Butter Won't Melt

When I die I want to go to tetris heaven

2011-04-22T23:09:00.000-07:00

I know it's terminally uncool to love tetris, but I used to be a big fan and this version by Gud magazine is a delight for anyone who's ever dreamed of better 2D spatial co-ords. Back in the day, when I was a trying to be a convincing Computer Science student, wrestling with queuing algorithms while trying to find the "on" switch, I found tetris a fantastic escape. All the cool kids were playing first person shooter or empire building games that called for cunning strategy and more cunning finger contortions, but I was impervious to their scorn of my tetris devotion. Some things are just too enjoyable to give up for coolness sake.

A few days ago, a friend sent me a link to an xkcd cartoon which made me smile in recognition. The perfectly shaped tetris segment falling from the sky. An interventionist god of small things. Whimsical, charming, ironic, what could be better? An actual working version, it seems, inspired by the cartoon, implemented by the clever folks at Gud magazine. If you've ever loved tetris, you have to give it a spin. I couldn't help belly laughing every time the sonorous chord of heavenly favour sounded and a misshapen block floated down.

Long live tetris in all its hallowed forms.

http://www.gudmagazine.com/games/heaven/

Bunny time

2011-04-22T07:08:00.000-07:00

Today is Good Friday and it just seemed like making homemade hot cross buns was called for. I found a recipe on deliaonline.com and got to it, hoping that my buns would not be worse for wear for being made with yeast that expired 3 years ago.

I love kneading dough - a simple pleasure I've only recently discovered - so really enjoyed making these little guys. I didn't have any mixed spice so whooshed together some ground cloves, ginger and nutmeg and then crushed some cinnamon sticks in my mortar and pestle and whacked the grounds into the mix. I'm not a natural baker, precision not being my forte, so I daringly added extra fruit and fortunately, this recipe seems robust enough to accommodate my cavalier attitude to candied peel.

After waiting for an hour for the mixture to double in size, sitting on a window ledge outside, out of reach of hairy dog snouts, I joyously pummelled it into submission and divided it up into bunlike portions. The crosses were made with water and flour and a lot more pummelling and rolling. After about 25 minutes for bun rising, I popped them into the oven and drummed my fingers for 15 minutes until I could whip them out. They emerged golden and everything you could want from a bun, which in my case, is quite a lot. Piping hot, with the daintiest slathering of butter. Blissful spiciness!

Vampire drips and plastic skin

2011-04-01T08:53:00.000-07:00

I am alive and I have plastic skin. It's true and it's awesome. They spray it on using an aerosol can and you generally need a wound of some sort to warrant this synthetic epidermis. I have two such petite wounds incurred in the name of investigative (all good) surgery and once the doctor mentioned plastic skin as a dressing option I made sure the nurses didn't give me the gauzy plaster ensemble.

The last time I was in hospital for some kind of procedure involving a general anaesthetic was as a teenager when I had my wisdom teeth removed. Staring down the barrel of elective unconsciousness a few (ahem) years down the line, was pretty nerve wracking for a control freak like myself. It was with a sense of fatalistic doom that I checked into Kingsbury, Pat very respectful of my resigned state, by my side, and climbed into the lift with the porter. Normally I would have insisted on the stairs, but why bother entertaining your lesser phobias when you're about to have your lights knocked out and your insides oggled.

After nearly losing it when the sister asked me whether it was alright for them to incinerate any bits that might be removed during the operation or whether I would prefer to take these home and making clear that my religious position on blood transfusions was “Give me the frikkin blood, I believe in Science”, I managed to keep it together enough for the theatre nurse to comment on how calm I seemed without a premed. If I am going to face a life threatening situation, I need to be alert dammit! To hell with common sense.

Arriving in theatre I tried to be as dewy, delightful and charming as is possible in a lurid green theatre gown, so that my anaesthetist and surgeon would be emotionally manipulated into doing their best to keep me alive during this minor procedure. My charm offensive worked and I woke up groggy and disorientated with Noxolu, the angelic recovery nurse, urging me to cough. Nothing beats the cough of the recently unconscious to let you know you're alive.

A few minutes later I was drooling at Pat, feeling like hell, but supremely chuffed to have made it. Someone appeared and asked whether I wanted supper and after toying with the indignant reply of, “Lady, seriously, I have just come round from major surgery, do you think I want to worry about food right now?” I said, “Yes, I'm starving!” A mince pancake, some sloppy ice-cream and a pint of saline later and I was feeling remarkably human.

