Memory Road.

The Agent from Berlin is visiting. We took a meandering drive today - starting in Strubens Road, Mowbray. The wonderful house of Niki and Jude Daly. Niki was my lecturer at Stellenbosch University and is responsible for many of the threads in my fabric. The Agent and I lived next door to them many years ago. We were very young and poor in those days and I remember that we ate a lot of potatoes. At night we'd roam the streets looking for firewood. We had no tv, but Niki's piano would regularly entertain us through the shared wall of the terrace.

The Dalys' are moving to the seaside in the new year and today they had a studio sale of illustrations.

How difficult it was to choose!

A lucky girl is getting this one for Christmas.

These came home with me:

Also, a gift of his beautiful book, "A Wanderer In Og". Thank you Mister Inkman!

As always, I was rather distracted by bits of the house.

 And while passing through Observatory afterward, the distractions continued.

We ended up at the Biscuit Mill for a bite. I'm not one for the herd feeling, but the coffee was very good, as was the cider and the flatbread.

Liked the cardboard plate,

impressed by the crepe man's array of half finished Nutella.

Keepsake #4.

I went to a birthday party on a crisp, clear night in July. I remember talking to a boy from New York. He liked my red boots and we both loved the same obscure band. I didn't receive the message with the dress-up code but later I discovered the houndstooth heart he'd pinned to my sleeve when he said good bye. There were vodka jellies and interesting truffles. The next day my recollections were a little hazy. 'ek hou van die storie van die kremetart in die nag'. (I like the story about the baobab in the night.) This text message from The Man With The Generous Heart at first confused and then reminded me of the story I had told him so excitedly.

I'd arrived home earlier that afternoon exhausted and fallen asleep to a soothing birdlife program on the tv - a David Attenborough-type voice with which to gently lull. When I woke up, that small seaside world had changed and become a jungle forest - from the top all dark green cover, with giant baobabs towering above all the other trees. My childhood memories of baobabs consisted of arid, red, dusty earth and single giant trees with strange fruit - like fuzzy grey sweet potatoes. These television trees were completely different - tall tapered trunks with vast bases for retaining moisture, glossy dark green foliage and foot-long flower buds. The flowers opened at night, the whole affair taking just one minute - the outer creamy petals splitting open and curling back to reveal dark magenta depths, more delicate petals and lots of stamens that corkscrewed madly about. Small nocturnal monkeys came out in droves to lick the nectar from the insides of the flowers. The smallest monkeys of all monkeykind, with bulging eyes, round ears and triangular pink tongues. All this licking, however, did nothing for pollination, so the next sitting arrived. Big hover moths. They flew in like fighter jets with fast whirring wings and pointed furry bodies.

The whole nature program disciplehood suddenly made sense to me - it was glorious to imagine these things happening somewhere else in the world, while I followed my little city paths. It awoke another brilliant memory - some years ago I picked a bud from a yellow balloon flower bush and put it in a glass of water next to the couch where I was lying and reading a book. I heard a small pop and saw movement from the corner of my eye. Breathtakingly, in an instant, the flower had opened, filling the room with the mysterious scent of otherworldly pineapples.

The Trans-Continental Bake-Off.

Or: Die dinge waarmee jy my in 'n wip kan vang.

Every now and then I come across a recipe that I just know in my bones will be delicious. If it contains baked apples and brown butter and ground almonds and cardamom... it is added by default to the list of things you can catch me in a trap with.

So I was nattering away on Skype to The Man with the Generous Heart aka Our Agent in Berlin and we decided to make this together:

Brown Butter Spiced Crisp
 

  Granny Smith apples, unpeeled. Sultanas and lemon rind. Also added: a dash of cloudy apple juice to 'get it going'.

It's always advantageous to have a partner to share a crumble with. (A sneaky dish this - before you know it, you've eaten the whole thing on your own.)

I had sparkly company in the form of The Fantabulous T, who is visiting from Blighty. She is quite the expert - the crumb was analysed and pronounced most satisfactory.
 

 And this just in from Berlin: 
 

 Lilt, ek het die fotos met my cellphone gemaak. Ek stuur die nou ook vd foon, want ons het mos huisgaste. En hulle woon waar my computer is.
Ook nie asof ek eintlik tyd gehad het vir enigiets nie.  Vandat ek begin het om die koek te bak, met I., was dit meer soos damage control. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.
 

 In die middle vd beurre noisette kom die gaste aan. Reg vir aandete.
Stuur hulle op hul eie boontoe, terwyl ek wag vir die botter om 'n hoër pitch te sing. Terwyl ek water kook en knoffel skil.
Exchange pleasantries terwyl ek die botter inroer, met I. wat insist: ek wil, ek wil.  Alles klaar, in die oond.  Skink wyn in vir die grootmense, klein potjie op die plaat met hot chocolate vir die kinders.  Die pasta sousie begin solank simmer, die water kook al amper.
Net toe kom C. met 'n week se groceries wat in die yskas moet kom, blomme wat gesny en in 'n vase moet kom, die tafel word weggeskuif vd muur en gedek vir 7.
People and sauce can wait, pasta cannot.
Dit was die eerste halfuur van ons drie-dae-besoek.
 

 Uiteindelik, apple crisp vir nagereg.  Voordat ek nog 'n foto kan maak, is driekwart weg.  Ek dink dis 'n goeie teken.