Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Cooking Up A Duck

Now just the mention of 'duck' calls for celebration! I offered to do the usual Sunday roast. Didn’t cook up a raging storm however, as I felt more under the weather than anything else…

In the cottage is a rule: One really needs to be half-dead before one stop eating. This includes the cats, kitten and dog.

The orange-a-la-Duck surprised even me, so I want to pay a tribute to food… and the lovers of food.

Did the thought ever cross your cooked or fried brains (mine is roasted), that cooking and food goes hand-in-hand and can turn out to be an almost embarrassing sensual matter?

Think of the following sensations in your mouth: Bursting flavours of summer-ripe apricot and pie spicy with winter scent…Dazzling summer fruit and zesty lemon or sweet orange with a touch of jasmine, lavender and pomegranate…

Nectar of the soul; mouth-watering and succulent juices overflowing to the extent of taste and smell intoxication…

Well, are you still with me?

If you could imagine yourself to be something hugely enjoyable in the class of something edible: What Would You Be?

I…now I like to imagine myself as a voluptuous and delicate 1st grade leg of young roast lamb. Basted and treated in the traditional and expertly gentle ways which the French are known for. I would be carefully selected at an open-air market, kept out of the cold in a warm kitchen in order to thaw and carefully placed in a not too hot oven. Slowly cooking over a low heat, all the flavours mingling and sizzling the language of food.

The chef will slather and baste me expertly with some more heady-scented rosemary, lemon juice, garlic cloves and a rich dark red wine…

I will simply burst with flavour.

Carved, selected and tasted with reverence by those seated around an oak table (without a cloth). The food lovers will soak themselves with tingling spice and flavour, washed down with mint-sauce, or cranberry and an unusual amount of aged wine from a French barrel splashing down their throats. All of which to be picked or licked slowly and with deep concentration.

So I thought:

Nigella Lawson may very well be a law unto herself when she breaks her eggs single-handedly… And Jamie Oliver delivers five-star kitchen performances, stripped naked of any false ambiance… but nothing comes close to true love for food. In the ordinary kitchen. The simplicity of daily cooking for myself, family or friends turns me into a diva flirting with taste, utensils and everything nearby. The smell of frying onions and portabella mushrooms drive me wild together with the mixing of an array of other spices and herbs.

So, this may very well be a confession from a South African lassie: Who said we can’t cook like the BBC cooking idols? I have to confess however not to having performed any naked kitchen cooking chores yet; although I believe one day there may be enough room for improvement on the matter.

...Icould be seduced to such liberating acts IF I am certain that all sharp knives and utensils have been put somewhere out of the way…

Last night I traversed one notch closer to becoming the next great chef: I cooked up Duck Risotto with a few secret ingredients - and I have no words as to why nobody out there yet wrote up such an intolerably delicious and unforgettably sexy dish!

If you’re still with me, not having chewed off your fingers or tongue…and if you find good food irresistible, not able to deny anything good in the name of Italian or Mediterranean juices… with the smell of fresh bread, pine & dust and exploding coffee machines…then I urge you to go and get Anthony Capella’s miracle book:

The Food of Love”.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

The Best Present


It wasn’t the usual things that made me remember his birthday this year. Not the terrifying fact that he isn’t getting any younger or that I always get his birth-date wrong (too late or too soon). Nope. It was memories of things friends share and a taste of many gin & tonics and Gaelic Coffees consumed, English braais, sharing laughter and everyone getting up to dance like loonies as the sun set over poppy fields near the Hill amongst the farms and where foxes live.

It is a friendship that had grown and survived for nearly ten years now. One that stays alive by emailing stuff about our different but similarly dysfunctional families, their children growing up too fast and how embarrassed they are these days by their giddy older parents sledging in the snow like craze-wits…

It’s memories of my best friend’s wife who once called a dreadful woman ‘an old bag’ – deservedly so. Me going off once on a ‘hee-haaa’ ice-skidding trod with her horse down a narrow Kentish lane and thus turning my friend’s wife into a rebuking white-faced shit-scared woman for my complete ignorance, stupidity and South African free-spirit bouncing all over the place.

My friend forever tickling the laughing glands over splendid English dinners; forever having some drama unfolding near or right on their doorstep.

