Let's party like it's 1981.

The Lip told me the other day that whilst driving somewhere with his thirteen year old son, they started talking about the parents of his friends. Turns out, as they went through the list, that all of them were divorced or separated. Then they ticked off the parents of his younger son's friends. Ditto.

I realize more and more how fortunate I am to have had happy parents. And it gives me such warm joy when I see couples who stick it out through thick and thin.
 

We celebrated a union of thirty years last night. He asked her to marry him at the station. When they walked outside all the newspaper posters proclaimed: They're engaged! (They happened to have chosen the same day as Prince Charles and Lady Diana.)

Ken & Kris. You make the world feel right.

Nostalgia.

I had a fortuitous escape the other day, walking down Queen Victoria Street with a stalker hot on my heels, calling: are you married? are you married? So I ducked into the Methodist Bookshop and lo, there I found a set of 1970's Supercook encyclopedias. Back then, my mother used to collect the exact same thing in magazine form. Full of family favourites. I taste them as I turn the pages. Some rather wild styling:

Dutch split pea soup, cooked on Friday. Chocolate Almond Rum cake, Oxtail ragout, Courgette fritters, Apricot tart... coming up.

Nostalgia: a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.

It's been a month full of things that take me back. A courier arrived at my door on Thursday with a large parcel. A lump in my throat as I unwrapped it - an old Persian rug, bought by my father at an auction many years before I was born. I have little that is tangible from the house where I spent the first ten years of my life, yet it features as a backdrop in dream after lucid dream. There's my father standing on the dining room table, changing a light bulb. Through a window, I see my mother in the garden - she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and leaves a muddy streak. My brother is in the scullery, rolling a banana in a slice of white bread. The passage is really long and I'm still scared of the dark.

My father died ten years ago, in June.

My brother died nine years ago, in June.

Such gentle people.

I miss them.

The Oracle of Google, part 2.

(The keys that lead people through my door, via Feedjit)

"friend ask me to slowdance" - Grapevine, Texas.

"picture of fat lady sat on bench showing stomach" - Grindley, UK.

"why are Lebanese so picky" - Miami, Florida.

"flaming torch beating heart tuning fork" - Austin, Texas.

"twilight zone monkey toy" - Brooklyn, NY.

"how long can we keep the quail eggs in the can" - St Louis, Missouri.

"there's something about Edna" - New York, NY.

"Ernest Hemingway theft in a cake shop" - Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

"manayaise chocolate cake" - Kuwait.

"jacaranda blooms and purple thoughts blow minds" - Palermo, Sicily.

"crispy light vetkoek" - Johannesburg, South Africa.

"kids kissing passionately" - Mountain View, California.

City Soirée at Haas Collective

Last night we sat in a row on a velvet settee, beer in hand, while three musicians took it in turn to play for us. And I realized: there is no place I'd rather be. During the interval we spoke about different musical instruments and their limitations. For example - the piano - how far can you push it's abilities?

This is something I have learnt from watching Righard Kapp play his guitar: he can make it sound like almost anything. He throws his whole body into it, he plays it until his fingers bleed. It's wonderful to see how he uses every bit of that instrument. I'm not a musician, so I don't know what other guitarists do with the end of each string, but Righard leaves them standing haywire, and when he shakes them they become a delicate rattlesnake snare.

The show started with a classical guitar performance by Nina Fourie-Gouws. Her hands are startling - the movement of them so contained, but hummingbird-fast.

Mark Fransman played next. His alto-saxophone is a mesmerizing instrument. Dully gleaming, foxed, mysterious keys and buttons. I learnt that it can also be pushed to sound like a thousand other things. I heard a slowly beating metronome and I heard his voice rushing through the wind.

It was extraordinary.

A perfect winter's day.

For walking down Long Street...

For coffee and cake with the charming Miss Leblond.

Along the way, at Galleria Fortunata, this kimono I covet:

But it costs arms and legs. 7 500 of them. :-(

This vintage shirt I bought:

A pussycat bow in celebration of the days steadily getting longer. R 150 at Joy's.
Very sad news from Saskia: Misfit is closing down. I've been shopping there for almost a decade.

Tong Lok's lovely signs this week are painted by hand.
 
Bumped into Papa San on my way home. Takumi is closed for the week, as he's starring in the role of the comical and evil mastermind "Mr Chan" in the local film production "Copposites", also starring Rob van Vuuren.
:-)

Winter solstice.

Spent some time with my old friend Chocolate.

The Gateau au Chocolat recipe will be published in my food column at Hy Sê Sy Sê shortly.

Did some sewing.

All the while thinking of this dream I have, the one that's finally coming true. I am moving upstairs to where there's a room tucked into the eaves. With skylights.

Happiness.

❤

The shortest day.

And the longest night.

It's everywhere.

"Open rehearsals and incidental madness"

Thunder and lightning, buckets of rain, broken wipers, missing keys, a moon of horses in total eclipse, one drummer gone amiss... a huge blazing fire, cauldrons of heartwarming soup and a bottomless glass of red wine. And the band. And the band.

❤

Next month, same time, same place?

Girlfriends are the business.

She's been working on a long project and I haven't seen much of her. Yesterday we went for a brisk walk on the promenade and last night we went out for sushi. I looked across the table at this lovely small person and realized that we've known each other for twenty years or more. A winding road with frequent stops for parties and swimming and cooking and laughing. Lean times and fat. She is a constant in an inconsistent world.

❤

As for the sushi... I have very good news.

Papa San is back in town.

Hatsushiro Muraoka (ex Tokyo, ex Minato) has opened up shop in Park Street.

He is as eccentric as ever and the sushi is as fantastic as ever. (The avocado tempura was an unexpected delight.) The interior is minimalist but warm, the handiwork of my friend, architect Toni Unterberger of Rivets and Rockets. Be sure to book.

 

A desert is a place without expectation.

Do you also have an innate resistance when people say to you: you have to read this/watch this/eat this, it's so fantastic/wonderful/incredible... ?

For the past few weeks, Cape Town has been a-twitter about Dear Me Brasserie and their upstairs bar Tjing Tjing. The food, the free spring water, the upside down plants. The final nod came from esteemed guru of cool Jamie Who. So today I met the beautiful Shonah there for lunch. And this is the thing: I can't say anything bad, but I have no praises to sing. It was a totally underwhelming lunch. And it didn't come cheap.
 

On the other side of the spectrum is Birds Boutique Cafe. As I told the owner this afternoon, I've been coming here for years and it stays consistently good, surprising and utterly delicious.

When last did you have a good cup of old fashioned moer koffie for a mere 12 bucks?

Or a meltingly warm slice of poppyseed cheesecake, sprinkled with fresh orange zest?

It's unpretentious and downright delightful.

PS: You haven't lived until you've eaten their chicken pie.
And the title quote is by Nadine Gordimer.