Over the rooftops

The ripple earthy-red of clay-tiled rooftops is a visual that will always take me back to Sao Paulo. Yes, it’s found in other cities, towns and villages of Brazil and in many other countries, but Sao Paulo was such a huge part of my personal journey, that my thoughts go there.

What you’re looking at here are two houses. The tall house on the one side and it’s neighbour, glued to its side. It’s typical of housing layouts in much of Brazil. There is no space between the houses, which are long and narrow, often a series of rooms stacked one behind the other with connecting doors. It’s rare to find a passage.

I love skies and clouds and cloudy skies. I have far too many photos scattered through my albums of clouds, but what I’ve noticed is that many of them are where I’m in a confined area gazing out. It’s a pattern that’s repeated itself over and over from childhood. I was the child who had “… would do far better if she didn’t spend her days gazing out the window” or “…daydreams too much” in almost every school report, particularly the early years. I think much of that dreamer still exists. There’s many a time I find myself gazing at the horizon, thankfully, usually not from a confined space.

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He preached with his eyes closed

Yes, he did indeed preach with his eyes closed, but that was the least of what made Father Brennan unique. I remember the first time I met him very clearly. Jurgis and I had started dating. He decided to take me to the little (make that ‘tiny’) Catholic church in our neighbourhood just so that I could see it. I’d never been to a Catholic church before.

It was indeed a tiny church, two narrow rows of pews. Not the kind of church you can lose yourself or be inconspicuous in. To say Father Brennan was remarkable would be an understatement. Jurgis’ family were Catholic, by long-standing national/family tradition and purely in name, barely making it to church for the requisite christenings, marriages or funerals. Jurgis himself had probably only set foot in that little church a couple of times… and yet, Father B (to save me typing out his name each time) remembered him.

We walked in and found ourselves mid-church seats, neither of us being eager to attract attention. Jurgis hadn’t been in ages and I was out of my depth, not knowing what to do with all that ritual that everyone seemed to have been born knowing. I was just figuring out when to kneel, when to stand, when to open the little prayer book and flap around looking for the right words (often ending up on the wrong page and pretending I knew what I was saying) when the collection was taken up. Now I’m familiar with collections. All churches have them in one form or another. I’m even familiar with the ‘turn around and greet your neighbour’ bit. What I wasn’t prepared for was Father B himself. He swept down from his pulpit and stopped to chat with each member of the congregation. Yes, there were that ‘many’. He approached us and I prepared myself for the “Hello, nice to meet you.” What I got was more along the lines of “Faith! And it’s good to meet your future wife! You’ll be coming here for the wedding, won’t you?” Father B was an Irishman with a voice designed for cathedrals, not tiny churches with 20 occupants. Every face in the little church turned to watch his sheer pleasure at our impending nuptials we knew nothing about at the time.

That wasn’t the end of my experience of the dear Father. The sermon was yet to come. He stood, hands folded across the front of his chest, closed his eyes and swayed slightly… back and forth… back and forth. I thought he was preparing himself or offering some sort of internal blessing, but the entire sermon was delivered like that! I was so fascinated, I don’t remember a word of the sermon. Ok, that and the fact that it is now many many years ago.

Fast forward a time and a half. We went back to Father B’s tiny church after our engagement, perhaps to show him that his prophesying was indeed accurate. “Faith and you’ll surely be bringing the little ones here to be christened?” Uh huh. Definitely! We laughed all the way home.

On hindsight, we should have gotten married in that little church. I think our memories of our wedding would have been very different. As it was, we got married in a vast cathedral in town - a place not one of us enjoyed and came fraught with its own politics and issues. If I have any advice for anyone considering their nuptials it would be to find themselves a Father B and avoid the grandeur of vast halls. Sadly, we never saw him again, but he definitely left his mark on our memories.

Technorati Tags: priest,catholic,wedding,dating,christening,memories

A ghost in the press

Funny how memories are set off. I was reading a book and a inconsequential conversation between two boys about the ‘ghost in the press’ caught the attention of long forgotten memories. At the first mention of the ‘press’, my mind went to printing, until logic suggested that, as they were in their bedroom, a clothes press was more appropriate.

