Thank you Dad!

Today is Father’s Day in Ireland, and perhaps in many other countries too.  My dad never really found it important to celebrate these special days for moms or dads.  He felt every day had to be special and important!

He passed away some years ago and I have a storeroom of wonderful memories which I’ll carry with me for the rest of the my life.

So with that in mind….

“Dear Dad

Once when I was little I cried because I fell of my bicycle.  You held me close and kissed my tears away until I was smiling again. 

When I grew older and had a broken heart  the compassion in your eyes was more than any words could say, showing your love by just being there for me.

You lived with a real joie de vivre.  You didn’t waste time,  not while I knew you anyway.  You were always busy, at work and with you family and friends.  You played with us, cycled with us, swam with us, picnicked with us, camped with us, made sand castles with us…..  You did everything one hundred percent.   And if you had a spare moment you would read.

You didn’t drink coffee, although as you mellowed in age one cup every now and then was acceptable.  And you enjoyed good food, especially made by mom. 

You were a man of principles and a man of real faith.  I really admire that now.  Maybe as a teenager I didn’t because I wanted to do the same things, wear the same things, say the same things as all those other teenagers, just to be cool .  I didn’t want to stand out and be different.  In the end it didn’t really matter.  And you knew that.  It wasn’t about being popular or wearing the same trendy stuff as the next one, or going to the same party as the rest.  I was never about that, was it?

You loved your wife dearly. 

And you loved  your five children equally.  I suppose that fairness shined through your whole life.  You had this wonderful gift to accept everyone as an equal.  It didn’t matter what their colour was, if they were rich or poor, if they were an intellectual or illiterate.  In your eyes they were all human beings made in the image of God.

We did have our disagreements, I admit.  You were very strong willed and I am as well, I know.

But you were also extremely patient, especially when it came to explaining maths and science.  Before my final exams at school you explained for hours on end about the various forms of energy and the interactions between atoms and molecules.  Not sure if I understood it all then or even now, but the precious time – sometimes till deep in the night – we spent studying and talking about life I will hold dear to my heart forever.

Thank you for being my dad.

Me”

Slán

 

Delicious shortbread

Shortbread.  The Scotts claimed to have ‘invented’ shortbread in the 12^th century that evolved from medieval biscuit bread.  This biscuit bread was a twice-baked enriched bread roll dusted with sugar and spices and hardened into a rusk.  Eventually butter was substituted for yeast and it became shortbread, melting in your mouth.  Since butter was and still is such an important ingredient the word ‘shortbread’ derived from shortening.  Shortening being fat.  No wonder this biscuit is high in fat content.  But we’ll forget about that little fact when we eat it!

Apparently shortcake, not the same as shortbread, can be made by using vegetable fat instead of butter as well as using something like baking powder.  So shortbread is typically one part white sugar, two parts butter and three parts flour.  To alter the texture corn flour or even ground rice is sometimes added.  Shortbread biscuits are also great to take away because they hold their shape under pressure, unlike their egg-based cousin biscuits – so ideal for a packed lunch!

When our two daughters were still toddlers my mom gave me this biscuit-book as a gift – thoughtful granny!!!  And I think between us we have made most of the recipes in the book – and still do!

So with your mouths watering I’ll give you a shortbread recipe from this book called Butter Finger Biscuits.  It is delicious and you can also make it as a yummy homemade gift for someone special.  Just wrap some nice cellophane around it with a colourful ribbon!

Recipe from the Your Family Bumper Biscuit Book, compiled by Wendy Silver.

300g butter, softened

180g castor sugar

400g flour (sifted)

Pinch of salt

100g corn flour sifted

Castor sugar for dredging

-       Cream together butter and castor sugar until pale and fluffy.

-       Sift together flour, salt and corn flour and mix into creamed ingredients. Knead lightly.

-       Press into deep, greased 380mm by 280mm baking tray.

-       Prick well with a fork and bake at 190 degrees C, 25 – 30 minutes.

-       Remove from oven and dredge with castor sugar.

-       Cut into fingers while still warm.

-       Remove to wire cooling rack and allow to cool completely.

-       Store in an airtight container. Makes about 44 fingers.

Happy baking!

Slán

miss- and love-lists…..

The weather in Ireland has been very disappointing this year …. yes it is the middle of May and temperatures are not where they are supposed to be.  We are in spring, some say it is already summer….and we are still wearing winter clothes!   It can be very depressing indeed.

I have lived in Ireland now for more than 12 years and the weather is definitely not a reason why one would move here.

Recently I made two lists.  One list of what I miss about the country I left behind,  South Africa, and another one what I love about living in my adopted country Ireland.

