Cold weather food and where to find it

It is dark at 5 o'clock, and it is cold. Tonight there is a frost advisory, and late this afternoon I planted some more greens on the roof farm, just to see what would happen. The neglected spicy mesclun mix had taken off in the last weeks, and this was my first visit to the roof this month. The days of rooftop sunset picnics are long gone.

So we'll have mustard, brassicas and tender lettuce with supper. Supper is a cheese souffle. The souffle is because for some reason I bought six eggs two days in a row. Mind somewhere else.The problem with cheese souffle is even though it may have eight or so eggs in it and some cups of cheese, you still feel like you have eaten air for dinner. Fragrant perhaps, but still air.

That is why I am making some bread, too. Estorbo tells us that he has 24 hungry little Estorbos inside him who demand constantly and mewingly to be fed, and I suspect that the Frenchman has a hockey team inside him constantly demanding baked goods and dessert.  Ellen gave me some beautiful quinces some weeks ago and I have been admiring them in a bowl on the table, but tonight they will be sliced, cooked in syrup and eaten as said dessert. Rats. That's why I needed cream!

On with last week's cold weather cooking. I have fallen in love with the white and brown beech mushrooms sold at  Mr Lee's, aka Atlantic Fruit and Vegetable/Japanese Grocery, between Clinton and Court Street on Atlantic. They cost $2.99 a packet - cheaper than the others I've seen at Union Market and the Garden of Eden (where I may shop once year - I was looking for and found, Explorateur cheese - but it was as high as a kite and inedibly bitter, bah. Found a far fresher version at Pacific Gourmet on Court and Pacific. They are still selling Hudson Valley Honey Crisp apples at $1.99/lb. Get there while you can, they are the best apples ever).

So with the mushrooms I made a cacciatore type casserole (casseroles...what happened to them?) with whole chicken legs (Murrays, $2.99/lb at Union Market). And a loose and creamy polenta to go with them.

Another product - since we're talking about shopping and prices - that has me hooked, is the package of wonderfully thin crêpes made by The Crepe Team, which I've bought at both Union Market and Garden of Eden, for just under $5. We eat them over three or four meals, stuffed with various things, like a late afternoon snack dusted with sugar and cinnamon, or dulce de leche if you are a hockey-team-possessed Frenchman. Popped into a hot oven for few minutes and eaten quickly, folded over itself, hot, limp, chewed and swallowed and filling a hole you didn't know you had.

Or! A fabulous nest of crispy organic bacon (Applegate - no nitrates), grated Emmenthaler, and a very lightly  poached egg. Fold crêpes over four ways, very hot oven for less than five minutes, sliced, put in mouth, and you could swear you're in wintry Geneva, opposite the Cafe du Centre, near the flower sellers, holding a crêpe made in front of you, on the street, and swallowing running, warm egg yolk, melted cheese and a whisper of thin ham.

But you're not. You're in Brooklyn.

I suppose this is a version of fast food. My kind of fast food. If you're thinking about our insides, we've been grazing on mache (lamb's lettuce, or corn salad) and pea shoots, from love 'em/hate'em Trader Joes.

We drank what we never drink, a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau, the first pressing of red grapes. We used to enjoy picnicking at Buitenverwachting in Constantia in April on their own super-local 'L'arrivée' day, and I bought it for old time's sake. It was quite palatable. Often they are not. Fresh, red, zingy and a nice foil for the fat-laden crepes.

What else?  Banana bread, which is more like cake, with macadamia nuts and sour cream folded in. Delicious with coffee, for breakfast.

Last night: bean supper. Not Terence Hill's beans, as I didn't have spare red wine for cooking. But I did have duck prosciutto and wanted to use a lot. Chop chop chop, sauteed the duck with some fat, an onion, garlic, carrots, a lot of tomato paste, some cocoa, ancho chiles, coriander, cinnamon, some sugar, salt, 20 peppercorns, to which is added the cooked beans (simmered in water with bay leaves). And some tablespoons of balsamic vinegar near the end.

You do not have to soak beans, by the way. It's a myth. Just cook them gently till tender, then add them to the flavourings and cook together for a long, long, looooong time. Keep topping up with stock or water.