What child doesn’t fantasise about monsters under the bed? I made a point of never having a foot or a hand over the edge of the bed just in case. I mean, you never know, right? I went through a phase of “if I can’t see them, they can’t see me” too, which started a lifelong habit of needing to be covered right up to my eyeballs. I still like to be completely covered - still afraid of the bogey-man? Perhaps, though I suspect the bogey-man has morphed into its adult form of a variety of nameless, faceless fears, but… it was the wardrobe that did it.

Many was the night I’d lie in bed staring at my dark-wood wardrobe, almost seeing it open and the skeleton hiding inside coming out to get me. It wasn’t always a skeleton. Some fears were far worse, some more insubstantial. Either way, the wardrobe was a horrifying element in the half-dark of my room.

Today, I wonder if the ‘skeletons in the cupboard’ talk of the adults around me weren’t at least partly to blame. The cupboard grew in my very vivid imagination to hold all manner of ills. I suspect there’s a little part of me… ok, perhaps not such a little part… that’s still somewhat afraid of what could come out of the wardrobe as soon as I let my guard down. I have no wardrobe in my current bedroom and the one I photographed is perfectly harmless… this wardrobe is in my mind - a dark, closed receptacle of nameless, faceless things that may or may not exist. Is it just me?

Naturally, if you had to ask me what I fear, I’d put my hands behind my back, lift my head and that same little girl will confidently say, “Nothing!” 

Technorati Tags: fear,wardrobe,cupboard,skeletons

The man who was father to me

Father's day just idled by and I found myself in a time of remembering...


Jim was my grandfather, a step-grandfather, at that, but he was father to me. I wanted to blog all he was, but I remembered I did it before: My hero  I read through that blog and found myself unexpectedly emotional. I loved him. He gave so much and asked so little in return. His was the calming voice when everyone was upset over the latest family ruckus. He wasn't cuddly or huggy or anything. He was just there... and strong... dependable.

So I hung out my Glook. Just because.

This past week, I was wearing my coin. I still remember the day I picked it up. I was about 5 or 6, I think. Jim and I were walking down Rink Street. I don't remember where we were going. I saw the coin and picked it up. "What's that you have there? A lucky penny?" He told me I couldn't spend it, but that it was special anyway. I clutched my 10 pence all the way home. There, Jim drilled a hole in the coin and put a chain on it. The chain was miles too long for the little girl, but perfect for the woman I am now. It's strong, dependable, no-frills, just as he was... and made with love.

Wolwedans

An old school friend posted a photo of me in high school... pigtails 'n all. This sent me down memory lane, so I dug up an old blog, "Did you know...?"  I was reading the blog and comments when Jurgis spotted the Chappies bubble gum in the picture, which led, in turn, to many more memories - funny how that works.

Hm.... I can smell the Chappies now. I believe they now have all sorts of flavours, but, to me, there's only one Chappies flavour. Of course, eating bubble gum, be it Chappies or Wacky Wicks, was absolutely verboten, which, of course, meant we ate them whenever humanly possible.

The conversation drifted aimlessly among childhood memories... Dagwoods, the corner café where I'd stock up on Chappies, TV programmes like Knersus and Haas Das se Nuuskas. Knersus was a particularly dumb programme, but leaves me wanting to name my next dog Knersus just for fun. He was a pterodactyl whose sole aim in life was to catch a bunny for supper. He shared luckless plotting with his 3 pairs of false teeth.