A light drizzle this morning, brought to mind a scene of wintry gusts in the Northern Hemisphere – the bitter cold of January must have settled in well by now. In England. My friend lives below a bare winter forest and far above the rail track going to France. This morning, on his birthday, he would have jogged (stumbled?) down the narrow stairs from the attic and aimed directly for the only warm room in the house: The cozy yellow Kitchen. The place where a collection of cream-cows (porcelain) lives above the kitchen window that overlooks a hedge and The Hill. Earl Gray tea leafs poured into a tea pot, placed on the edge of the hot aga. Turning on the stereo next to it, tapping to the beat of a tune and in one movement taking a call from the phone that lives against the wall where the mugs are kept on a shelve. Fill the now elderly Cairn terrier’s bowl with food and garlic tablets, pick up the Sun from the kitchen wooden table, turn to the middle page immediately before scanning the articles for the latest political mischief in town.

I want to wish my best friend the best of birthdays today; with youth and spring in his every step when he goes out wearing a jacket and his ever present walking stick. I want to chat and laugh and down a whole pint of Gaelic or a stiff G&T, with my friend. Want to hear him talk about his latest hobbies, tiffs with stray mules (farmers and snooty folk), the latest music that tickles his fancy and hear about gypsies he’d seen trespassing, shooting hares or infuriatingly so, relieving themselves by the fences in the field nearby…

If we had lived in a different time, not able to cross the borders with travels as we do these days, I would never have been so lucky as to meet my best friend. I doubt anyone else would fill his shoes in this capacity. So I guess the ‘best-friend-theory’ works slightly different from the ‘soul-mate’ theory where each of us must have one in every country! It works different too from my ‘dad-is-the-best-ever-dad’, ‘my-boyfriend-husband’ or ‘my-best-girl-friend…’ thing too.

My best friend is something completely different. He is nice. Like a sofa in the only warm sun-dappled spot in a cold room…comfortable and dreadfully missed when I’m far away. I hope he enjoys today. My sometimes rummaging through drawers friend, faffing about for ages in search for only what he knows, and often not finding it.

There are times when he is a bit of a grump pot, mostly silently so, but often not as grumpy as caught in the drift of his own thoughts... He is, says my best friend, in touch with his feminine side. A caring friend, loving husband and father, intelligent nerd, knowledgeable writer, dangerous driver, great walker sharing my baffling love for Scotland, ageing and stubborn red-haired butt, buddy and dreamer...

Happy-Happy Birthday my very best Friend.

Wilting & Wistfully

I was starkly reminded today of a place in Stirlingshire (Scotland) with a small statute of William Wallace... The Scots really can’t stand this replica of William, since it seems to be the exact opposite of the physically huge and admirable legend he was.

Stirling never became much more to me than a stopping place either to fill up the car, buy MacDonalds & coffee or change over at the bus station. Similar to Fort William which heads right up the Highlands (up my street too) and past the famous and often snow-clad Ben Nevis.

Another time perhaps, I'll chat about a place called Newton and the barracks, where a real dog owns a real pub...

BT wrote beautifully on his blog, about a much treasured railway track: The Kyle- Inverness Track. He must have made a dozen more travels on this breathtaking route than me... The few times I traversed up and down, it never failed to take my breath away too.

I’d share my sandwiches and even my last bottle of homemade wine with someone willing to swop places and change seats for me…

I’d give my birthright to be seated next to a small window on the Kyle train, raindrop or sticky- smeared, and to be looking out into a world unknown to the majority of people to walk this earth.

I so not want to copy TB's melancholy, but my thoughts kept returning to small islands, the cries of buzzards, myths and and water-edged smoky villages all day long. I can't finish this day without trying at least, to put this into some words or such.

I'd like to leave my footprints, small or faint, in the crystal frost amongst the thicket of bog and myrtle, wave at the ever so wild but curios deer, trace my fingers along the edges of wild mushrooms and ferns and the ever evasive far gone times. I want to close my eyes and see that last crimson sunset fade behind lush pine trees and hills, as the train pulls away from Kyle and Inverness to travel further and further from my heart's desire.

The track between Kyle of Lochalsh (beautiful name, eh?) and Inverness (capital of the Highlands) are craddled between high mountains and deep ravines...Stopping or passing places are named Plockton, Dingwall, Loch Carron which makes me want to write music...Passing small lonely croft housies surrounded by nothing but tracks and eerily moody mountain slopes...

