Winter Flowers

My favourite winter flowers are up at AOL's Shelterpop.

Vincent

Thank you for posting, thank you for commenting.

For emailing, for calling. For flying.

Thank you for staying.

Happy anniversary, my French angel.

Open cheese sandwiches

It has to be yellow cheddar. In other words, 'wrong' cheese. The bread has to be heavy,slightly moist brown bread, the kind found in almost deli, supermarket or cafe (the equivalent of a corner bodega). Butter on the bread, and then there has to be chutney. We had no Mrs Balls in the house, and my heart sank. But Mrs Viljoen had made many pots of Cape Chutney, heavy on the apricots, which is delicious. So that was lunch.

The glasses are Afrikaner kitsch, politically incorrect relics of the Border War into which my brothers were conscripted. Ondangwa is in northern Namibia, then South West Africa. South Africa did her best to keep the rightful rulers of SWA out of it, by maintaining and exercising a massive military presence on the border of Angola.

The beer, I'm very sorry to say, is Millers. It should be Castle. And I like Millers. It was what was in the fridge. Someone with more knowledge of beer culture can tell me what that says about me.

He'll be running round the mountain...

I drove around the mountain to the road that lies above the city bowl and below the cable car, so that Vince could run whee whee whee, all the way home.

Table Mountain Road winds around Devil's Peak, above, where legend tells us that Van Hunks and the Devil smoked pipes, puffing.

Vince puffed around the peak - you can see the cut of the road in the photo, which, at about that corner turns from tar into a dirt track. He found his way home, all the way to the front door, about 10 miles later.

The road has panoramic views over the city, and many spots for picnicking. I would favour a breakfast picnic, and once saw a mongoose on the road as I drank my coffee.

People have been mugged here before, but security has been beefed up at the foot of a more popular hike up the front face of the mountain (Platteklip Gorge), and the only stupid time to be there, I think, would be on a solitary evening.

Table Bay, above, kept me company while I waited to take pictures of the runner (my idea, not his), and I also had the corgis in the back of the car. They thought they were going to the vet, though, so were unimpressed by the fresh air and scenery. When Vince ran past they became very worried and glared at me. How can you let him go like that!? We must pursue!

And he's off.

The wind was howling. It does that in summer. My parents' house on the other side of the mountain is very protected, so we forget.

Lion's Head in the background, and up close below. Site of some very good picnics in years gone by...pretty much where that ribbon of path goes round the corner.

Another favoured mugging spot, I was a bit nervous when we were there. But there was a stream of walkers up and down even at night - full moon is a popular time to climb all the way to the top. Again there was an armed security presence in the area, complete with dogs, and it was hard to reconcile it in the twilight, that night, smelling the rising honey scent of the inconspicuous Struthiola ciliata in bloom, carried towards us by the warm air wafting down the slope. This is also where I sat with my parents, to see Comet McNaught in 2007, wide tail sparkling over its shoulder, diving into the sea.

Table Mountain's moods

The classic view of Table Mountain is from the north, across Table Bay, looking south, so that the flat table part is front and centre.

Pictured here, from my mom's garden is the cooler, eastern flank of the mountain, dominated by Fern Buttress, a sheer, cliffy face of rock and bracken and moss.

As with any mountain, every day and almost every hour brings a new dimension and colour to the rocks, while unique clouds form above and beneath this peninsula-dominating mass of sandstone.

It's too easy to sit in the garden and stare, and forget to move. Especially with a nice, cool drink.

But there is countryside to conquer...

Onwards!

Upwards!

Well, maybe later.

We did take out the map today. Then we had another sip of cold beer.

Braaivleis

My father performing the ritual that evolved in Africa. Cooking meat over fire.

Some useful vocabulary:

The act of barbecuing anything over hot coals - Braaing (brah -ying)
Constructing said fire - Making a Braai (brah-yee)
The Weber/oil drum cut in half/brick and mortar construction in which fire is made - The Braaivleis Place (brah-yee-flace place) or just The Braai (brah-yee)
The occasion of barbecuing - A Braai, as in, We are going to a braai tonight. (brah-yee)

I think that about covers it.

Cultural peculiarities:

Newspaper, wood and charcoal are the ingredients of a braai fire. You may omit the charcoal. You may not use fire lighter. Ever. You just don't smell that here. Gas barbecues are never seen.