Of course, no meander down memory lane would be complete without spending an afternoon or evening in front of the radio, listening to Springbok Radio, with a comforting cup of coffee. I used to keep my ears open for the illicitly-enjoyed "Wolwedans in die Skemer" - 'Wolf dance at dusk'. I definitely was not meant to be listening and, to this day, I don't know why I compulsively listened, as I avoid thrillers like the plague. It was a series about an axe murderer. I was a kid. What was I thinking? Jurgis would listen to Squad Cars, a series about real crimes solved by the South African police, jam packed with action and screeching tyres - typical boy fare. Actually, I did listen to a snippet online and found myself disappointed that the show wasn't complete. I think I should have listened to Squad Cars instead of Wolwedans back then. I don't know... I think it was the compelling voices and acting. It's one thing acting on television, but voice acting takes special talent. To be able to allow the listener to picture the emotions and actions just with sound is incredible.

I found a very rare clip of Wolwedans in die Skemer online. This is just a snippet.

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I'm a good cook, really!

Actually, in all honesty, when I got married, I couldn't boil an egg! For the first 3 months, we ate risotto just about every night. It was all Jurgis knew how to cook. Heck, we even entertained... with risotto! Our guests swore it was delicious. Uh... yes.

After 3 months of risotto, I bought a recipe book - one day I'll get it again. I miss that book. It was my intro into some truly delicious culinary delights (thanks Katey for sneaking my favourite recipes to me!) It was definitely the start of my baking (Viennese butter biscuits... deeevine! And cheese scones!).

I took to baking in a big way. Jurgis knew that, when he came home, there would always be full cake and biscuit tins. He'd walk in and shake each tin looking for something to nibble on until supper was ready.

I had begged my gran for Sophie's samp and beans recipe. That became our staple for shopping day because I could set it on a low simmer, go shopping, and come home to a delicious meal.

Shopping was usually done on a Friday evening. Jurgis would arrive home to fetch me and we'd go to the massive Hyperama. Before we left, I'd have supper in our super-duper AMC classic cookware pot, turned down really low. I had inherited my mother-in-law's virtually unused set when we got married. She'd gone back to Brazil and left her pots behind. I was not complaining. They were wonderful!

This one shopping day, we were in a rush for some reason. Shopping went well, nonetheless. When we returned home, we were just rounding the corner when Jurgis said, "Oooh! Someone's burnt their supper!" We laughed, thinking of the poor people and their burnt food. It was only as we rounded the last corner (yes, we'd smelt it miles off) that we saw the pall of smoke pouring out of our house.... the kitchen window, to be precise.

Dismayed, we rushed inside and opened all the windows and doors. The pot with its thick base had melted onto the stove plate. The food was a 1 inch layer of charcoal in the pot. The pot's handles melted. The house stank! We cleaned up as best we could. I think we had sandwiches that night. That wasn't the end of the story though.

We had no idea what to do with the expensive, ruined pot, so we hid it in the maid's toilet. All houses had maid's quarters. We used ours for storage at the time. I hid it behind the toilet and behind a mess of brooms, mops and sundry other items.

The pot was forgotten in my subsequent pregnancy and Ceinwen's birth.

Then Jurgis' dad came.

Having his daughter-in-law to wait on him and having his son working during the day left him bored. What happens to bored kids? They get up to mischief. Wouldn't you know it? He went scratching through our storage and he found The Pot. All hell broke loose. His worse suspicions were confirmed. I was the worst possible wife and housewife and he had the evidence! Ha!

Poor Jurgis was trapped between us. The old man stuck around for over two months. I eventually declared that either he moved out or I would move out. My gran arrived when Ceinwen was just under a month old and bullied him into something bordering submission or at least a grudging sulk. She busied herself making baby clothes, cleaning house and cooking.... the good housewife I most definitely wasn't.

Those first months of Ceinwen's life weren't memories of babyhood, but of The Pot. Months later, we eventually got it cleaned up. AMC is great with that. They renewed the base, replaced the handles and polished the entire pot. It went on to serve many more years. I went on to bake commercially with that set and to serve 3 course dinners to guests. I'm a good cook, really.... sometimes... when I'm not serving up burnt offerings ; )

21

Someone had a 21st birthday yesterday. Birthdays have a knack of making one wander down memory lane. This year, it's particularly poignant, as it's such a milestone year and Tat is so very far away.