I would turn to stone and die if that was the requirement to find a foothold and resting place...just there. In that place between misty isles and hazy summer dreams.

I'd like to trace back on each step that took me further and further away...from there.

Friday, January 23, 2009


Okay people...

I had so many offers on News 24, I must admit to having left out one vital point:

I'm not desperate, just a little bit deranged.

Neurotic Habits of a Fellow Blogger

Warning: This is written in an unhealthy hurry (disastrous), right under the sharp eyes of the Mafia. So please pardon the garble that might sprout and flourish in style on this page today… Next time…e-r, can’t make any promises right now. Just be happy with getting these meager mielie-pitte being offered today...

It seems to be all doom and gloom for our Neanderthal friends from the North. The cold of the season had finally got to them; driving them to extreme lows on a chilling stock market and unfriendly bare trees hibernating in some black frost. Oh dear, they'll be glad to see the backside of this one...

As for me, I seem to go from disconbobbled to extreme-bobbled strengths this week. Who would guess the rambles a blog can stir up…in one’s very little but wandering own mind.

As usual, this Extra-Virgin Leo’s sole intention was slightly selfishly focused on getting things straightened out in her life. Next thing that happens is…nothing much.

That is quite tragic. The life of an ordinary and sometimes desperately confused being doesn’t only drive others insane but believe me; I drive myself around the bend, time and again.

It’s weekend and all I want to do is SLEEP. But alas, life out there is waiting and they (the Chuckies of this world) threatened me to get out there this weekend on a hike, with strangers of all faces and races. Do I really give a farting pig to actually put on my walking shoes this weekend? Those shoes still bear the laborious evidence of my last death-defying scramble up and on-all-fours-backside-skidding downfall from Koffiebus in the North Eastern Cape. I righteously nicknamed the coffeepot Koffimanjaro. Why does something in that name ring a cannabis bell? I wonder, I wonder…

Do I REALLY want to go out tonight and possibly (please be there!) meet my future soul mate? Do you know, one has many-many more soul mates than one will ever be able to handle or be handled by? I don’t want to overplay my hand in my own little soap opera – but it might be nice if these soul mates just sometimes come out from behind whatever they’re hiding. This little game of hide & seek can also become very (there’s that word again) laborious. So next time someone seemingly lurks behind the thin bark of a palm or sneak out of my sight, I’ll just shout the following: I can see you! Games up, time to come out… and YOUR BLOODY TURN TO LOOK FOR ME NOW! AND TO COUNT TO THAT REDICULOUS 6-DIGIT FREEKING NUMBER I DID BEFORE I SAW YOU…

See, I’m not done yet with that Sexurance Topic either. It bugs me. It really does. Living in the surrounds of a multi-sexual-frustrated city, one needs to reaffirm certain values with one’s co-conspirators, i.e. bloggers. It drives me around the bend, it truly does, this life. Let's get one thing straight: we live in such a BIG world, and yet... And yet we often agree in sharing the same bloody experiences, or having gone to the same bloody school... Now I seem to have been sniffed out by a bloodhound from my parts of the world.


Thursday, January 22, 2009


This serves as a little precautionary insurance against and in favor of future advances…

I am NOT a straight-turned-into-lesbian wacko who writes stories about sullen blonds celebrating their birthdays.

Blondie is my confused; bless her soul, middle Sissie who believes blonds have more fun. I firmly disagree (Guys, now you know).

It’s bad enough that men turn ‘pink’ so often in my surrounds; not because they’re so sweetly shy or wearing lovely pink shirts. No, because they have chosen to be gay.

I am facing the stomach churning truth as an Capetonian on a daily basis! I am beat and deflated by the rate at which Cape Town seems to grow more and more into a verily fragrant blushing Pink Town.

That does not exclude the Lesbian community. Has it become a trend? I wonder, because lately, we’ve been bombarded by people who seem to have become utterly and profusely confused in the department of their sexual preferences.

I find it terribly weird. How can one go through the whole normal dating scene, marry, have kids…do the whole katooti and undergo such a major sexual change?

Are these people maybe one of the following? Psychic, hormonal, cynical or confused?