Later that night, after refusing a sleeping pill (must be alert!) I found myself wandering to the loo at midnight with my trusty squeaky-wheeled drip. As I emerged from the dim ward into the fluorescent corridor, I noticed that coiled on top of my hand and running up to the drip switch which was hanging below a desiccated bag of saline, was a plastic tube filled with my blood. Phew. I'm not a big one for bodily fluid flowing external to my body and had to steady myself against the basin before hightailing it to the nurses station and presenting the night sister with my vampire drip. “Don't worry, lovey (term of endearment a result of the broad based charm offensive), it's just your blood, it will flow right back,” she assured me as she plugged another bag of saline into the suction plug. Somewhat soothed and with the cooling saline pumping into my hand, I went back to bed. Without the sleeping pill, sleep was fitful and I woke up regularly and pinched my skin, like the guy who cut off his arm in 127 hours, to check my dehydration levels.

My vigilance paid off and I made it through the night to be rewarded with a thumbs up from the doc and some plastic skin. Now, that I'm home, I just need to mentally wrestle with the prescribed sleeping pills which come with the helpful warning, “Might cause drowsiness.”

The feast of San Robinho

2009-07-04T05:35:00.000-07:00

I was visiting my friend Robyn and her hubby Charles in their lovely home in East London recently, when over a feast, lovingly prepared, she chastised me for not updating my blog. “I still check it regularly, but am about to give up hope of seeing a new posting” she scolded.

A year of work and study frenzy has left little time for ponderings about life’s more indulgent pleasures, but as I sat enjoying five fabulous courses, drinking wonderful wine and relaxing with old friends, I realised the old adage about too much work and not enough play making Jacqui a dull girl was resonating pretty keenly.

Well, if anything was going to propel me out of a stupor of stoic austerity, it was going to be Robyn’s hospitality. After all, here is someone who when she is not cooking up five course Sunday lunches and making beautiful homemade gifts for friends, helps people become parents and brings babies into the world at all hours of the night. If Robs, this domestic goddess who knows her way around a speculum, manages some form of work/life balance, there is hope for us all. And if, in between concocting buerre blanc sauces and snipping umbilical cords, she hopes to find a new blog entry by her mate in the Cape, well, then, by Nigella, she should! So, the feast of San Robinho (yes, Brazil won the Confed Cup that evening) shall be the inspiration behind my reentry into the world of blogdom.

Besides the sheer splendour of the meal, I was dazzled by the amount of time and effort that was represented by the myriad courses. Where I would happily serve up mushroom risotto as a meal, this was the starch of the feast’s main course. Before I could come to grips with the time implications of risotto as a side dish, we’d already enjoyed a soup and a starter!

We sat down to homemade broccoli and gorgonzola soup at a table blinking with silverware and crystal. Chicken parmesan followed and then the fillet, which had been sauce-soaked for hours, was served pink and perfect on top of a creamy blob of risotto. All the while, Kleine Zalze Cabernet Sauvignon had our cheeks glowing and kept flowing well past the impossibly decadent chocolate pot garnished with a mini vanilla crème pavlova. Gorgonzola dominated the cheese plate and I dominated the gorgonzola and then espresso cups replaced wine glasses and we battled greedily to fit in a litany of truffles.

Indulgent, over the top, decadent, delightful. The feast of San Robinho was all these things. It was also an act of love and a charmed space in the midst of life’s busyness. Long may you wave your sparkly wand, Robs!

Puppy love

2008-05-26T13:12:00.000-07:00

The loaf of the Irish

2008-05-12T12:55:00.000-07:00

I fell in love with sourdough bread when I worked in Dublin a few years ago, so the leprechauns in my happy gland did a dance of joy when I found Collette Comins’ super easy recipe while paging through her cookbook, The Farm Kitchen. The book is full of wonderful dishes like French Potato Pie, Home-made Pork Sausages and Fig Tarte Tatin, and the photographs are droolicious.

Back to the bread. Normally, sourdough bread requires nurturing a starter of flour and water and letting natural yeasts develop and mature over a week or so, but this is the instant gratification version. No freaky living organism in the fridge is needed for this loaf and after making it a few times with a dodgy oven, I can pronounce the recipe robust and rewarding.

I’m greedy and love hot bread, so usually whip off a bit of crust as it comes out the oven and have it with butter and honey. If you can manage to resist quaffing the whole loaf in a day, it lasts quite well – it’s good for at least 3 days. When not pilfering from the loaf, I store it in my wooden bread bin wrapped in a clean cotton kitchen towel.