Tonight, Jurgis was going through some photos. He called my attention to one. "This was my 21st!"


Henrique, his brother (far left), had baked the cake. The three men lived a bachelor existence. The cake was a sweet idea, but I suspect it was a bit of a challenge on the teeth.

21 red roses


Yes, I know there aren't 21. The photo is illustrative
There are no photos of my 21st, though the evening was an interesting one, to be sure. We left Ceinwen, then 3 months old, with our neighbour, Margaret. Jurgis told me to dress up. I made myself a Russian-style red dress. I loved that dress, but only ever wore it that once that I can remember. He took me to the Ritz Hotel's revolving restaurant in Cape Town. I found some photos online. It is just as I remembered it... the piano... the view of Cape Town at night.



 
The ambience was lovely. Not too long into the evening, I was presented with my massive bouquet of red roses. The pianist played 'our song', which was, at the time, "Time in a bottle" by Jim Croce. Yes, it was long ago! The food was French and tasty, except that what we thought was the starter turned out to be the main course. It was one of those places where you get one baby carrot, artistically sliced into a fan shape, two asparagus spears, a broccoli floret and your sliver of meat of choice drowned in gravy. I had sole. It was tasty. We had our dessert, which I don't remember at all. I think I was too hungry. It had been a long day. I suspect that lunch had been a very long time ago, as I'd spent the afternoon flapping over babysitting arrangements - first time mom leaving baby for the first time.

Jurgis is very much a steak and potatoes guy, so we left the fancy food in search of something more substantial and ended up at an after-theatre cafe, scarfing cake and coffee before heading home, tired and slightly less starved than when we set out. 


This is the last photo that was taken of me before my 21st. Ceinwen was all of 5 days old. I had been home from the hospital for a day when Jurgis' dad arrived on an unannounced visit. I was 'thrilled' (not). He was one of those men who believed that the man works outside of the home and shouldn't work at home at all. He let us know in no uncertain terms that finding his son mowing the lawn was unacceptable and that it was my job to do so. I was, at the time, in bed having had a caesarian a few days before. Oh that visit! It reminds me of another blog I've been meaning to write... on the excellence of my housekeeping skills at the time! ; ) 

Photos in my mind

*A note to those who're new to my blog...
My blogs are written on paper while I'm out teaching,
in the 'dead' time between students or on the bus...
just in case you find it doesn't make much sense*

Oh look! Today's Friday the 13th! So far, it's promising to be peachy in spite of my horrorscope promising doom 'n gloom. I think I'll actually take a lottery ticket today. In fairness, the lottery place should be empty barring a few other souls as odd as me.

It's Friday! : )

An old black man got on the bus - his most notable features were his work-worn hands. I looked up at his creased brown skin and my thoughts went back to old Joe. Joe was part of the landscape of my childhood, a short man, his face a map of ebony wrinkles. I'm not sure what his actual job was, but I remember him mostly on his knees alongside my gran as they lovingly tended pansies, dahlias and roses.

He was a quiet man. The only time I remember him actually saying something was when, during some controversial political upheaval in the country ~ "Ek's 'n kaffir. Ek sal altyd 'n kaffir wees." (Translates to "I'm a kaffir and will always be a kaffir") He wasn't being humble or downtrodden when he said that. He said it with an odd pride. I actually think that he had found the equality everyone else was crying for kneeling in the dirt next to a white woman, tending the flower beds they both loved. I was taught to respect him and who could do otherwise? I think he was old before time began.

Another short man from my past comes to mind, Oom de Vos. I can picture him clearly. Actually, I can smell him clearly too. He carried a musty old-man smell about him that made me imagine him carrying mothballs in the pockets of his equally old black suit that he probably dug out especially for these visits. I wish I knew more about him though. He'd known my gran for many, many years. Apparently, he had been a manager on the family farm. He always spoke to my gran with warm deference. I suspect that he could have filled in a lot of the gaps I have in the family history. I'd look his family up, but, sadly, De Vos is a fairly common name in South Africa and I know absolutely nothing else about him. For the lack of photos, I wish I were an artist. I'd paint a picture. The memories are crystal clear.