Oh, and there's the bread again.  Warm hunks torn off and dipped into beans. Good. Honey crisps sliced into the pea shoot salad.

Thanksgiving. It will be a small one, with three double-barreled attendees: French-Canadian, South African-American and Dominican-American. There will be Thanksgiving cocktails, perhaps hot carrot and orange soup, possibly pig-in-a-mink, fluffy mustard sauce, and maple-roasted squash. Thinking about dessert.

How about an apple souffle?

The Daggaboer Farmstall - food and stories

[Update 2017: The Daggaboer as it existed is no more. An owner has left and the character has changed.]

Perhaps some people stand on the brakes when they see the sign.

In South Africa, dagga is marijuana. And just like everywhere else, it is a controlled substance. So the idea of a farmstall dedicated to the weed was, well, brakeworthy.

So we stood on the brakes.

We had left the Mountain Zebra National Park after two wonderful nights, lulled to sleep by the yip-yowling of jackals, had eaten one of our best camping meals, had watched vervet monkeys raid the neighbour's camp kitchen (they ate the Scotchbrite sponges, yum yum)  and were heading south for Port Elizabeth, the coast and eventually, home.  It was around lunchtime and we were hungry.

Daggakoekies? Vince and I are the only people I know in New York, and most other places, who have never smoked pot. Perhaps that makes us backward. Or uptight. I keep threatening to potroast a chicken, haha, with the herbs stuffed under the skin, and my friends tell me that would be a valuable chicken. I like the smell of dagga, unlit.

But back to the point.

It is a pretty farmstall, whitewashed, with red geraniums planted beside a neat path to the neat bathrooms behind. Inside the shop, though, I immediately zoomed in on the biltong and droewors rack. Kos vir die kenner (food for the connoisseur). My mouth watered. The biltong was sliced for us, transparently garnet in the middle, slightly moist, and put into a paper bag, and we bought some sticks of sausage. As I write this I swallow hungrily. Soon.

Then we saw the signs for roosterkoek (lit. roastcake). These are rolls of bread dough traditionally baked over coals, typically on a wire grid so they get crosshatched top and bottom. They are substantial, and these were no exception. At a counter a big man and a big lady were tucking into their roosterkoek lunch.  The best, though, was the filling. Grated biltong! And to really go overboard you combine the biltong with grated cheddar. So we did. And butter of course. They were hot, fragrant, the butter melting onto us as we ate, later, on the move again..

There were tastings of ginger beer but we passed and bought nameless bottles of chilled water. Then we packed ourselves back in 4 x 4 and headed south, chewing luxuriously, trying to make it last, as the Karoo turned into the undulating coastal vegetation of the Eastern Cape.

The Daggaboer Farmstall was exceptional to me because it had an aura of 'eg'. Meaning pure. The 'g' is soft, like the noise an angry cat makes. It had integrity (that's for you, Mommy). It did not sell just tourist-trap junk. Real gingerbeer, the fresh roosterkoek, local honey, and many articles made or woven from the locally raised mohair...You can eat in, or take out. It is well worth a visit.

And that is why I tracked down Charl Pansegrouw on the web to ask about the name's etymology. Charl is the co owner of the farmstall -  his business partner is Isobel Neethling, and the farmstall is on land owned by farmer Andrew Jordaan - and very kindly replied and sent me the explanation you will read below. When he saw my last name, he digressed to tell me some lovely stores about his mother, Nanna Viljoen, who, when he asked her at the age of 89 if she would not please use the cane he had given her five years previously, said testily, Ek sal die ding gebruik as ek die dag oud is! I'll use the thing the day I'm old! When she was a schoolgirl, she earned money by playing the piano for the silent movies screened in town.

Coincidentally, Charl was educated in Bloemfontein, where I was born, and worked at Die Volksblad, the Afrikaans daily. My mother worked at The Friend, the English equivalent. We still have the canteen of beautiful silver The Friend gave her as a wedding gift. Good Friend. Nice Friend. Now I'm digressing.

