SILENCE REIGNS OVER THE LUSH GREEN ELGIN COUNTRYSIDE. Tadpoles play; exited heartbeats blowing bubbles, radiating ever-increasing circles on the lake, clear and smooth as glass. An image that strikes the heart and sets it blooming like sunflowers basking in sunlight.
I sit, legs dangling on the stone wall and watch a warm golden dawn rising, casting a biblical radiance across the rolling landscape. The trees are asleep – no swishing of branches from the magnificent Oaks that line the winding roads and the meandering paths, or the Pines that crown the crest of hills and the blue gums that lie scattered in the valleys. Weeping Willows bursting with orange green hues lie draped in chilled fynbos black blue water, circling mirror calm lakes. Crisp reflections of dangling still leaves and the blue sky above, emulates a John Constable dawn splendour.
Through a pair of binoculars a band of unusually quiet peacocks look down from the ridge above. What are they waiting for? For an intruder or the rich sun’s rays to caress them?
I look to the east and watch the shadows slowly disappear as the radiance of the rising sun spreads like spilt custard. Lazily the light inches across the hillside, warming up the Alfalfa green fynbos. As the yellow orb reaches the crest of the hill a eery high-pitched sound, repeated continuously, peek-a-hoy, peek-a-hoy, peek-a-hoy, descends into the valley towards me. The peacocks have announced the beginning of their day.
The murmuring of tractor engines are distant, far away in another land. The last rains have lifted the weeds up to a man’s height along the sides of the farm road that leads to Tangleberry Cottage. The lettuces are growing nicely. One or two can’t wait to get to heaven, and so they shall I promise them, by suppertime. Others are at a safe height, not quite ready for the table.
The birdlife sings – a cacophony of ‘pilllip-pilllip-pilllip, chit-chit-chit, wheeet-tooo-wheeet’.
The raptors circle above, searching for a tasty morsel, maybe a squirrel, an Egyptian Mongoose or a Cape Ghost frog? There are plenty of them – they’re breeding again. The males are known to wander from their mission – easy pickings. No time for the birds of prey to glide, the wind is still. The early morning clouds that appeared with the sunrise, soon burnt away, revealing a powder blue sky; its reflection darkened in the deep mirror blue lake and framed by the freshly sprouted water reeds of summer.
Tyson sits and watches, trapped in a halo of light. Solitude bathes him. He’s accepted the birdies are snoozing on this tranquil morning. But in the dim light of pre-dawn he pranced like a highly-strung Lipizzano. He ran and searched, eyes darting everywhere, but to no avail. Now, not a murmur from him, not even a slight gruff of hope.
It is halfway through January, the sun burns more fiercely. Its rays blazes down on orchards and vineyards in the green valleys. Like a Drum Major and his corps you can hear the drumbeat of the Bobbejaan Wagters, marching slowly along Iona’s manicured rows of ripening Sauvignon Blanc grapes. ‘THUMP! . . . THUMP! . . . THUMP! . . . the Baboon Guards beat their hollow yellow 20-litre plastic cans. They’re easy to spot if you look along the front row. The baboons watch, waiting for the Bobbejaan Wagters to turn the corner. Then quick as a magician, bunches of grapes are gone. Their cackling of joy makes the guards angry. The thumping quickens, THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! The escape artists are gone, disappearing into the hillside fynbos shrub and a few bottles of wine lost.
The apple orchards above and behind Tangleberry Cottage have sprouted their little babies, some sweet and some sour – Gala, Pink Lady, Granny Smith, Golden delicious. The vegetables and fruit are lively with colour. Viridian green spinach partners cinnabar green celery. Unripe verdant green Adriatic figs cluster around a fat juicy merry green brother fig. Cadmium red-leaf purple lettuce blooms between burgundy red mustard leaves and spring green iceberg lettuce. Deep orange pumpkin flowers brighten up the scenery. Rich red beetroots mingle with ochre and yellow nasturtium flowers, all ready for eating.