A young girl, a student, got onto the bus and stood next to my seat. I offered to hold her bags, but she put them on the floor at her feet. She did, however, allow me to hold her book, a thick tome on Clinical Anatomy. Have you ever held a book and wished you could just absorb all the information in it through the covers... osmosis-style? I did. I wonder if she'd have thought me odd or presumptuous if I'd started flipping through the book.

To all my mothers

This is a repost.... edited slightly

One woman gave birth to me, but I had many mothers. This blog is dedicated to all the mothers out there... the women who were mother to me and to those who have the souls of mothers, but could never, for whatever reason, be one. My life is a series of moments where I changed hands... I went from mother to mother, each one holding my hand and leading me on to the next stage of my growth.

My first dedication, naturally, goes to my gran, the woman who raised me as her own. What I am today, is largely thanks to her. She empowered me to be me. Then there was Sophie. Sophie was the one who abba'ed me (carried me on her back), strapped to her back, Xhosa style, while she worked. She fetched me from school, gave me my lunch. She taught me to love samp and beans. I remember Aunty Val, the lady at Sunday School who took over when my gran took me there at the age of 3 to learn about God. Then there was Miss Brown, my Grade 7 teacher, an elderly spinster lady. Everyone dreaded getting to her class, as she was 'strict', but when we go there, we knew we'd reached a safe place to grow and thrive. We loved her and cried when we had to leave her. We cried again when she died.

Then there was Lynette's mom who said she'd happily adopt me. I cried on her shoulders quite a lot as a drama-queen teen.

The list would not be complete if I didn't mention the hostel moms at boarding school who put up with a lot of stuff 'n nonsense from us, listened to our crying and 'bullied' us into keeping cubicles tidy and doing homework. Now Margaret was hardly a mother-figure, but she was a fair deal older than me and knew how to be a wife and keep house. When I found myself alone in Cape Town as a newly-wed, she was the one who helped me with her unique mixture of humour and common sense. Aunt Molly was the one who later held my hand and let me cry on her shoulder after Ceinwen's death. She had lost her son too. She was just 'there' and helped me through a really difficult time.

Ros... my dear friend, sister, mother and the one who attended Tatiana's first grandparent's days. Ros had plenty kids of her own to keep her busy, but opened her heart, home and life to more as they appeared on her horizon. She was my spiritual mother and there in a very practical sense too. She was the one who helped me stay slightly sane through the trauma of leaving home. And Aunty Ruth *smiles* who was mother to all living creatures that crossed her path. It didn't matter whether you were a child, a woman, a nasty bullying pidgeon or a little turtle dove, whether you were a cat or a dog. Every creature was loved and cherished as only a mother can. My own "Mrs Pepperpot".

Once in Brazil, my mothers were online. The one who truly comes to mind is Felicity. Felicity was, to me, mother, sister, and very dear friend. She was there for me pretty much from the word go when I was struggling to adapt to this strange country and missing home sooo very much. Let me not forget Llynde, who has played a very important part in keeping my dreams alive and helping me grow in the talents she saw in me.

Many of these women are no longer with us, but I know their spirits are still with me, guiding me, keeping me strong and giving me comfort.

Strangely, this is the first time I have not had a mother-figure in my life. I look around me now and I see my fellow-mothers and sisters, those who are mothers and mother-figures to others, the women who go through the same joys, fears, hopes, dreams, sorrows that I do, who inspire me and light my journey. You are all so important to me.

Thank you!

 

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Magic on the tracks

I was listening to some Afrikaans songs tonight when "Trans Karoo" came on. Ah... memories...



Tchuk-tchuk- tchuck-tchuk, Clickety-clack... clickety clack.... one of the best lullabies a child can sleep to as the train rocks gently on the tracks. As I slept, I was concious of pulling into midnight middle-of-nowhere stations and the quiet fuss of loading up fresh coal and passengers.