Lamb chops are the typical braai meat. Boerewors (booh-ruh-vawrs - aka farmer's sausage), below, is ubiquitous. Lamb ribs, lamb sosaties (kebabs) feature. Fish is often braaied. Tonight we are having snoek, for instance. Of course chicken and steak and just about everything inbetween are allowed. Grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches are a staple of certain household braais, as a sort of side dish. You can braai a whole leg of lamb or a chicken sitting on a can of beer. Potjiekos (pawhee-kee-kaws - aka little pot food) is a whole other subject, cooked as a long-simmered stew of meat and vegetables in layers in a pot-bellied, cast iron pot placed over coals.

Above, we had a coil (top) of kameeldoring (kah-meel-dooh-wur-ung aka camelthorn...it's a tree) boerewors from the pork shop at Joostenberg Farm near Paarl. I don't know why it is called kameeldoring and will have to ask. Plus the fatter piece of Grabouw boerewors (Grabouw is a town) from Woolworths, a very delicious, upscale and consequently rather pricey supermarket chain.

Boerewors' defining flavour is the use of powdered coriander. The meat is usually beef, in course grind, with little, important cubes of fat in it. These make it sizzle a lot on the fire. People are fiercely loyal sometimes to certain butcher's blends of meat and spices. Even supermarket chains have good boerewors.

Because I have never seen boerewors in the States, this may be the first kind of sausage I learn to make. My mother has, somewhere, "Robert Smit's mother's boerewors recipe", as it is known.

Robert Smit was my father's best man at my parents' wedding in Bloemfontein in 1954. He and his wife were murdered years later, presumably on the orders of a high-up in his own political party, the National Party, who were the government. He had been about to blow the whistle on a very big government money scandal involving the International Monetary Fund and Swiss bank accounts.

So there you have it. A taste of South Africa.

Braaivleis and bloodshed.

Find my boerewors recipe at 66 Square Feet (the Food)

Harbour House, Kalk Bay

Harbour House in Kalk Bay remains one of my favourite restaurants, anywhere. Despite its popularity it has maintained the quality of its food with rare disappointments. Its setting is spectacular, with views over the blue of False Bay to the east and and south, and the loveliest tables, on the part known as the upper deck, are beside floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors. These were open when we went, and iodine air wafted through the whole place. Occasionally a fine mist of spray would drift onto our skin from the breakers crashing onto the rocks beneath us.

We could not help thinking of the great whites cruising their False Bay stomping grounds, as a man had been taken just last week at Fish Hoek, the next beach up. It remains a rare occurrence, but it certainly makes an impression, and we saw few people in the water as we drove home later.

We could see the little harbour's breakwater from our table, packed with people fishing hopefully, and seals fishing rather more successfully, straight from their lines. Later, when we walked down there to see if there were fish for sale off the boats, the scene was less picturesque, with a lot of litter being discarded by the breakwater fisherpersons, despite the trash cans in plain sight, and much of it blowing into the quiet water beyond, through which a fat semi-trained seal swam. His unofficial minder throws fish entrails for him to put him through his paces, and then asks for payment for the show. It's quite a good one, but made me extremely conscious of the apparently obvious Tourist stamped on my forehead.

Below, I don't know this little girl, but she spent lunch behind her grandmother's chair, carefully unpacking , inspecting and sampling all her make-up.

My dad's oysters from Luderitz, in Namibia. One was bad (he sniffs them all) and was replaced immediately.

My favourite Greek salad, with the best feta in the country. My feta quest will continue.

Vince's tuna tartare, delicious despite the shape of the ring mould. I wish ring moulds would be abandoned - they're so...90's.

My mom had crayfish, which is what Cape people called spiny rock lobsters. It is usually very expensive and I think after our wonderful Paternoster kreef (the Afrikaans word for crayfish) last year, I find it hard to shell out the money in restaurants. They do not have the claws of their North Atlantic cousins, but the meat is arguably sweeter, and very delicious. The rest of us had kob (kabeljou, a white-fleshed line fish), and mussels. We ate too fast for pictures. All very well cooked and simple.

The de rigueur double espresso, with perfect crema. If you want a single, you must specify.