The White Stripes.

Again a story in chapters...

A random thought popped into my head today: I like white stripes. Maybe that thought was inspired by yesterday’s story about the zebra van, but in general I much more like white stripes as in white tigers. Then I rifled through old pictures and I found some of me and white tigers. So there you go – I will be telling the stories of me and my three favourite white tigers over the weekend.

Priceless.

When I was in college I was slightly obsessed with the concept of the Mastercard “Priceless” commercials. I think it started when I had to write a paper, comparing advertising and marketing campaigns of leading credit card companies. Afterwards I simply had to come up with a few priceless stories myself. I wrote my favourite after we moved out of the dorms into our first NY apartment.

Marie had organized a man with a van to help us move. Waiting in front of the dorm we saw a very ancient truck in zebra print turning into our street. The conversation after we saw it went kind of like this - Me:  Haha, look that is our van! Haha. - Marie: Haha. Ja, right. - Van driver, stopping and getting out in front of us: So, who is Marie? - Me: Oh, no. - Marie (with a very small voice): Me.

We overcame our initial embarrassment of being fetched by such an uncool van in front of the entire school quite quickly though. Zebra man turned out to be great! We even had him fetch us from IKEA. Sitting in the loading area wecould spot his distinguished stripes from miles away on the highway - hurray, our van was here!

After the move was completed and all the furniture built I came up with the following:

Zebra van rental for the move: $300

IKEA glass table for the new kitchen: $160

Take-out dinner for three: $65

Not having to sneak the empty Corona bottles out the next morning*: Priceless

*We lived in a dorm with a strict no alcohol, no drugs rule. For some reason we battled more with secretly getting the empty bottles out than the full ones in. 

B Day.

My cousin Thekla invented something what I will now call the ‘Birthday Day’ or short ‘B Day’. It started with her sister and her four children. Thekla realized soon enough being an aunt of four can not only do serious damage to your wallet, but also the one thing kids with this many siblings don’t get enough is one-on-one attention. So over the years it became her tradition that she would spend a day with each of them on their own as their birthday presents.

She would watch Barney with little Ike, Vampire movies with the girls (I got to go along to one of the premiers and almost became deaf by teenage girls having screaming fights over Jakob and Edward - we are still a divided family on this front), and Brownie baking with Max. The kids love it. It’s their day.

So when Thekla’s birthday came around, I decided to do the same thing. Even though she had given me a ‘list’ of sensible present options (I did ask for it!), I decided - no, a day it would be. A Thekla day.

Here the itinerary of our fabulous day/date:

10h30 Bikram yoga - taught by me.

I had really wanted her to come back only once more and take my class. So she did. And I have yet to get nicer compliments on my teaching from anyone. So nice I almost want to add a smiley face here.

13h00 Lunch at Café Milano.

Thekla, who thinks pastry is the anti-Christ, is now converted. I solemnly swear that I will never eat pastry anywhere else again. It wouldn’t be right and it would just make me cry.

15h00 Pedicures at the Cape Royale spa.

Thekla discovered a scar afterwards on her toe, which had been there since she was seven, but apparently hadn’t been seen in years. Now with her toes all scrubbed it resurfaced (mind you my feet were in worst condition, that’s probably why scars don’t stick). Added bonus for me: I managed to walk out of there without nicking my nail polish anywhere. It’s still intact now. Probably for the next five minutes knowing Murphy’s law.

16h00 Cocktails at the roof top bar.

To sum up in one sentence what I need to do to change my life according to her: Get hammered and stalk guys.

No comment.

17h00 Getting ready at my flat.

Two lovely glasses of chilled Pinot Noir thanks to my amazing clients.

18h15 One more glass for the road.

18h30 Six course tasting menu at La Mouette and lots of dirty talk. 

Two best friends and bubbly. What’s not to love?

22h15 Driving home.

One left over macaroon (only slightly chewed on at one corner) for Adam.

23h00 Me, my flat and I.

Another glass of Pinot Noir for me. And the amazing feeling of having made someone’s day and of someone having made my day.

5-Minute-Vacation

The week ahead that had looked quite bleak Sunday evening all of a sudden took a turn and became quite inspired. All due to what I know call the 5-Minute-Vacation, which unlike its food counterpart, the 5-Minute-Terrine (Do they have them in South Africa? Well, we have it in Germany and it’s our equivalent of Ramen noodles), I think is quite healthy.

I have come to the conclusion that the convenience of living across from my office also comes with some downsides. Namely me being very unadventurous when it comes to venturing out for lunch (I go home and reheat whatever is left from dinner) and me being very complacent with crappy instant coffee at work instead of finding nice coffee shops on my way there.

Last Monday I woke up and decided it was time to change this. At least the coffee situation for now (I had lovely left over chicken curry in my fridge for lunch). I got dressed and honoured the occasion by wearing my big Piazza Sempione cuff, which makes me feel and look a bit like Wonderwoman, but is highly unpractical for typing and any kind of other non-Wonderwoman related activities. But for my little adventure it seemed the proper attire, so off I went with the Baby Ferrari, who was craving a spin around the block as well. Down to Church Street we went and what a happy morning it was - too early for parking guards and plenty of space.

The plan was to finally immerse myself into the higher spheres of great coffee: Deluxe. I am a bit shamefaced to admit that I had never been before.

Walking down Church Street I suddenly realized something funny, a strange feeling inside of me: bubbles. Or better said the bubbly feeling of joy you only get when on vacation. The first moment of stepping into a world of unknown possibilities and excitement. The moment you become your very own Alice in Wonderland. It was incredible and highly unexpected. Vacation feeling in the middle of town? Oddly enough it had never happened to me before in any of the places one might expect this feeling to surface. Camps Bay for sundowners, Muizenberg surfers and Waterfront calamari lunch feel very common to me. No pristine, postcard picture perfect location had ever evoked such a feeling.

I looked up and around, not wanting to miss the entrance and I started to feel like a tourist in the best way possible. On a mission to find that special place I had read about in my secret travel guide. Searching, wondering - happily so. And then I found it. Needless to say the coffee was great. I didn’t even mind that they do not have any ice, therefore I couldn’t have my requested iced coffee. I was on vacation. Nothing could bother me. I had looked for this special place and when I found it, it truly was special. Inside and out.

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.