I don’t think I can cope with an in-depth look into these sexual matters…

Behind these windows

I just remembered the name of a book once read whilst I stayed in Chelsea. U.K. Behind the scenes at the Museum by Kate Atkinson (recommended by BT).

And one day when thunder and crashing lightning rocked the city of London, I had hurried up the narrow stairs to pick up this book... and bask gratefully in the weak dash of sunshine on the carpet in front of my narrow little bed.

There was another time when three South Africans ran to the nearby pizzeria in Maida Vale, just to return home with a take away to have a chili competition. Which landed me and the other U.K. participant Andy taking turns sticking our heads in Julie’s freezer. But that is another story…

Blondie is celebrating her birthday in the thundery dusty City of Roses today. I won’t give away the secret, but she wobbles ever so precariously on the little stone set between under- and over the middle line of a number.

Went on an outing with the students this morning. What I would like to know, is what business a hair lecturer and students have on a Thursday morning at such a place of all places?

Blondie said maybe they thought that’s where she belongs…

Tsk. I have no idea what she’s talking about. The idea of precious goods kept for viewing to the public rather appeals to me…

At least she had the sense to smuggle a bottle of bubbly in and drink to the well of youthful experiences awaiting her this year.

The year ‘Two Thousand And Fine’ is just going to be great for Blondie. I know and feel it in my bones.

Nine out of ten times I’m right…

Irksome Adulterous(?) Mischief

The following goes back to the year 2005 - 2007 - R.I.P

An ex boyfriend 'A' recently started a relationship with someone I used to know. A shocker to me, alright, because this is a woman I considered to be a friend during the time I knew her.

Only close to the end of my relationshiop with 'A', was I told that this woman had often hinted that she would cheat on her partner because she had a thing for ‘A’. Drooling cheating biets.

Yes, my claws were out...Because, how dare she try her luck with my boyfriend at the time? We had a two year (too) long realtionship, one which I ended late in 2006 because…because… One just realizes things won’t work.

Thinking about what ‘A’ told me recently, I’m completely irked. I have a mind of sending him the telephone bill which had rocked my budget right accross the universe. Because dear friends, all I had to do was LISTEN. To ex boyfriend ranting about himself, this woman, them, their misfortunes, his bad luck, the bastard ex of the woman...

And all I could think was: The last thing I want to hear is who and what my ex boyfriend is currently shagging.

Like most people, the thought of exes and others together isn't very attractive.

The partner that this woman used to share a house with for a couple of years had to move out. In fact, he is kicked out.

It gives ‘A’ free access to the house. The scmuck gets it easy...

The woman decides she wants ‘R’ back in her life. Poor old ‘A’

Woman wants ‘A’ back, dear poor old ‘R’…

Woman doesn’t seem to know what she wants; and so on… Screwed up? I think so.

It bugs me that two people I knew, can destroy someone else’s happiness on a whim, just like that.

I always thought 'R' and I had more in common than 'A' and I. Perhaps both 'R' and I missed something.

I may very well have been stringed along like a fool. Love makes real fools of us nice, decent and trusting idiots sometimes…

Sentencing the guilty:
How can one understand, have time or respect for such unbelievably insane behaviour?

This is the sort of thing that happens in small Scottish or other villages. Everyone has slept with someone’s ex or current partner. Maybe the villagers aren’t stimulated enough. Due to working on the fisheries, local shops, pubs and on yachts, they don’t often get out and in touch with the outside world. A certain social scene is set and bred and it seems to steer towards sheer dark drops that leads to no good.

Death Sentence:
Well, yesterday I received a note from ‘A’ that he nearly died during the last couple of days due to a burst ulcer.

Oh dear, how awful. Poor thing. So all these latest escapades had left him feeling ‘disenchanted’?

Well fuck (sorreee), I don’t care. I’m sorry for his bad health which I often warned him to keep an eye on…but frankly, it’s no longer my problem.

It was my thoughts yesterday, still is…

I am done with the past and a village gone bonkers with villagers bonking one another...

I pressume such thoughts mean I've moved on.

That is when one knows that one is in a very-very good space.

Snug as a Schmuck


No, of course I did naet get it all. And just to be annoying and perverse, I also don't like bran or rice crispies...Doesn't mean I don't like a good hearty full English or Boere breakfast.

