Eva's broken hearted chicken.

As I cooked, I realized with a pang that I was making something very similar to one of my grandmother's signature dishes. She would send me to the garden to pick the parsley and to pull a bunch of shallots. And I would watch...

You skin the chicken pieces and chop some of the fatty bits finely, along with a couple of rashers of bacon, also finely chopped. Fry in a skillet until nicely browned - the fat rendered. Remove with a slotted spoon. Dredge the chicken pieces in seasoned flour, brown in the same skillet. Return the bacon and skins, shallots, some slivers of garlic, plenty of chopped parsley, a cup of chicken stock and half a cup of dry sherry. Bake at 180C/350F for about forty minutes, basting a couple of times.

 My grandmother never served this dish hot - as it cools, the gravy turns into a delicious jelly, wonderful with a few slices of chicken, on a fresh bread roll.

We ate it warm, with basmati and a salad of chopped heritage tomatoes, charred red pepper and parsley. I made a dressing of balsamic - the one thickened with figs, Mission olive oil from the Karoo and Turkish chili flakes. The vinegar settled into a fat question mark and I could almost feel her there next to me.

I learnt so much in my grandmother's kitchen. I wish I could cook her a meal. I wish I could take her shopping and introduce her to this new wealth of ingredients. She is the one who came to our "Grease" party dressed as a Greek peasant. The one whose ring I now own. A sweet-smelling rose called Aurora. Crumbs for the birds on the lawn. Freshly baked brown bread and apricot jam.

If I had to condense my grandmother into one word, it would be kindness.

Happy Birthday Ouma.

Does your heart beat true to me dear...

Post cards, letters, inscriptions in books... by people I will never know. Recently I bought a second hand copy of Don't Try This At Home, subtitled Culinary Catastrophes from the World's Greatest Cooks and Chefs.

On the flyleaf it has this inscription:

Dear Lawrence

Happy Christmas

xxx Love Me xxx

(with many hand-drawn hearts)

Surely, if Lawrence felt the same way about Me, he'd have treasured the book - it's a beautiful hardcover, with thick cellophane over the paper cover. The book is so pristine in fact, I fear I am the only reader.

That Lawrence.

I found two old postcards today at the boot sale. They are mysterious and touching. Written 98 years ago by C, to an undisclosed sweetheart. The copperplate fades and darkens, as the nib gets dipped into the ink.

The first, dated 14/9/14:

Does your heart beat true to me dear

You have not answered yet

But by a smile on your face dear

My answer I shall get,

C x

The second, almost a month later, simply reads:

Lots of Love dear

to you

C. x

Keepsake #6.

My mother gave me a very special gift today, she gave me my grandmother's engagement ring. Still in it's original box from Ritter's Jewellers and Watchmakers, Port Elizabeth & Grahamstown.

Oupa and Ouma were married in 1932. He was a bookkeeper from Prince Albert, she was secretary to the town lawyer in Humansdorp, Mr. Jones. Oupa walked past Ouma on the street one day and said: "That's the girl I'm going to marry."

He died in 1964, but Ouma wore his ring until the day she died, aged 85. I remember her taking it off in the kitchen and at night before bed.

Peter James Marx and Eva Annie Haskings, my grandparents.

Bittersweet Sunday.

 A good haul at the boot sale, for work and for me. A composite doll in a handmade Dutch dress. A cigar box - the price tag could have been written by my long-gone Grandmother. It reminded me of the papery skin on the back of her hands and I missed her. Another Chinese carved cork diorama (14 x 12 cm). A bunch of king proteas, from the seller outside Kwagga Books. He smiled and handed me a bunch of poppies as I left:
"met liefde my nooi".

And farewell to my honey at the airport. An important thing unsaid, now said. It was hard to let him go. Until 12 December. Istanbul.

❤

The Eternal Lovers.

My parents, on their honeymoon in Durban, in the sixties.
My Father was a surgeon, my Mother his theatre sister. She'd pass him instruments and think to herself: "He has such beautiful hands!" Behind his back they called him Dr. Dreamboat.
They had supper by candlelight every night. They danced in the kitchen. Us kids would roll our eyes and the daschund went beserk.

My Grandmother and Grandfather on the beach in Jeffreys Bay. (In matching swim suits!)
I'm not sure how they met, but I have this dance card from 1924.

Eight dances, including first and last, to P.,
my Grandfather.
So romantic.

How did your parents meet?

Keepsake #5.

A few years ago, someone I don't know very well sent me this origami water lily. It travelled on the dashboard of a friend's car and arrived on my birthday. I'm still touched by the gesture - this is such a fragile thing for a man to make.

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.

Keepsake #3.

One of those famous New Year's Eve parties. Through the Huguenot Tunnel. Followed the pink tape markers. Scraped the bottom of the car, very almost got stuck. 

Too many DJ's.

Danced the whole night long. Slept for an hour or two, only to be woken by the blinding hot sun beating through the car window. The pillow trick was useless. Walked down to the river. Lay floating on my back, arms stretched wide, watching shiny motes of dust and crazily zooming insects. The tiniest of fish started splashing in the water around me. Water the colour of strong tea without milk, bubbles rising like globules of mercury.

Back at the car, half buried in the sand, a small Tiger's Eye egg lay waiting.

Keepsake #2.

 Stamped on this ring are the words: Suikerbossie ek wil jou hê. It's a line from an Afrikaans folk song that translates to ‘Sugarbush I want you so’, sung by girls and boys a-courting. A Suikerbossie is a sweetheart but also a kind of Protea bush which bears South Africa’s national flower.

I no longer wear it and the white line on my finger has faded.

Keepsake #1.

 

My mother was given this book on her eighth birthday. She had the measles and wasn't allowed to read it. She lay in a darkened room for a week. All she had to amuse herself with was a contraband piece of sheet music and an orange wax crayon. She lay on the bed in the dark and scribbled over the notes on the paper.