Come morning, the call of the stewardess, "Coffee, tea, Milo?" That is still used in our home. For once, I wasn't interested in what was being served. I'd push up the window, resting forearms on the sill and leaning out as far as I could, I wanted to see the huge locomotive in front, gaze in awe at upcoming tunnels that secretly terrified me. Gran would get annoyed at the soot she'd have to clean off my clothes then. Looking back, I'd see the long red and beige train snaking behind.


The bathrooms were an adventure in themselves and the tiny metal washbasins. Going to the dining car was a journey of unbelievable excitement and trepidation. Crossing the concertina joins between carriages required a huge amount of courage and the comforting hand of an adult. White linen table cloths, linen serviettes and heavy silver cutlery. I can't, for the life of me, remember the food. I think I had my nose pressed to the window.

The train whistle blows, then Parrrp... parrrp... Khssshhhhhh.... we pull into the station. There's the fuss of pulling cases down, checking nothing is left, the noisy compartment door crashing open. I look out the windows in the passage for the last time. The train empties out onto the smooth concrete platform. Train stations always seem to have ornate metal supports and rails, red brick or cream and grey buildings and pretty gardens.

Magic on the tracks

I was listening to some Afrikaans songs tonight when "Trans Karoo" came on. Ah... memories...

Tchuk-tchuk- tchuck-tchuk, Clickety-clack... clickety clack.... one of the best lullabies a child can sleep to as the train rocks gently on the tracks. As I slept, I was conscious of pulling into midnight middle-of-nowhere stations and the quiet fuss of loading up fresh coal and passengers.

Come morning, the call of the stewardess, "Coffee, tea, Milo?" That is still used in our home. For once, I wasn't interested in what was being served. I'd push up the window, resting forearms on the sill and leaning out as far as I could, I wanted to see the huge locomotive in front, gaze in awe at upcoming tunnels that secretly terrified me. Gran would get annoyed at the soot she'd have to clean off my clothes then. Looking back, I'd see the long red and beige train snaking behind.

The bathrooms were an adventure in themselves and the tiny metal washbasins. Going to the dining car was a journey of unbelievable excitement and trepidation. Crossing the concertina joins between carriages required a huge amount of courage and the comforting hand of an adult. White linen table cloths, linen serviettes and heavy silver cutlery. I can't, for the life of me, remember the food. I think I had my nose pressed to the window.

The train whistle blows, then Parrrp... parrrp... Khssshhhhhh.... we pull into the station. There's the fuss of pulling cases down, checking nothing is left, the noisy compartment door crashing open. I look out the windows in the passage for the last time. The train empties out onto the smooth concrete platform. Train stations always seem to have ornate metal supports and rails, red brick or cream and grey buildings and pretty gardens.

 

Technorati Tags: garden-route,train,memories

Pancakes and blessings

Tat and I made pancakes for lunch and reminisced over past pancakes. Back home, Sunday night was pancake night for us. I'd 'camp' on the bedroom floor with the gas cylinder, making the pancakes, while Tat and Jorge camped on the bed. We'd watch Disney cartoons on TV, Ducktails being the most memorable right now.

 
Image borrowed from the Greedy Gourmet. Do visit the site. There are loads of spectacular recipes there combined with excellent photography

This evening, we'll have beef stroganoff, sans mushrooms (I couldn't find mushrooms anywhere in the city this week!), with a fruit salad for dessert. We'll probably watch a movie together. Not sure what. It is a relaxing day in all. Now why, as I typed that, did my mind flit to the pile of laundry that still needs to be finished??

A friend sent me a blessing this morning. It reminded me of something I read about blessings a while back. I always avoided using the word 'bless', as, to me, it held major religious overtones. The dictionary has, as one of its definitions: "to bestow good of any kind upon". In fact, when we say, "Bless you!" when someone sneezes, we bestow good to the extent of preventing bad. I like the idea of simply wishing good on the person I am blessing.