But looking at the a different world under the outspan of stars last night, I realised what an old bag I’ve been lately.

Nagging really drags one down and up to a certain point, wears out the listeners as well. Fact remain though that us fragile and sometimes extremely powerful human beings need to crumble or vent from time to time. I usually take this in my stride – going to and fro. That’s why my family believe that quite a bit of Italian-French and Viking explosive oomph and lustre runs in our veins, not to mention some strong German-Scots and Jantjies (of which I’m doubtful, but…) remaining in stubbornnes and neurotic willfulness…

However, I’m consoled in knowing that pavement specials survive and make better pets and pals than fullblood and often disease prone hounds. Mind, I’d have loved to be a pedigree English hunter, or a scruffy Border Terrier (yuff-woof!).

We are after all lucky things. Some like me priviledged to have it on our back & frontdoor steps.

And we are alive.

So I felt at peace for once:

A braai fire lit, mist hovering in the loop between a The Twelve Apostles and little Lions Head

Rain clouds shifting further across the darkening sky, and all but disappearing into thin air.

Lightning: got all excited and a bit worried as I could not see a cloud in the sky. Was a faulty outside light going disco-bonkers. Spooky!

A falling star. I actually saw one for once! This big, yellow perfectly shaped star died gracefully without sparks. I’m sure it wasn’t a flair (I did not have a lot of wine either). It went pitch-black again.

The end of something bright and light…

Salt sea air tickled my face, nostrils and eyes. A sure sign that rain was closing in. No clouds visible yet…

Woke up at 03h00 with the sound of thousands of drops falling from the sky...

Dozing off to be somewhat disrupted by a waking and stretching kitten…

Wednesday, January 21, 2009


I wrote to a friend today, asking: Wàaaat are you taaaaalking about?

Somewhere along the lines I got behind. Then realized with a jolt that I need to get a grip and come back to this life. Note: not to me, but to lilfe going on around me.

The reply to my question, was patient and friendly. Aren't we lucky things to have friends like that?

A lot of people seem to struggle with life and work at the moment - and if they are like me, feel completely out of it. Middle-cross left & right through the 'whap'.

We've lost the plot. Our heads are in a different place. We're not too certain about the direction we're heading into at the mo. Things happen too fast, all at once. Some of which seems so unimportant whereas the holiday memories seem to fade with each day passing...

I'm joining the bitching work brigade. I'm reeling from the shockwaves of being back at work, in the ever windy auld Cape Town. I'm hit between the eyes, where it hurts the most, as to why we always come back. Do we really fancy living a PC and mafia-boss macabre lifestyle?

Sometimes we don't have a choice, though, do we? Or maybe we're working towards something that just seems to be fluttering just out of reach and our begging hands.

I really-really enjoyed the empty space and view from the top. Standing on a mountain with a panoramic view stretching into a soft distant vicinity. I liked watching sunsets and rising early, breathing in clean veldt air and drinking from the gentle whispers of a farm hidden amongst layers of mountain and sky.

I promised myself a picnic with many people by the dam, and to take along binoculars next time. Loved the dirt & dust, feeding the chickens (with disinfected cat-litter instead of grainy shell I promised to import from CT, but forgot to do).

Chatting to my dad in his vegetable garden, taking kiekies, introducing my folks to new cooking tips, learning things and such from them, doing things I never do in my ordinary life.


How about you?

To those who are suffering with regards to anything at the moment: There is a book by James Patterson titled 'Suzanne's diary for Nicholas'

- It gives one a complete new meaning of the word 'Lucky'.


Groggy mornings...And a gloriously rolling morning to you!

External factors can play a huge role in mornings, you know. Especially those chemical feeling-good hormones that takes their time to kick in and start up like a lackluster rusty grossly abused old tractor.

To name a few culprits in my morning life:

Eyes puffy, face plastered with too much hideous make-up to stuff up an unusual paleness and unsightly blue circles…I wont achieve the serene beautiful looks of a Madonna today. For some unexplainable reason I am dead on my feet. Spring-chickens like me should be jumping with joy and energy so something doesn’t tick. Surely?