500g cake flour
5ml salt
5ml bicarbonate of soda
400ml buttermilk

Preheat the oven to 230 degrees Celsius (450 degrees Fahrenheit, Gas Mark 8).
Sift the dry ingredients and make a well in the centre.
Pour in the liquid and using one hand, mix in the flour from the sides of the bowl to form a ball.
Turn out onto a floured surface and knead for a second to tidy it up.
Place on a floured baking sheet and cut a cross in the top.
Bake for 15 minutes, then reduce the oven temperature to 200 degrees C (400 degrees F, Gas Mark 6) and bake for further 30 minutes until golden brown and hollow when tapped.

Bread, wine and a meal fit for angels

2008-05-11T01:36:00.000-07:00

This week I attended a bread and wine tasting at Stellenzicht, a farm known more for the quality of its wines than its swish hospitality offering. There’s no art gallery, deli or signature restaurant to distract from the core business of this farm - producing good wine – but when winemaker Guy Webber wants to share his wines with guests, no effort is spared.

Although the farm is more about production than gloss and glamour, the tasting room is warm and friendly. An old chemical store off the production area has been converted for small functions and wooden staves suspended from the ceiling ensure that wine is the décor focus. For our tasting, this cosy space was filled by two large circular tables laden with bread, wine glasses and an abundance of dipping goodies.

Guy is an avid breadmaker and thought the idea of pairing his wines with bread from trendy Cape Town bakery, Knead, a novel way of showcasing their nuanced flavours and aromas. Evan Faull from Knead devised the pairing combinations and all considerations of low carb diets fell by the wayside as wine flowed freely and loaves were torn, sliced and dipped.

The wine was mainly from the farm’s accessible Golden Triangle range, but we were also treated to the rather lovely Semillon Reserve 2004, paired with brioche. The Semillon’s heady, intensely fragrant nose follows through with red apple on the palate and having spent 9 months in oak, has all the good wood characteristics and none of the bad. The buttery brioche, more cake than bread, was a perfect partner for this Audrey Hepburn of a wine.

The Golden Triangle Shiraz 2004 with buttermilk rye was also yummy, the Golden Triangle Pinotage 2006 charming and dignified the Golden Triangle Cabernet Sauvignon 2003 the type of wine you want to save for a wintery day when you’re curled up on the couch in front of the fire and can really give it the attention it deserves. Come to think of it, for that kind of fireside brooding, I’d also like a bottle of the farm’s award winning Syrah.

The sacramental theme of “bread and wine” spilled over into a lunch of authentic Middle Eastern dishes. Tabbouleh in poppadoms with mozzarella fingers and bulgar wheat mixed with aromatic herbs was followed by Laban Immu, an ancient Lebanese lamb dish served with cous cous, vegetable moussaka and greens. Made from lamb, yoghurt, thyme, lemon juice, garlic and mint, Laban Immu is rumoured to have been the dish Abraham offered his angelic visitors in Genesis 18:1-8. It certainly tasted divine and if that’s not enough reason to ferret out a recipe on the internet, the dish has medicinal properties. Researchers reckon soured milk as a dietary staple protected ancient nomadic tribes from bovine tuberculosis.

Clattering over the dirt road back onto the R44, I left Stellenzicht hooped up on wine related anti-oxidants and shielded from cow TB, daydreaming about yoghurty meat dishes and Semillon packed with waxy apples.

Bon Appetit

2008-05-06T13:02:00.000-07:00

Today, Pat and I have been married for 16 months and we decided to mark this landmark occasion with a spate of culinary indulgence. Our feasting spot had been singled out a while ago, while walking along the main drag in Simonstown. On the way to favourite breakfast spot, The Meeting Place, I had spotted Bon Appetit and been lured to investigate further by a curtain of twinkling lights and a menu promising Petit Choux of Rabbit and Le Café, a plethora of coffee themed deserts including tiramisu ice cream and mocha panna cotta.

Internet research had promised that husband and wife team Judith (front of house) and Emmanuel Guillet (chef) made a potent combo, delivering the finest French cuisine. The internet proved reliable. Breton, Emmanuel, a Michelin trained chef with 15 years of star studded experience and Judith, also a trained chef, did not disappoint. Our taste buds tingled and our nerves were soothed by the faultless service provided by Judith and the lovely Christelle.

While some of the décor could do with a revamp, when the food is this good, you can overlook the odd visual faux paux. Twinkling fairy lights lining the bay windows, mellow uplighting and duck grey walls go a long way to create an intimate and unpretentious dining environment.

The wine list is reasonably varied, offering a good selection of value for money single varietals and blends and venturing international with some French champagne. We opted for the reliable, Merlot-driven, Groote Post Old Man’s Blend, with its juicy berries and whiffs of white pepper.