 

Baie dankie, Charl, and here is the story of the Daggaboer name, in Charl's words, sent in English so that everyone can understand:

"Daggaboer Farm Stall is situated between Cradock (50 km) and Port Elizabeth (200 km) in the Eastern Cape. The somewhat peculiar name (Dagga is the common Afrikaans name for pot or marijuana) has brought many a smile and a few frowns as well from visitors – but it is much better remembered than for instance Sannie se Padstal (Sannie’s Farm Stall). Literally translated,
Daggaboer means marijuana farmer.

Although we have a sign at our door entrance reading Dagga sold out at 06h00, business hours 08h00 – 17h00, there are almost daily enquiries on whether we sell the ‘happy weed’ . Fortunately as far as I can remember, only one guy was serious in his enquiry – must’ve thought that he had finally arrived in heaven here in the sticks somewhere between nothing and nowhere! It was only when he started rattling off some ‘brand’ names such as Durban Poison, Swaziland
Royal etc., that one of the young assistants realized that he was serious. He was quite upset when she informed him that the name is all tongue in the cheek.

In our area the name Daggaboer is nothing strange. There are several farms with names such as Daggaboersnek, Daggaboershoogte (heights) and just plain Daggaboer. Daggaboersnek is actually indicated on most SA Roadmaps.

Where the name originated from. The following are a few that I know of:

About two kms from the Daggaboer Farm Stall on the way to Port Elizabeth there are some derelict buildings built from sandstone. This was apparently the farm of Piet Retief, one of the well known Voortrekker Leaders of the Great Trek that started in 1838 when thousands of Afrikaans speaking families trekked up north to get away from British Rule. After Retief left the still standing buildings were used as a blacksmith workshop, a general trading store, a police station and even a small hotel. This little complex became the gathering place for local farmers as the area is quite remote – especially in the days when the main means of transport were either by horse, cart and horse or ox wagon. Apparently the farmers had a way of greeting each other with “Dag-ou-Broer” (How’s it old chum) and so eventually the name for the area just became Daggaboer.

The second story about the origins of the name is that in Khoi language Dagga means Game and this area is still today very game rich and very popular with both local and overseas hunters. Therefore it was apparently common to refer to a farmer that had lotsof game on his farm as a Daggaboer (Game Farmer).

However, research seems to have shown that the Trollips who were British Settlers (the original British Settlers arrived in SA in 1820 and the oldest known Trollip grave on the farm dates to 1856), were actually registered as dagga farmers. It was not an illegal substance in those years, but they cultivated it mainly for horse feeding purposes. As horses had to travel long distances those years, they were rationed with the real thing as it would give them extra stamina! It was also common practice amongst many farmers to provide their farm workers with dagga to smoke – the reason also that it gave them extra working stamina. One needs to think back in history when there were no machines or motorized transport, so all the work was done by means of hard and harsh manual labour.

So there you have it – the origins of the name Daggaboer Farm Stall – we are still doing a lot ofhard manual labour but fortunately without the assistance of the happy weed!

So by the by – we sell large bottles of honey in re-used sterilized brandy bottles. The honey is very popular as the grazing areas for the bees are primarily Karoo veld flowers. This honey is often referred to as the Dr Richard Louw brand of honey – the reason being that the most popular brandy in our area is Richelieu and local consumers often refer to it as their ‘good friend’ Dr. Richard Louw…"

Charl is working on a book of stories, Van die Padstal se Stoep (From the Farmstall's Stoop) and when it is published, we will broadcast the news.

Update, 2017: We returned with high hopes. We were terribly disappointed. Unfriendly. No welcome. Like a different place completely. Charl apparently sold his partnership several years ago, I was told when I asked.

The man from Patensie

I did not know there really was such a place.

When we pulled into the grassy seaside camp ground at Storms River, near Plettenberg Bay, with big waves beating right there on the rocks, and fine salt haze in the air, we parked the 4 x 4 in our allocated empty space on the seafront. On our left was a small-small, red car and its two room tent, outside of which three girls were lying on a blanket. One of them was black - and she was the one and only black person I saw camping on the whole trip. I hope this changes.

