highlighted. I suppose, in short, it’s a modern retelling of an ancient story, sympathetically and reflectively told.

So, who gets to replace Hannibal Barca (not Barker – wouldn’t that be great!) in my literary affections? It’ll have to be that Kurt Vonnegut in the bookshelf I haven’t read yet. It somehow feels right to mark Kurt’s sad passing by reading Breakfast of Champions. Rest in peace Kurt.

Another kind of bellybutton Lindt

Two days of decadent dessert making at the Lindt Chocolate Studio in Greenpoint and the circumference at the bellybutton is challenging the tape measure. Shannon and I recently spent two days quaffing impressive quantities of couverture under the expert gaze of Lindt pastry chef Dimo Simatos.

Besides having a host of heavenly chocolate themed recipes ferreted away in my bookshelf and on my hips, I now know how to temper chocolate – the lazy way. This is fantastic, because there is no way I would ever have hauled out the thermometer and done all that finicky temp control, heating, cooling, skip three times claptrap. All you do is:

1. Get your couverture (fancy chocolate containing snobbish amounts of cocoa solids) – how you get hold of it is your problem. The good stuff is best – you can get it from Lindt, but you need an order number. I plan to invent an imaginary confectionary deli, cum bookshop, cum gallery, cum massage parlour to secure my supply.

2. Once you have the couverture, put it in a microwaveable bowl and blitz it in the microwave (I know it goes against every purist grain, but it works!) until HALF the chocolate is melted. DON’T OVERBLITZ.

3. Now beat the half melted mixture with an electric beater until smooth and viola. There you have it – smooth and glorious, spreadable chocolate.

Spread onto cold granite, allow to cool and make chocolate curls or spread onto wax paper, cut out patterns, fold, cool and your wildest chocolate dreams come true.

For more about the Chocolate Studio and courses visit: http://www.chocolatestudio.co.za/courses.php

Condiments and hairy children

My small dog's name is Mayo. She's a 10 week old irish terrier and has been the source of much joy and many tetanus scares in our house over the past few weeks. Her latest playful ankle biting saw me dousing my bloodied foot in Savlon, slathering on the Betadine and acquainting myself with the morbid details of tetanus on Wikipedia. A phone call to Donne the Doctor and an in depth wound description and I think I might be in the clear. I may still go for a preventative booster. The shots last for four years in case you’re starting to feel slight muscle twitchings.

The small dog at the centre of this neurosis is named after County Mayo in Ireland, but also, conveniently, after one of my favourite condiments, Mayonnaise. Oddly, Mayonaise is a big salmonella culprit, but that’s a worry for another day.

From an early age, my Swiss father inspired in me a love of rich homemade mayonnaise. This side of Switzerland, where the definitive Thomy mayonnaise can be found in every Migro and corner store, I have found that the French style mayo from Woolworths is pretty good. In fact, I have to hide it at the back of the fridge with the Lurpack spreadable in an attempt to pull back from the obesity event horizon.

Back to the hairy Mayo. She’s deceptively cute and I think she’d love French style mayonnaise if she could get at it. Her diet seems awfully spartan, consisting sole of Hills Science Diet, Puppy Plan. Dogs get a raw deal when it comes to food. Patrick, has taken to applying this zero tolerance for non-mandated dog food with a uncanny fervour. Sometimes I think it appeals to his utilitarian view of food as a fuel – his namesake Patrick Holford would be proud. To Pat, eating can be pleasurable, but having to feed himself has always been too much like hard work. I hope he doesn’t dip into the Puppy Plan when he has to make lunch and I’m not around.

Bit late on the Band Wagon

For a virgin blog posting, this has been a long time coming. The moment of truth arrived earlier this evening when my blog creation intentions of the last few years saw me typing http://www.blogger.com into my browser.

So far so good. But then came the name game. I'd left this whole blogging malarkey a bit late. Other folks had run off with all those premium blog titles. In desperation I checked if “sdfsdf.blogspot.com” was available. It wasn’t. I very nearly gave up. Corny puns flew from my fingertips into the “Check Availability” box, to be rebuffed and scorned.

What I am trying to say is that the title of this blog is somewhat arbitrary. It got the thumbs up from the machine and it has a nice tongue-in-cheek quality. I know it implies something about being precocious and disarmingly deceptive. Well, be that as it may, that’s not really me, but there’s the word butter, which I really like. Especially Lurpak. Oooh, spreadable Lurpak. Get behind me Santa!! If anything was to tempt me to benign deceipt it would be food though, so perhaps the name’s more appropriate than I’m letting on.