Miss-list

-       No surprises what tops my list – the weather, the climate.  Winter is just toooooo long here and I can never wait to get outside.  The sad thing is, sometimes it looks wonderfully sunny outside, but unfortunately it is never as warm outside as I anticipated.

-       Walking bare feet, it is just too cold and I might do it for a few weeks in July or August, but that’s about it.

-       To confront and talk honestly is hard to do here.  I think the Irish in general are wired differently and prefer to keep quiet or sidestep an issue rather than to talk about it.  Maybe it is the Dutch blood running in my veins, but they don’t like it if you speak your mind.

-       White and not grey sand on the beaches and big frothy waves to swim in.

-       The vibrant creative mood you find in many parts of South Africa.

-       A South African magazine for women – Die Sarie.  I haven’t found an equal.

-       Most of all my mom, sisters and brother, you just sometimes yearn for a good old natter with those who have known you from the start,  in your own language, and just to be totally yourself, like only they know you.

 

Love-List

-          Beautiful Eire filled with character and steeped in history.  Look at the amazing cathedrals and castles, ruins and stone walls all over the place, it takes your breath away.

-          The peaceful way of life in rural Ireland.

-          The new green leaves on the trees in April/May and coming from a country where the grass is often yellow and brown the greenness of the country is beautiful.

-          The love for children Irish people generally have and are not afraid to show.  It is a great country to bring up children.

-          The trustworthiness of people.  It has happened a few times that I forgot to lock my front door going away for the morning (even a weekend once) and everything was still in order coming back.

-          To be able to travel relatively cheaply to other interesting European countries, what a privilege.

-          To make Elderflower cordial with my son at the end of May (hopefully it will happen this year, because the sun has been really shy so far….).

-          That it stays light for so long during the summer days – absolutely love that!

-          Indoor heating and to have the stove burning, even in the summer.

 

I can continue for a while, but it might get a bit tedious.

I read a book some years ago about an Australian journalist who moved to France and her toils and troubles of being so non-French, no matter what she did or how she tried to become more French, she was always the outsider.  In the book she tells how she was constantly surprised about the differences between the two cultures which she sometimes just couldn’t figure out, even though she had been living in France for about ten years.

And I have to admit I also have that.  Just when I think I understand  the Irish, the culture and society, then I have it totally wrong.  I will never be Irish.  Not only do you have to be born here, but you also need to be educated here and know this nation’s history, have the culture and background to be so Irish, which is probably correct for every nation.  Although I would dare to say that exposure to many cultures from a young age will definitely help in accepting and understanding other cultures.

Luckily (I am sure opinions differ here)  this island has seen an amazing influx of non-Irish people settling here which really helps making it more cosmopolitan and acceptable of others.  And with this I am not saying that it is not important for a country to have an identity and in this case to be Irish and to hold on to that, but it is the inclusiveness that is elusive for non-Irish.  And it works both ways, respect the culture of your adoptive country, but stay true to your own roots.

For outsiders it’s a bit like being a woman in a man’s world – as a non-Irish you have to work twice as hard in an Irish society, or non-Dutch in a Dutch society.

And I am not complaining, not looking for sympathy votes, it is just how it is.

Slán

Quiche lovely quiche

I love making Quiche.

I love the fact that it is so easy and soooo yummy and when you have run out of ideas what to cook a Quiche can easily become a full meal.  Just add some fresh bread or baked potatoes and a big green salad!  And most people love it!

Quiche apparently originated in Germany (kuchen means cake) but it is known as a classic French dish and today regarded as typically French.  But even the English used savoury custards in pastry as early as the 14^th century!  So it seems many nations enjoy this and it can’t really be ‘claimed’ by anyone.

And indeed when you bake a Quiche it is very easy to create your own with a filling  of your own choice or whatever it is that puts your stamp on it!

Quiche Lorraine is probably the most popular variant of the Quiche.  I think the French indeed call it Lorraine.  And apparently cheese wasn’t one of the initial ingredients, it was only added later.  I really like to use Gruyère cheese because of its distinctive taste, but that is very personal.

Interestingly in France the Lorraine version is different to the one served in the United States.  The bacon is cubed, (in the States it is sliced), no onions are added and the custard base is thicker.  Well, I think it is whatever you are used to and your personal liking.  It is also nice to make something different!

So the making of a Quiche usually has three parts – crust, filling and your savoury custard.  This is my version:

I usually make a short crust for the pastry.  When making this crust everything should be as cold as possible.  In Ireland this is usually not such a big problem, but in warmer countries it might be… Also don’t overwork the pastry.  You want it light and crispy.  Sometimes I add a bit of mustard powder or some dried herbs in the dough just to give it a rustic flavour. You could also add some grated cheese to the dough to make the crust cheesy.