On our right was a big BMW roadbike and its one man tent.

And now I have no recollection of how I found out that the man for the tent was from Patensie. I think I greeted him from our camp stand. He was sitting alone on a little campstool, watching his fire. Later he ate from crafty little stainless steel containers that packed back into one another. It was one of the few nights that we did not eat chops, and I boiled pasta over the fire in a heavy cast iron pot, and made sauce in the heavy cast iron frying pan. It seemed to me that he sniffed our smells appreciatively. Rosemary. Lekker. Even later he read a book by headlamplight, his elbows resting on his knees, his back bent, his head down.

But before that, when it was still light, I think I must have asked in Afrikaans - as the vast majority of the campers we encountered were Afrikaans,  where he had come from. Or perhaps he asked me. I think he said about himself that he was on his way home,  and then I think he said that he was from Patensie.

Vince is far less interested than I am in people. I look at them and wonder who and what and where and why. I wonder out loud. Vince looks at landscapes. I was interested in the man from Patensie. It was a massive roadbike. He was self sufficient. I wanted to know what Patensie looked like, and what happens there and why he left and how long he'd been riding, and why he was alone, and did he like it, was it maybe better, in a way, alone, because you think different thoughts? And what was he reading? And what did he eat for supper, and did he buy along the way, or pack real, freeze dried camp food? And where exactly was Patensie?

But I didn't ask those those things. I didn't invite him over for a glass of wine. Maybe he was glad. Maybe he would have liked to have been invited. Maybe he hated questions. Maybe he wished someone would ask him some. The truth is I think of a lot of questions but rarely ask them, if ever. I think he kept half an eye on us, and I kept half an eye on him, to see what he was doing. Vince looked at the waves, and later, the stars.

When we left I said Tot siens and Ry Veilig, and he smiled and waved us goodbye. 

When we got home, two days later, I googled Patensie. I wonder if he is there now.

66 Square Feet in November

 

In the middle of November, a rose stays open and fresh for a week. In July, it opens, withers and drops its petals in a day.

The strawberries still ripen. 

...and insist on making flowers and  more fruit. I didn't coerce them. It's their own idea.

 

Because I had not grown strawberries until this year I did not realise that their leaves turn a rich red. They are still torn from that hailstorm a month ago.

The fig lost many of its leaves in that storm, which left no leaf unshredded. So I have missed the flat, rich yellow of its November show. This is the fig's fall foliage last year. And here is the fig one year ago today! And a bit different from summer...

I love my blueberry bush. I have planted and recommended them for many years on terraces around the city but it was not until late this spring that I planted my own. It was very exciting. It is hard to think of more rewarding plant: very hardy, with very pretty and interesting flowers in spring, then fruit, like, duh? - and at the last this rich, complex fall colour.  If you don't have blueberries, plant 'em!

The light, the light.

Cape Town

Bo Kaap.

I know a few people who will be in Cape Town quite soon. Some will be coming home. Some will be seeing South Africa for the first time. 

Come for a drive around Cape Town with me, and perhaps we'll see what they will, when they are there....

The city at the foot of Devil's Peak, above.

Woodstock.

The Gardener's Cottage at Montebello, Newlands. For coffee, for lunch, for crafts, for plants.

Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden. For cut flowers, plants to see, plants to buy, lunch and picnics.

Klein Constantia Wine Estate. For Vin de Constance.

Vin de Constance...at La Colombe, Constantia.

Muizenberg. For surfing and for spotting great whites far behind the waves.

Kalk Bay. For fish and antiques and good food.

Foxy Beach.

Cape Point.

 Bordjiesdrif, Cape Point, for a tidal pool. 

Scarborough's tidal pools. 

Olifantsbos.

Misty Cliffs. For mussels.

Noordhoek and Long Beach. For standing and staring.

Chapman's Peak Drive flowers.

 

Chapman's Peak Drive. For a fear of heights.

 

Hout Bay. For fish and chips. For seals. For a beer at the hotel.

Llandudno, below. For bodyboarding.
 

 

Constantia Nek sour figs. For jam.

 

Your route.

 Image: Google Maps