There is an aged fig tree a two stone throw away, literally speaking from Tangleberry Cottage, that year after year produces its far share of earthy delights towards our gastronomic pleasures. I particularly relish the pleasure of standing in its shade, and savouring the juicy flesh fruit. And it seems this pleasure extends to my neighbours.
It’s sorrowful to find the thieving muisvoëls, starlings, waxbills, weavers, barbets and all the other pilfering birds that reside in the valley, and occasionally the two-legged human variety busy scoffing away at the juicy ripe figs. Last year was a tragedy – not one ripened draping ‘Un bel figo’ – all gobbled by the little piggies in the valley. I can imagine just before their gastronome party begins, “One fig for us and two for them. I think that’s very generous, don’t you agree Mr Waxbill”, spoke the Mousebird.
Have you ever seen a flock of mad Pied Starling swooping down on a fig tree? It’s painful to watch all your al fresco meals by candlelight devoured, and all thoughts of Laurentian behaviour banished. Mind you, it’s just as painful to see all the months of hard work, figs nurtured lovingly and diligently, to disappear down their gobbling gullets. That’s when the bird dog pays for his meals in ten-fold.
It’s coming up to mid-summer now, and soon I will be making my rounds to the fruit trees as will the muisvoëls and their hoggish friends. A thick, blurry haze covers the countryside. The dark red clay soil had paled to a washed-out terracotta colour. The surface of the earth is crusted and cracked. These fissures will by winter become rivulets of fast running water.
Labourers with apple red cheeks snip away with their cutters, discarding the unwanted fruit and branches – down the hills the apples roll to nestle in dongas, cracks and holes. The farmhands shuffles lift the dirt. Gently it settles. Tractors throw up the soil, scattering the powdery earth as high as the fences. A thin layer of dust settles on the leaves and trees. With no wind, it takes time to settle. The men in the orchards and vineyards licked their fingers and hold them up to sense the wind. My neighbour Pieter, high above on the crest of the hill, shouts. I sat on the stone wall straining my one good ear to understand. I waived back unable to understand and shouted back, “Know any decent plumbers?!”
Dealing with artisans in this part of the country is not an easy affair. They expect payment regardless of how well the work is done. Shabby and well done are the same. And once the money’s is in their bank there’s not much interest in rectifying mistakes.
As a rule I have a reasonable sixth sense. However in Grabouw some have mastered the art of deception with expressionless faces and poisonous smiles. I met Abraham, a plumber; a rotund quiet man who believes in shortcuts to fix a pipe. The result a few hours after he was paid was a water gush similar in stature to a burst oil pipe in the heart of Saudia Arabia. His fraudulent eyes are completely expressionless, which is now firmly entrenched in my sixth sense.
My first sense brought me back to the present. The sun tips over the hill, our farmhand Oliver arrives, his clothes are new – all of them, second-hand shop new. Gifts over Christmas. All black, including face and crinkly beard, resembling a widow clad in rustic weeds. His cap is also new, but not his visor, that somehow survived the last 12 months of farm torment.
The whir of the brush cutter breaks the silence. Looking like an importee from Mars, Oliver cuts his way through the tall weeds in a haze of flying cuttings. I watch his determination. Soon he will be spattered with cuttings from head to toe, only to look more like an alien living in an Eastern Cape mangrove swamp at the mouth of the Umngazana river.
For Oliver, who hails from the Eastern Cape, life is serious. He came to Grabouw as a young lad seeking work, unlike many labourers that choose not to work in the valley. At 40 years, he’s not easily employable. Slight in appearance with narrow shoulders, he carries a knee and neck injury, courtesy of the hard farm life he has lived for the last 25 years. This means Oliver travels at a slower pace than most, and at times when he has a hard day, drags his right leg like a bird with an injured wing. But his intentions are good and with his slow, dignified walk, he’s focused on finishing the day successfully.
Most often his morning starts with shouts of well wishing for the day from across the fences of neighbouring farms as he walks the 300 meters down to the cottage. And throughout the day an exchange of skinner from passing tractor drivers.