200 g (335 ml) flour

Pinch of salt

100 g (100 ml) butter

45-60 ml ice water

Work the butter through the flour and salt until it resembles fine breadcrumbs.  You can use a food processor doing this, I just use my fingers.  Then add the water little by little until the dough just starts to come together.

Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface.  Knead a few seconds until it is smooth.

Put some cling wrap around it and let it rest in the fridge for between 30 and 60 minutes.

Line a Quiche tin (flan tin – about 22cm) with the pastry and first bake the crust for about 10-15 minutes at 180C (gas mark 5/6) with baking beans or dried beans in it.  If you don’t prebake the crust it becomes soggy.  Mark my words, I have tried both ways!!

Then the filling.  I use bacon cut into pieces as well as some spring onions cut into slices which I fry together for a few minutes.

For the custard:

2 eggs

125 ml cream

125 ml milk

2 ml salt

Pinch of red pepper

Pinch of mustard powder

Mix the above ingredients all together.

Put the bacon-filling in the crust and pour the custard over it.  Grate some cheese (cheddar or Gruyère) on top and bake for about  30 minutes until the cheese has coloured nicely and the custard is softly set, it mustn’t be too firm.

Let it cool a bit before you cut it, although it is also lovely to eat when it is cold, if there is anything left…

Enjoy!!!

 

Slán

Things Fell Apart – Chinua Achebe

I recently read about the death of the Nigerian author Chinua Achebe, age 82.

It brought me back some years ago when I, being a journalist and coming from South Africa, was asked to be on a panel at an Africa Day here in Ireland.  This specific panel had to discuss the debut novel by Chinua Achebe, namely Things Fell Apart.

This novel which deals with the impact of colonialism in Africa, has sold more than 10 million copies and has also been translated into more than 50 languages.

Interesting that a book written and published in the 1950’s could still be so relevant.

It tells the story of Okonkwo, the tragic hero, who finds it extremely hard to come to terms with changes happening in his tribe, the Igbo tribe.   He is a very important person in his tribe, being a wrestler and warrior, also proud and hardworking.  He doesn’t show any signs of weakness, not emotional, not physical.  But his life falls apart when he, by accident, kills a member of his tribe during some kind of ritual.  Penalty for this means he and his family have to live in exile for seven years.  During this time missionaries and colonial officers from the western world come to his village and introduce their way of life and religion to the villagers.  With Okonkwo’s return to his own village, he finds it a different place.  The end is tragic when he eventually becomes an eternal outcast from his own tribe.

My immediate feeling when I finished reading this book was that it might have been better if no one had interfered with the Igbo tribe’s way of living, no colonial or missionary interference.   But that didn’t happen and in reality it would never have happened.

I remember, we actually had a member of the Igbo tribe on the discussion panel, among other writers and journalists.   This man, who wore the traditional costume of the tribe, said that although the tribe still existed, many traditions had changed, which was almost irreversible.  An example was that in the book it had been described that if a woman gave birth to twins there were severe implications. Fortunately this is not the case anymore. Another tradition was that a warrior of the tribe always wore a crown on his head.  The amount of feathers in his crown would give an indication of the amount of men he had killed.  When asked about this, I remember the panel member chuckled to explain that these days the feathers stood for the amount of cows he had hunted.

The fact that this book is still relevant goes for the fact that most people find it hard to accept changes, culture changes.  Culture is not static, change is unavoidable and people need to adapt and change to accept others into their circle, wherever they live.  In the book Achebe touches on how important it is for people who come from the outside to show respect for people’s culture in order to understand and accept them. Because people usually have a limited view of people of another culture and background, clear communication is key to prevent misunderstanding.

Apparently Achebe deliberately wrote this book in English as he wanted Westerners to read his novel and learn from it.  The book also informs about African cultures and traditions, but is also a reminder to Africans to value their heritage.

Chinua Achebe has won numerous prizes and awards for his work.  Amongst others he was awarded the Man Booker International Prize in 2007 in recognition of his contribution to world literature.

Slán

Talking about Popes

“I am simply a pilgrim beginning the last leg of his pilgrimage on this Earth.”

Pope Emeritus Benedict told the public last night.  The 265^th Pope is no more the Pontiff.  He was the first Pontiff in 598 years to hand in his resignation out of free will.  He resigned at the ripe age of 85 because he felt he didn’t have the “strength of mind and body to steer the boat of St Peter”, anymore, which I have total respect for.  He is absolutely right.

Also known as Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, a native of Bavaria, he was chosen by his fellow cardinals to be Pope in April 2005.  He followed in the footsteps of Pope John Paul II and was also one of his (Pope John Paul II) closest aides.

So now, just before Easter the Catholic Church is searching for another pope, the Sovereign  of the Vatican City State and the leader of the Catholic Church worldwide.  The Pope is regarded as the successor of Saint Peter the Apostle.

