for the love of words.

today i helped my friend’s 11 year old daughter with her homework. she was asked to write a descriptive paragraph on the subject “arrival at midnight”.  while her spelling, just like mine, isn’t the greatest she uses the best words and descriptions. she wrote her paragraph about a girl who comes home to find the house in the dark and a banging sound that scares her. she realizes that it is only a tree branch against the window, but still cannot turn on the lights and gets scared.  i added my two cents and so the girl ends up running out of her house to find her electrician and fire him, because how useless is he?

yes, i know, it doesn’t make much sense and i blame the heat, but we had such a laugh and were quite chuffed with our “clever” ending to the story.

it reminded me of how much i actually love words. lately i have had little joy with them. i haven’t read much and didn’t finish the books i started, which always makes a bit sad. i have written even less and it feels like a constant looming task. i even thought of giving my little blog a break for a while. i just feel lazy and so disconnected to words lately – surely it shouldn’t be that much work to write?

but doing this homework with her, searching for round descriptions and pretty words, coming up with a storyline even just for a paragraph, and then ending it with absurdity and giggles – it felt amazing. it reminded me why i love words and why i love writing and that it is nothing to be scared of, not something i have to do, but something to be enjoyed and savoured.
i was asked last week for my recipe against writer’s block and i really couldn’t think of anything smart to add to the discussion except to say: just write. sounds simple enough and like a paradox at the same time. but really to write anything helps me – a grocery list, a to-do list, a sentence with words that all start with A, a paragraph of a little girl who fires her electrician…
when i can get myself to write anything at all, it usually starts to flow and i get reminded that words are my most beloved friends.

family addition.

i am having an acute bout of cabin fever. cabin fever as in i don’t want to be in cape town anymore, i want to go on my trip now. i do fully accept that all of you not living here will probably want to hit me over the head right about now for complaining. i get that, but i simply cannot sit still anymore and i am not quite sure how i will manage the next four weeks.

i would soothe my cravings with a little road trip, but there is a new addition in my family that makes the budget a bit tight. which is okay, because she is beautiful and i love her so much already.

One ring.

I realized I haven’t told the story of when I was 21 and madly in love with the older man. Older only he was 36, which at the time seemed significant, especially because he still managed to behave like a 15 year old which caused all the tragedy in the end. Oh yes, I forgot to mention – it is a tragic love story. The reason why it came back to my mind was that the ring he had given me broke yesterday. No, not the kind of ring you think now (and I would sincerely hope a diamond ring doesn’t just break like this), but a ring he had given me as a Mitbringsel from a trip to Berlin… but let’s start at the beginning…

So little 21 year old me was interning at an ad agency and waitressing at a nearby hip restaurant for some H&M spending money. We had a lot of regulars and one them was Oli. I’m not sure how he ended up with this cutesy nick name, because he was anything but, but this was how I called him. He was a generous and polite guest, a photographer, stylish, and I should add for full disclosure: he looked like a turtle. Mind you, I’m not being mean, I’m being objective and it didn’t matter a thing to me.
One night he and his friend were the last customers and annoyed me to no avail, because I wanted to leave and started very loudly to clean the tables next to theirs. Next thing I knew his friend went to the bathroom and he stood next to me awkwardly. I think this is when I started to melt because if a grown man can look so awkward and shy when asking you out – ups, I gave it away – it is quite endearing. In hindsight I don’t know if the way he asked is officially stupid, but to me it was even more endearing and scored him a big yes.

Oli: What do I need to do that you go out with me?

Me: Dah. Ask me!