There is the illness for work I have to cope with. Dreadful. I have so many work related allergies and too many to name. Such as dysfunctional photocopiers, static PC’s, work mugs & coffee & milk, the telephone (argh), nasty witches flying around me below the dreadful fluorescent lights, the boss and his fishwife (I can imagine this entity slaving & screaming at everyone in a crowded hot Portuguese fish & chips shop)… My system seems to have developed an incurable resistance against all anti-histamines available on the market. Time to switch to something else? A strong antibiotic to get the antibodies fighting for survival again, or turning to a bottle of ‘water of life’ such as uisge beatha? That is whisky, by the way, okay.

While we’re on the topic, can one ask to be send home from smoke congestion? Once again we’re surrounded by runaway veldt fires and a lot of smoke that weaves it way through our valley. It seems to get trapped around our heads and backdoors. This invading smoke comes all the way from Kommetjie, Joostenbergvlakte and Botrivier. Where is this place?

Fires, wind, dams that are bursting at a 99 % and yet some poor southern suburban folk are wildly fined for watering wilting gardens. And continuously stalked by Lesotho-hat-wearing (I have seen them! Their big secret is out) bush-sitting speed cops lounging around the Kirstenbosch and HB Spar area. That’s a new way of getting the work done, eh.

I also suffer from apparent lack of sleep. 8-Week kittens are programmed and entitled to have happy-jumping hours amongst the bed linen and its sleeping inhabitants. This happens at all hours during the short night: 01h25, 03h30, 03h55, 06h30. Today the little buggers gets to sleep it off whilst this poor idiot feel deprived of much needed rest. Do you think people start seeing and hearing things due to lack of sleep? I just get grumpy.

So all in all, I’m entitled to have sundowners out somewhere tonight. I’ll be hitting the road with screeching tires and it’ll probably leave unsightly marks in front of the workplace. Tough on them, because that is what the neighbor’s dogs do to our lawn all the time.

So I guess I’ll be doing the morning-noon-night thing all over again…

Tuesday, January 20, 2009


Just the other day we discussed how words sometimes go riot as it comes out sounding all wrong. Causing minor embarrasments. This caused a bit of a stir and a giggle with a story or two…

Such as the time long ago when I asked a diner if he did not want to eat the soup in front of him, to which he replied solemnly: No thank you. But you can eat it if you want. Turned out it was a bowl of water to wash one’s hands after a splendid meal of spareribs.

Another time my sister did a finger prick (how else to say?) on a patient to get a blood sample. It (the needle) slipped too fast and hard through the unfortunate patient’s skin. In a flurry she said: I really did not mean to stick a finger in your hole! No surprise the all but amused patient replied: I would hope not!

Walking the lovely white beach Saturday morning, I commented to sis that some surfers seem to be really something to look at. Wouldn't it be nice having one of those... Wanting to say that a surfer could ‘surf’ into her life any time, it came out as: A surfer can service me any time...

What a laugh.

Not thinking, I asked which part she was talking about: the distributor or the plugs… ? Gross details really; and I'm sure a real mechanic would have been able to construct the question slightly more functionary.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Hairy weekends

Following all the recent excitement…

Well, Last night I sat on the front steps of the cottage, relishing life and an aged red wine from a big elegant crystal glass. Sunday dusk was fast turning into a soft glowing evening. It had a poetic beauty to it. Accident-prone knees drawn up to my chin with sun-brown calves (too much exposure to harsh Karoo mountains and sun), everything inside me became still. I welcomed the evening chill creeping up my muddy from watering-the-garden toes… But still, we were sheltered from the southeaster howling over the pebbles by the river at the bottom of the valley.

I watched the last pink colors fade on dark rock faces inked with rough lines and crevasses. I wanted to get up there to find and feel the deep hidden ravines where ferns and forest giants watch down on us small human things. I imagine there must be cascading small waterfalls and tranquil rock-pools; hiding amongst shadowy slips, narrows and plato’s. Maybe, just maybe so.

Before melancholy could set in too deeply, I suddenly remembered something important and said to the other silent watcher on the steps:

I think my hair has grown this weekend.


Yeah, I can feel and see it…

Oh, so your hair has grown SO much over…the…weekend.

Yeah. Don’t you think it is great?

Thank goodness I'm not Catholic

...or a lot of confessions would have to be made on a weekendly basis...

Peace arrived last night after a somewhat peculiar weekend. You know, one of those which one can't put a finger on. Like a thorn stuck under the skin, not terribly uncomfortable but not supposed to be stuck there either...