I am not a Catholic myself, but I do live in a country where about 85%  of the population say they are Roman Catholic, although in all honesty I don’t get the idea the people are very devoted.   News regarding the Pope, the Vatican City and Roman Catholic in general does get a fair amount of media coverage though.

However, many moons ago I met a Pope.  It was 1988 and I was  working as a journalist in South Africa for an Afrikaans newspaper.  The then Pope John Paul II was on his way to visit many African states including Zimbabwe, Botswana, Lesotho, Swaziland and Mozambique.  Not South Africa.  It so happened that the aeroplane he was flying with had a faulty engine, so he had to make an emergency landing.  And guess where was the best and safest place for the Pope to land?  South Africa.

It wasn’t an official visit (he didn’t want to come to SA anyways because apartheid hadn’t been abolished in those days) so he didn’t kiss the ground when he landed on South African ground.  But it was a story of international proportions and the then minister of Foreign Affairs, Mr Pik Botha, was in his element.  What a scoop.   He was the perfect host!

 

On  that day I had to rush to the airport to get pictures and a story and spoke with many of the bystanders, mostly Catholic, who couldn’t believe their, shall we call it, ‘luck’?  Thousands of people heard on the news that the Pope had to make an emergency landing at Johannesburg and they rushed to the airport in the hope to catch a glimpse of the Pope.  A nun told me she shook hands with the Pope, another lady wanted him to bless her prayer beads for peace in the country and many others were just waiting to catch a glimpse of him.

Pope John Paul II, who also visited Ireland (1979), left South Africa later that day and travelled overland to Maseru.  He was Pontiff until his death in 2005.

And while Pope Emeritus Benedict will live his years in quiet contemplation, praying and writing in a monastery within the Vatican walls, the eyes of the 1.2 billion Catholics worldwide will be on the Vatican City to see when the white smoke will tell a new Pontiff has been chosen.

a SHorT stORy

I thought I’ll give my readers something else to read.

I am busy with a creative writing course and this week we had to write a short story where weather plays a significant role when it comes to time changes.  Well here is my story….

 

I listen to the hail pelting on the roof and against the windows.  It sounds as if the glass will soon shatter in a million pieces.  I wipe away the tears that spill down my cheeks. Ever since the horrific accident I just can’t work up the courage to take the cello out of its case, let alone put the bow on its strings.

My phone rings.  It’s Anne, my sister. 

“I’ll be over in fifteen minutes with a cake, so put the kettle on,” she orders me.

When I open the door to Anne a bit later the garden is covered in little hail stones, pure white.  At least the pelting has stopped.  It looks magical.  I want to go out and pick up some of the stones, put them in my mouth or in the freezer like we did as children.  I remember mom encouraging us to put fists full of hail stones in the freezer and we would laugh when we found them months later, all frozen up and not looking like the beautiful little round stones anymore.

“So lets have some cake with this lovely coffee,” Anne says, while taking over in the kitchen with putting coffee in the cafeteria and getting the mugs and plates.

As I cut into the moist carrot cake, I suddenly realise how dark the window has become and switch on the kitchen light.  I agonies what to tell Anne because she’ll most certainly ask about the competition.

“Have you decided what you are playing yet?” Anne turns towards me.

“Uhm, I don’t know.” I tell her non-committal.

“Sis you have to do it.  If not for yourself, do it for mom.  She always believed in you,” Anne says softly. 

I falter.  I honestly don’t think I can do it. 

“It is too soon,” I tell Anne.

She looks at me with those incredible blue eyes, seeing more than I give her credit for. 

Outside it is very quiet and still covered in white hail stones, although the dark sky has moved on.

“Will you stop feeling responsible.  It was an accident.  You were in the car with mom and she didn’t realise there was black ice,” Anne urges.

I know.  It has been over eight months now and I still struggle with the demons at night.  I don’t tell her this.

“I’ll think about it,”  I say.

“Well not much time to think.  You have to email your programme to the organisers in a week’s time,”  she says matter- of-factly.

I eat the cake.  It is indeed lovely and moist with lots of flavour bursting in my mouth.

We talk about this and that, me trying to steer Anne away from my cello playing and the inevitable programme for the competition.

The sky has almost totally cleared when she leaves.  As I open the door sunrays find their way into the house and the grass is green again with only a few hail stones laying forlorn under the plants.

As Anne drives away I hear Elgar’s last masterpiece, his Cello Concerto with all the anguish of the war playing on Lyric FM.  Those deep notes vibrate an inspiration as I pull my cello case closer.

I take out the bow and as I slowly rub rosin on it realise a rainbow in full force outside the kitchen window.