No, that is a lie. That would have been the witty answer. I was a perpetual broke intern with a love for fine food so in fact I told him to ask me out for dinner, which he did and we were happy to find out that we shared the same favourite restaurant.
Off we went and on we got. We became the bestest of friends. Well sort of. In hindsight, again there is a lot of hindsight here, but I was little so forgive me for being so stupid, it wasn’t very nice of him to ask me out while he still had a girlfriend. Which was why we were just friends. Friends with desert. Not what you think. Real desert. We would always only have mains and deserts, but never starters.
At some point the girlfriend was no more. And then came the weekend he had to go to Berlin for work. Have I mentioned that since knowing him I refuse to go out with still life photographers? They are a funny breed. If you fuss about inanimate objects all day, you kind of lose your way with people. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it. So we said our goodbye, as friends do, and I jokingly told him to get me a Mitbringsel from the trip. In fact I was only half joking, because who doesn’t want presents always?
He came back with a very pretty little bag. Girls want pretty little bags, the smaller, the better in fact. Mine must have been the smallest one ever, because it came with not one but two rings. A pink and a blue one and though for the untrained eye they may have looked like toy rings out of a gumball machine, I knew designer when I saw it. More than that they were me! That was the night we first kissed. I’m not even going to try giving you a feministic pretence that the jewellery didn’t have a part in this. Don’t you even dare to think badly of me for going out with a turtle just because he gave me nice stuff and deserts! I was crazy about this man deserts or not. If I wouldn’t know better now, I would say I was even madly in love with him and so attracted to him, writing this story now my heart is still racing just a little bit.

So that was the good part of the story. The tragic part I prefer to tell quickly: he rekindled with his ex, lied about it and unfortunately got caught. You all saw that coming, didn’t you? Well, I didn’t and it led to some door slamming and messages on his answering machine á la I meant what I said when I told you to never call me again! from my side. Guys, if a girl says that it is usually a lie and she wants nothing more than for you to call her. He knew that and even called at parents’ house where I had fled in my despair and was greeted my laughing mother Ooh, so you are the man who broke my daughter’s heart!?I guess everything is a bit dramatic when you are 21, right? I gave one of the rings to my friend afterwards to make a statement, but I don’t think I was fooling anyone and he never knew about it anyhow. There was also a steamy sequel in Paris a few years later, which probably wasn’t a smart move, but who can think straight when overlooking Paris at midnight?

And now the ring broke. Just like that. I’m not even sad, the ring and the story had done their time. I think unlike Frodo I won’t make a big fuss and a trilogy and just put it in the trash.

True love's crush.

I found this on my Yahoo site today and had to share. Exactly what I was talking about in my earlier post about 10 Signs, but for our day and age. Remember in primary/middle/high school? One still needed a pencil, paper and at least some rudimentary maths skills. But now wow. Just type in two names and click. And if the result isn’t what you wanted, you can always blame the non-existent spell check for names...

Confessions of a Pastaholic III

Chapter 2 - Mushroom high.

My parents both enjoy cooking and would host big dinner parties ever so often when I was little. My father, usually in charge of the roasts, whole birds and legs of something, had one special Pasta appetizer: Ravioli with morels. 

Morel alas Morchella, dryland fish, hickory chicken, merkels, molly moochers, miracles - I like the last one best. They taste like miracles, but apparently this pet name is derived from the time when a mountain family was saved from starvation by eating them.

People must have thought me a slightly odd and very spoilt child for I loved them: The funny texture, the hour long procedure (or at least that’s what it felt like) to clean them, the smell and then … the taste, oh, the taste. The taste, which became one of my favorite tastes of all times.

Whenever the ravioli were on the menu I was there, standing next to my Dad at the kitchen counter, watching, helping, and then speed eating the raviolis that weren’t pretty enough to end on the guests’ plate. I think my Dad would actually misshape a few of them on purpose, just to make me happy.

Over the years he nurtured my expensive taste not only by feeding me scraps. With 17 I found my first jar of dried morels under the Christmas tree. When I moved out from home and celebrated my first birthday away, I was probably the only 20 year old to ever receive a birthday present of mushrooms that didn’t get you high.

Last Christmas, my friend from back home who visited me, had to take a parcel from my Dad. Said friend had to leave the shower gel and perfume at security, but luckily the morels and the five pages of recipes from all of my Dad’s favorite chefs made it intact. Christmas dinner was saved. Well, that was after an additional 30 minute drive (in my frenzy I had forgotten the star ingredient at home) and a climb over the gate of my uncle’s house (in my excitement we had gotten locked out).

My little love affair came officially out into the open last summer when my father turned 75 and had organized a four course meal. Each course based on one of his children’s favorite dishes. I was the starter. Guess what my dish was.

P.S.: I am not stingy with my morels. Whenever I have a little packet after a birthday or Christmas, I choose some favorite people to share them with. But I also always point out: Do not force yourself. If you don’t like them, leave them. I am sure that someone (me) will eat them. With pleasure.