I did not work on my story for a travel magazine. Using an excuse that I'm awaiting some vital info...

I did however change the story line of that big 'Tuscan-villa-here-we-come' novel. People, you may now officially start booking your there might be a waiting list.

I drank less wine... During the holidays I heard this true story of an elderly gentleman that choked straight into the wine goblet during a communian service. Too thirsty? Tsk. Everyone apparently then asked for tumblers... which luckily were at hand.

Went to the cinema to see either Jonathan Livingston Seagull or Australia, then changed the plan and bought a screw top bottle of Chenin Blanc, cheese straws and honey-nougat and hit the road not quite knowing where I was going. Not home, because that would send me going boing-boing.

Drove to the other side of the peninsula and went for a lovely long curvy stroll on Scarborough’s white sand. Pervert me did a bit of checking the surfers gliding across the gentle swells. The sea colors were aqua-, cobalt- and transparent like a swimming pool. And it nearly froze off my toes.

I spent a lot of time playing with Mr. Gorgeous. The latest addition to Acorn Cottage, Luigi is a tiny, ffurry, funny, jumpy, milk and attention loving little kitten with plenty of personality.

Ma and Pa celebrated their 39th wedding anniversary. How many people can say that? I told them that they must have a very normal marriage considering all the sh*t between all the good over the years, and getting to the point where they still love each other.

The very same day however we reeled in shock when my cousin (godchild’s mom) had a nasty car accident caused by an imbecile drug-induced blond charging her white Corsa from a one-way ally (wrong way) straight into her. My cousin could have died. Cousin said with a hint of humor though that they're going to 'naai' this chic in court.

Spoiling the day further, Ma and Pa’s beloved pet, a 5-year old rock rabbit (dassie) decided to die. Probably liver failure, as Dassie had a real fetish for cheese and wine. Well, another thing is that my brother and Dassie had a very special relationship: they hated each other. Bro did the right thing however to call and give his condolences of the recently deceased...

And I forgot to phone a friend who I promised to call last night - after I tried really hard to remember all weekend.

And someone I know seems to have gone off with a guy I really liked.

Life in the nether parts of Africa never has a dull moment, it seems.

A happy & blessed week to you.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Men & Milk

A conversation around a rekindled barbeque fire at 04h00 in the morning, tuned me into a curios listener (for once). Men and buying milk are a synonym when it comes to relationships.

Now we’re onto something! I thought as a light drizzle turned into tiny droplets sparkling from the nearby lemon tree. I was guided into the world of dark and luminescent relationships. Told about the current trend of sex-in-the-city of London and given a glimpse of how life and dating work for the single, between 30 - 55 sometimes erratic, realistic and straight forward male of our day and age.

The ‘right man’ has become exclusive goods these days. That we women know, but...

Girls-girls, some guys are actually completely empathetic towards one of society’s biggest ever niggles! The grossly over-population of the female sex across the world, as opposed to the seemingly diminishing male sex. A thorn in the flesh of most normal women, as this factor stands in direct opposition of the normal, single girl’s fantasy of finding the One. Or be found by the One and Only. The ever-missing link of a perfectly, suitable but elusive entity that right now we all wish is out there searching for us. And not lusting after others. We want the single male mustang to be wandering out there in the wild, hungry and wondering where you and I can be.

And Boy! Is it wild out there… I’m trying to say that this lucky bastard (whoever it eventually will be) doesn’t realize half the time just how lucky he is to be surrounded by so many females. So many to choose from. Complete magnitudes of femme fatale! He knows that he only needs to sail out of his front door to be surrounded by women.

Must be bliss...for them. But no-no, not really. Girls, we like to think we know what men are like, but not entirely so. The reason why I’ve seemingly have gone singularly mad stating this, is jotted down in the lines further down.

Don't hurry just read slowly and take time to ponder the following...

My gorgeous new friend who just happened to get engaged to an apparently lovely Scottish lassie, said things that made the hair on my head stand up on all ends. He agreed with me that it is rather a sad fact that women really don’t have as much choice as men in finding a partner. If one looks into shops, pubs, train terminals and all, one will always find a bloke’s eyes roving over bunches of girls. Some obviously may seem more greedily than others...