Before we could say, “look at those manfully striding naval officers”, our table was graced by a miniature loaf of freshly baked bread and a trio of herb butter, moist dukka and sun dried tomato, merlot and onion jam. We made short work of the bread and the onion jam was so good, I resorted to enjoying it with a teaspoon.

An amuse bouche of goats cheese and potato flan plumped on top of perfectly diced marinated vegetables (compliments of the chef) was followed by a starter of camembert served on puff pasty with beetroot and balsamic ice-cream. The cheesy pasty and subtle savoury tang of the ice cream was ridiculously delicious. It was difficult not to lick the plate.

For mains, Pat had Lamb Knuckles en Croute, a wonder of shredded lamb baked in puff pastry served with black mushroom, roasted garlic pyramids and a rosemary sauce, while I opted for the Fillet of Beef Stuffed with Portabellini Mushrooms served with a Compote of Red Onions and a Cabernet Sauvignon Sauce.

Every mouthful was a treat. After my last morsel diappeared, an errant finger whipped over the saucy remnants towards my lips. Such precious stuff shouldn’t be wasted.

Our culinary foray into the world of proudly fussy French food drew to a poetic close with the Le Cafe. An Aladdin’s cave of coffee themed mini desserts, the Le Café arrived with little bowls and glasses laden with panna cotta, crème brule, ice cream and espresso, edible pasty spoons and sugar spun twirls. It said only good things about coffee.

We left Bon Appetit to the strains of Cape Verde diva, Cesaria Evora, our minds wandering the culinary landscape of Brittany and our tummies infinitely satisfied. We’ll definitely be back for more sorties into the realm of fancy food with honest flavours and mood lighting that works.

Bon Appetit Restaurant, 20 St Georges St, Simonstown, +27 21 786 2412

Gnoc, Gnoc, Gnocching on heaven’s door

2008-04-28T07:29:00.000-07:00

The other night, I made fabulous gnocchi. It gnocked my socks off in fact and got me thinking.

I’ve cooked enthusiastically for years, but don’t have a healthy stock of trusty recipes I can call on when inspiration is low. The gnocchi changed all that. I’m on a mission. A double headed hydra of a mission to transcribe the impromptu creations that often grace my crockery and ferret out appealing recipes already documented by food gurus and food lovers, try them out and record the goodies.

Gnocchi, is my first goodie. My dalliance into the world of intentional recipe recording starts with a recipe with 3 ingredients from a book put together by the Catholic Diocese of Port Elizabeth, called Bish’s Dishes. I’m pretty sure Jamie and Nigella have autographed copies. A present from my mom, the book provides a comforting spiritual endorsement of Mumrez Kahn’s lamb and spinach curry, 2 variations of butternut soup, Lorna’s easy fish bake and of course, the catalytic gnocchi.

A seductive Italian native that takes the form of an innocent dumpling, gnocchi can be made from a variety of starches, including potato, semolina, wheat flour and bread crumbs. Bish’s Dishes advised combining potato, flour and egg, so that’s what I did. My sacred gnocchi turned out rather well with my guests making appreciative noises and me waiving my hands in modest protestation.

So emboldened was I by my gnocchi success, that I mentioned it to award winning chef, Nic van Wyk, during a visit to Kleine Zalze this week. It turns out that my gnocchi might have been even more delicious if I had baked the potatoes in the oven and scooped out the insides for mash. “What you want is floury, dry potato, so the less contact it has with water, the better,” says Nic. Best listen to the man whose porcini risotto sees rice reaching enlightenment.

I paired my slightly less than enlightened gnocchi with a mélange of roasted onions, shallots, bacon, tomatoes, olives and feta. Burnt butter and parmesan, pesto and bolognaise also work well. Born up a tree!!

Gnocchi
1 kg potatoes, boiled, peeled and mashed
300g flour
1 egg

Method
Mash potatoes and add flour
Add egg and gntle work through with fingers
Roll into snakes, then cut snakes into cubes
Drop into boiling salted water
They will sink, when they rise to the top they are ready.
Scoop into a large shallow dish and serve with your choice of sauce and parmesan,
Serves 6.

Angelo Dashwood – Bish’s Dishes - Catholic Diocese of Port Elizabeth Recipe Book

Caramalised onion and roasted bacon topping
Preparation time: 20 minutes
Cooking time: 45 minutes.

