Yugo Stores.

Sunlight soap, paraffin, lighthouse candles, mielie meal and marshmallow mice. The smell is a combination of these things and it transports me straight back to childhood summers, when my mother used to take us to buy slip slops at Dups - the ones that only came in blue, with little fish shapes pressed into the rubber.

The same shelves covered in gift wrap. Bicycle spares, plastic dolls in cellophane, razor blades, enamel mugs, zam-buk salve in tins, lifebuoy soap, vicks cough drops and tokoloshe salts.

Opened in 1946 by Archie's parents, long gone now. We left with a red enamel dish, stoney ginger beer and a small glass bottle of coca cola, ice cold.

56 4th Avenue

Linden

Johannesburg

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

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.

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.

Things that take us back.

These are lights!

Something in the world feels right when you wake up after dreaming of the water lilies in the Okavango Delta. On top of that, it's the first really, really hot day of Summer and there's left-over apple crumble for breakfast, with Greek yoghurt. My friend Madame Fi recently went to Botswana and Zambia and her pictures came to life in my dreams. Also read what she said upon return.

I've only been there in my dream, but I feel nostalgia for that place.

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

As I watered the garden this morning, an old Mercedes drove by and the sound of it threw me back to my childhood and thoughts of my father. A true gentleman he was. This Summer I will make his Pimms no.1 Cup and sip it with my feet dangling in the pool.

I bought six of these plates at the boot sale yesterday. They remind me of my Grandmother's kitchen. Then, in the afternoon, T. brought me a bunch of sweet peas from her mother's garden. One sniff of their wonderful scent and I was back in Ouma and Great Aunt Lil's garden in the Eastern Cape.

It's a glorious and searing thing, this squeezing of the heart.

❤

City Mouse visits Country House

The Better Halves picked me up and whisked me away to the misty mountains of Suurbraak. Their house is the perfect mix of old and new. There's an Esse stove just like my granny used to have:
 

 The gas spectacular:
 

 As well as an open hearth in the corner, for geselligheid and the odd indoor braai. Our party of six included the canine contingent: Sir Max and Lady Seven I've known since they were kids, but the new guy was a wild card. I saw him eyeing me as I piled up a second plate of supper. (Lady who are you eating all the fillet steak like some polite kind of wolf?)
 

  At night I slept under striped linen and a pile of fluffy quilts. It felt like the story of the princess and the pea, but in reverse. (The pea in question being a dog named Jean, who finally gave me the nod.)
 

 I got up at six and stood on the stoep, looking at the mountains. A long-forgotten fragment of poetry came to mind: as the mist leaves no scar on the dark green hill...

The breeze was warm and promised something about summer coming and feeling different then.
 

 Sheep grazing in the cemetery. Farm gates. Mustard mashed potatoes. Apple tart and cream. Coffee in bed. Dog's wet nose. Snowdrops. Demented roosters with no grasp of day or night. But the best thing of all: seeing the way these two people appreciate each other. Kudos.

R.I.P. Leonard and Basil

Two of Cape Town's well-loved characters died last week. Leonard worked in many of the shops that I've frequented over the years. Be-pierced and Dali-esque, Leonard was hard to ignore. Always friendly and full of ideas. One night, for an exhibition opening, he asked a friend and I to wrap his legs in cling film. He wore those see-through pants with a tuxedo jacket.

Basil was the proprietor of Bristol Antiques in Long Street, one of my favourite haunts. He was cultured and soft spoken. He said to me once as I left his shop:"You are such a lovely young lady." I saw him two weeks ago at Ashbeys and we spoke about glass and books. He was one of the last true gentlemen.

I'll miss you both.

Not A Skirt

 Nazeem had some fantastic fabrics yesterday at the boot sale. I was down on my knees, admiring this 70's curtain, when a friend walked by. "Horrendous!" she said. And we agreed how wonderful that was about the world. It reminds me of my parents' mod bedroom when I was a tot. It reminds her of the worst decade of her life - being a teenager. Anyway, I brought it home and not sure what I'll do with it. Maybe some cushion covers.

Mary Quant No Less

 That Ernie. Obviously he's never going to tell me where he gets his stuff. He talks about getting calls to go and look at things, regular suppliers... His is one of the smallest stalls at the boot sale, but he always has such lovely things. He keeps items aside in his car for special clients. Today it was an exquisite old embroidered kimono for "that Czech girl who collects embroidery". Amongst the treasures on his table today: a blue Bristol glass fruit bowl, a small oxblood glazed ceramic dish.

A few stalls down, I found this little scrap of a doll. Back in the 60's and 70's, my grandmother used to buy little plastic dolls like these, make teensy clothes for them and sell them at the church bazaar.
 

Tonsil Monkey Twilight Zone

So I've been pretty occupied with thoughts of chimpanzees and my favourite childhood toy has crossed my mind a few times. About thirty-seven years ago, I had my tonsils out and returned home to find a toy monkey waiting on my bed with open arms. He was holding a little bunch of flowers from the garden. I was very scared of the dark and Peanuts became my pillow and held my hand every night. In my twenties I gave a box of old toys to a children's home. It was really sad to see him go. Then, yesterday, I walked into a prop house on the foreshore and there he was. Flea-bitten and grubby. One wonky eye. Still has the stitching on the back of his neck done by my Mom. Some nail varnish courtesy of my six year old self. Hey Buddy. Where've you been?
 

Makes me feel like sitting on the lawn with my Pimm's no.1

 

 Thanks again Miss T, for the fabric shopping trip to Liberty's. I'm saving the purple satin ribbon.

My dear Dad's recipe for Pimm's no.1 Cup:

One and a half tots Pimm's

Half tot Grenadine

Dash of Bitters

Cucumber Peel (one in glass &; one for decoration)

1 Slice of orange

1 Slice of lemon

1 Maraschino cherry on a stalk

Shake and top up with lemonade and ice.

How I miss him.