A meeting place is arranged. The week after it is with a different individual…and a month later he had seen a dozen different women and can't remember half the names. Men have a big choice in the selection of woman they want to go out with. At the drop of a hat or condom, lover can get cold feet, and as he run away, bump into the next chic. It almost works like an easy refund when one gets something similar in the next knocking a new pair of legs or bum off their feet.

The only consolation I find in knowing this terrible truth is that our male buddies may have a problem at hand, what with all the choices laid on a tray before them.

My mouth went dry with the shock when as good confessing how the male psyche works, he told me some serious stuff:

Finding the right woman amongst thousands of her own species, is tough on a man. Women are wrong to think men are spoilt for the picking, choosing and disposing. Women ought to drop every notion of envy. Let go of any prejudiced thoughts towards the choices men face these days. Kick out any wrong conclusion about what goes on in men's heads, because the male fantasy in reality amounts to the dreadful example of shopping for milk.

Yes, milk.

Skimmed Milk, Full Cream Milk, 2 % Fat Milk, Goats Milk, Soya Milk, sterilized milk, homogenized, soft curd, flavoured milk, acidophilus, kefir, reconstituted, recombined, toned and double-, carrot…double-toned milk, Reconstituted /Rehydrated Milk, fermented Milk...and so much more varieties of...just... milk!

He said that different types of milk and the choice of partners have something in common – they share a deeply structured recipe. Choice.

It’s daunting. It’s hard and difficult. It’s ridiculous, but a simple outing such as buying milk can quickly turn into an extremely foul-tasting and curd experience. An example to understand what I’m getting at is that one can read the label wrong and go for the completely wrong carton. Or simply not find the right one amongst a confusing stack of other cartons. Or blindly choose one just to discover it is soy milk and tastes awful in coffee. Or the 2 % low fat hardly makes any difference and makes coffee look like sick…

So, as much as I like the Pink Floyd song “We don’t need education”, it may be time to let go off the stagnated view of men getting it all… They may seem to be having a lot more choice than we do, yes. Sometimes they seem to be the proverbial cat that got the cream and the butter. But it happens often that a man can walk out of the shop with a teething tiger in the bag.

Next time, I see a decent looking guy standing around the milk lorry and looking confused, I may just offer some assistance in the big choice he has to make…

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Sh*tty Conversations

Times spent with Ma & Pa can be challenging and demanding. The surprising factor however is that there short visits can turn out to be fun and filled with occasional hillarious moments.

Mother and daughters are peculiar beings. They can talk and cook together, admire Mum’s garden and get on marvelously early in the morning… By noon Mum will be scolding Dad to go steady on the vino and not produce raw dinner again whilst the daughter stares irritated down at the drooling dogs littered across the lawn. Ah, a curious fact to doodle and ponder if one happens to have the time.

...But never to quite reach or fathom the bottom-line of mother-daughter relationships.

Mum: You don’t do it like that.

Daughter: Of course you do.

Mum: You don’t.

Daughter: Ma, praat mos nou sommer k*k. (Ma, you’re just talking shit now)

Sharp intake of breathe…

Mum: I would never have said that to my mother!

Daughter: You did!

Mum stalks away angrily, Dad following her to the bedroom.

Dad says: I remember that you did tell your mother...


Mum, exasperated: What???

Dad: That she talked a shitload of bullocks....

Mum: ... Maar dan het sy seker k*k gepraat. (...But she probably did talk shit).


We all love you Mum.

Monday, January 12, 2009

In The Ditch

A fellow blogger on the SA News 24 blogsite asked ‘what’s in a name’. It came to mind how I once scoffed at what mine could stand for…

My name is Carin. Not Karen OR Carine, just plain Carin with a “C” and the “I” and pronounced as Car-In-The-Garage. Simple, one would think, but not so to some beings who seem to be really slow getting it.

So having a conversation with a newly married couple in a pub of small Highland town called Applecross, it threw me into gob-smack disbelief when my boyfriend at the time, took over from the usual description saying aloud: It’s like "Car-in-the-DITCH".


On the way back to the dingy B & B we stayed at, I nearly fed him to hungry heilen coos (Highland cattle).

By the way, being back at the humorless job today and it SUCS. Any other bollocks might be more acceptable than this trade with the soul-wrenching tight-lipped mafia...