Packet of back bacon cut into 2cm strips
125g punnet of mushrooms
250 punnet of rosa tomatoes (can also use 4 large tomatoes cut into 8 wedges each)
3 large onions peeled and cut into 8 wedges(or 9 pickling onions peeled)
4 shallots peeled and cut into wedges.
3 wheels of feta, cubed
5 small cloves of garlic, peeled
1 packet of black mission olives, pitted and halved.
2 Tbsp olive oil
2 tsp brown sugar
Salt and pepper to taste

Method
Preheat the oven to 200
Spread the onion, shallots, garlic and bacon over a greased roasting tray.
Sprinkle with olive oil, moving the tray contents around until lightly coated in oil.
Roast for 20 minutes
Remove from oven, sprinkle with sugar and add the tomatoes and mushrooms, mix tray contents together gently to distribute the sugar.
Roast for another 20 minutes, or until bacon slightly crispy and onions a light brown.
Add the feta and olives and roast for a further 5 minutes or until feta begins to melt. .
Remove from oven and serve over pasta or gnocchi.
Serves 6

Jacqui Latimer impromtu recipe

Salad Daze are the best daze …

2008-04-04T05:30:00.000-07:00

When I popped in to Salad Daze for lunch this week during a visit to East London, I was delighted by food bursting with fresh flavours and two women having a lot of fun doing what they love. Jo and Alison started the quaint eatery where pink is queen and it works, in March last year and things have been buzzing ever since.

Conceptualized around a salad bar boasting only the freshest ingredients and salads made with flare, Salad Daze combines great food, feel good décor and friendly service. Nutty, couscous and roasted vegetables share the salad table with among others, fresh salad leaves, coriander spiked yoghurty mushrooms and tangy mustard potato salad.

Don’t be put off if you’re not into the rabbit food. Wraps of thai fillet and coronation chicken, generous open sandwiches, quiches and hearty pastas ensure that there’s a dream meal here for the fussiest eater. I tucked into the thai fillet wrap, served with a shot glass of spicey vinaigrette dressing and a selection from the salad table. Fragrant, wholesome and delicious. There is no pretension here, just a sense of reveling in nature’s bounty and an enthusiasm for preparing good food, beautifully presented.

“I try and source local ingredients as much as possible,” says Jo. “We have a herb garden out front and are very excited about one of our local producers just been certified organic.” Jo and Alison are serious about environmental responsibly and recycle wherever possible. This progressive bent also permeates their attitude to enlightening their staff and customers about “unusual” ingredients in this erstwhile culinary sleepy hollow in the Eastern Cape. “I have customers complaining about the peppery leaf in their salad,” says Alison of a rocket epiphany. “I do blind herb tastings with my staff. They love it! And customers seem to keep coming back for more.”

The positive energy of Salad Daze is infectious and never more so than when you’re indulging in their tea time treats and desserts. My mother swears the Berry Pavolva has medicinal properties. With its homemade strawberry and lemon yoghurt ice-creams, fresh berries and berry coulis piled on a meringue drizzled in butterscotch, it’s just what the doctor ordered. The chocolate brownie crammed with nuts and rum and served with homemade orange ice-cream is another must-nibble as are the gorgeous cupcakes smothered in pastel icing and dusted with silver balls and little pink and red hearts.

I leave Salad Daze after stocking up at their deli, which Alison promises will be even more prolific with the addition of their soon-to-be-released signature deli range. I think the world would be a better place if we were all a bit more free and easy with the silver balls and miniature icing hearts.

Flukes Fantasticlé

2007-10-09T07:17:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-29T08:50:00.000-07:00

Photographs: Images of Igoda

2007-08-29T08:27:00.000-07:00

Jemima's -Touched by an angel

2007-08-12T14:07:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-10T09:05:00.001-07:00

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

2007-08-05T09:52:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-05T07:10:00.001-07:00

Winelands Eatery – Barouche at Blaauwklippen

2007-08-03T09:05:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-30T12:34:00.000-07:00

Small dogs on a cloudy day

2007-07-30T11:57:00.000-07:00

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

Sky dog

2007-07-29T11:30:00.000-07:00

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

Fishhoek beachfront photographs

2007-07-16T03:26:00.001-07:00

2007-07-15T02:32:00.000-07:00

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!

Put your dough ball on a floured surface.
Pat the ball into a circle and sprinkle flour on the top
Roll the dough firmly in each direction once or twice to form
a small round
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
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

2007-07-14T08:20:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-14T07:38:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-12T13:12:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-10T13:29:00.000-07:00

Nothing like Nairns

2007-06-06T08:50:00.001-07:00

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

2007-05-30T08:34:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-27T10:02:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-22T08:41:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-10T12:05:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-10T10:05:00.000-07:00

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.