I thought I had saved the article I read on blessing, but found this instead. Again.... I like the idea.

Leaving A Positive Footprint
Blessing Space

Physical space acts like a sponge, absorbing the radiant of all who pass through it. And, more likely than not, the spaces we move through each day have seen many people come and go. We have no way of knowing whether the energy footprints left behind by those who preceded us will invigorate us or drain us. Yet we can control the energy footprint we leave behind for others. In blessing each space we enter, we orchestrate a subtle energy shift that affects not only our own experiences in that space but also the experiences of the individuals who will enter the space after us.

While we may never see the effects our blessing has had, we can take comfort in the fact that we have provided grace for those that follow after us. When you bless a room or an entire building, you leave a powerful message of love and light for all those who will come after you. Your blessings thus have myriad effects on the environments through which you pass. Old, stagnant energy is cleared, creating a vacuum into which fresh and invigorating energy can freely flow. The space is thus rendered harmonious and nourishing, and it becomes a hub from which positive feelings are transmitted. Intent is the key component of the blessings you leave in your physical wake. If your intent involves using your own consciousness as a tool for selflessly spreading grace, your blessings will never go awry. Whether you feel more comfortable performing a solo blessing or prefer to call upon your spirit guides for assistance, visualize each space you enter becoming free of toxins, chaos, and negativity as you speak your blessing. Then imagine the resultant emptiness being replaced by pure, healing white light and loving energy. Even a quick mindful thought of love can bless a space.

This type of blessing is cumulative and will grow each time you bestow it. Try blessing every home, business, and office you visit for an entire week and observing the effects of your goodwill. Your affirmative energy footprint will help brighten your day as you contemplate your blessing's future impact on your siblings in humanity and your environment.

Like a snowball that starts small and rolls down the hill growing larger as it goes, a simple blessing sent out by each of us can make a change in the world, don't you think?

 

Technorati Tags: blessing,anniversary,memories,pancakes

Sophie

(a 360 repost) Someone asked me what we're having for supper ; )

Tonight, we had samp and beans or as the Xhosa call it, umngqusbo, for supper and it made me think of Sophie. Samp, for those who don't know, is a white hominy. It is cooked with sugar beans and beef. My version contains tomato extract too - delicious!

Sophie is on the far left in the photograph. I'm the grubby looking kid with the bright red ribbons. My gran always put ribbons in my hair, no matter what the activity was or where we were going. I think she loved ribbons and they were always big and bright. On the far right, is Hamish, my brother and between us is Jemimah, Sophie's daughter and my playmate. Next to me is my gran. The other lady is a friend of hers, Gloria... a crazy lady.

Sophie was our maid. She worked for my gran from before I came along. Then she became my nanny. She is the one who walked me to and from school in the early grades. Ouma (my gran) was at the shop (for those who don't know, I was raised by my grandparents.) I remember sitting at the kitchen table, eating my lunch after school and telling Sophie to sit with me. "No, miss, it's not right." No amount of nagging on my part would get her to sit with me. She would stand at the counter, eating her lunch. Sophie was the one who taught me how to mop up the gravy from the stew with a chunk of bread... yummy! Sophie was also the one who taught me how to enjoy and later to make samp and beans. I have since used the dish for winter comfort food and even entertaining.

I remember once as a fairly new wife, we had had dinner with friends who were way out of our financial league. It was like eating at a hotel. They had servants doing all the preparation and serving. I was duly intimidated, as I knew we'd have to return the favour. In the end, I made samp and beans... something my friend had never tasted before. It was a hit. I love that stuff :)

Sophie was with us through my primary school years. It was Sophie who fetched me from school the day my grandad died. That was the end of an era. We moved and Sophie retired. Within a couple of months, I lost my beloved grandad, Jim, and Sophie. I can still picture her in her ever-present black beret, leaning over the kitchen counter, mopping up her gravy with a chunk of bread.... or chopping meat for supper, listening patiently to my jabbering.

Technorati Tags: sophie,samp n beans