A few mornings ago, I watched him walk towards me with his face creased with anxiety. His apprehension was not his doing, it’s both our doing. His English is not good and my Afrikaans is an embarrassment for someone who has lived in South Africa for 35 years. But after not too long and plenty of sign language, rolling eyes and flapping hands, I came to understand that a large hole had appeared out of nowhere, very close to the potato patch. This was indirectly caused by the last heavy rains of winter – a delayed response from Mother Earth some weeks later.
And so the time slips by. It’s a lost-in-thought kind of day.
Have you ever met anyone who lives in a gastronomic wilderness? You know those places where food is one colour as far as your eye can see? A sourdough bread, with walnuts and rye tastes like mass-produced white bread. Lamb Tangine is like swallowing murky air. Espesado tastes like recycled municipal drinking water in Musina. The difference between sweet, sour, salty, bitter or savoury is a mystery to them. I reach for the dictionary and a definition comes up: ageusia people. They simply cannot the taste the flavour of food.
I should imagine they’ll never consider such delicacies as regional cuisine of the Pyrenees, home of the chilindrones – sautéed peppers, tomatoes and onion dishes. Or Valencia and its delicious Paellas. And the thought of biting into a Tarte Tatin with its flaky pastry and smooth caramelised apples . . . or maybe pan fried Foie Gras with toasted brioche and spiced prune compote . . . Would they rather swallow a raw egg white? Not that they would even appreciate the oyster like experience from a free range cluck. These gastro-ageusia-nome people, as I now like to call them, have never known gastronomic ecstasy, when the brain hits the high C notes of pleasure; not even getting close to a gustatory sensation. They eat to live, as opposed to, live to eat. To them, food is simply fuel for survival.
I worked in the advertising industry for over thirty years. And even though the ad industry is an indulgent, decadent industry, it did attract a few gastro-ageusia-nome types. I did my best to avoid them as I found no cultural connections. When on the odd occasion we, as in our group of indulgent bon vivants, politely invited one to join us – usually after a successful presentation when our endorphins were flying, to gastronome pleasures of French, Italian or Peking cuisine (popular chow of the 1980s London), they inevitably, declined, citing work pressures, an urgent meeting to attend, or the wife is suddenly having a baby . . .
“What at lunchtime?” we would ask incredulously. (How could anyone allow any interruption on their midday gastronome pleasure, we would all think quietly to ourselves). If they did accept, then it was because of some political agenda they had connived in their heads. Not that it would have mattered to us after the third bottle of Perrier-Jouët. By then our taste buds would have gone into a second spasm . . . mouthfuls of freshly baked, light and crusty French bread with savoury French white butter, thickly spread. Can you taste it?
While we were assessing with ummms, ahhs, yums and yummies, of the complications of making a decision on what starter to have; be it Foie Gras, Three Cheese Soufflé, maybe, Prosciutto and fig crostata, or Sea Scallops with saffron potatoes and blood orange Meyer-lemon salsa, perhaps Hosin Pork with Garlic and Ginger Greens and maybe even Gunpowder Chicken with dried red chillies and peanuts, when our gastro-ageusia-nome would startle us, shutting the beautiful embossed leather-bound menu with a snap, and order:
“Plain fish and chips for me . . . without salt and lots of batter around the fish!”. Then quickly add to the subservient waiter who stood respectively head bowed, “And no surprises like vinegar, ketchup or other foreign sauces and anything else I can’t pronounce”.
We of course would look puzzled at this foreign object sitting in our company and wonder what brought us to invite him. If the bubbly wasn’t around I’m sure we would all nip down to the pharmacy for some antidepressants. With crinkled eyebrows we go back to putting our taste buds into another spasm.
When their food arrived, invariably large gulps of water followed each morsel as it entered their oral fissure. This was generally accompanied with rolling eyes displaying the whites of their oculus.
I never understood why these gastro-ageusia-nome’s would want to disguise the flavour of a fish with a thick shroud of batter or some pudgy floury sauce; why did they want to hide the flavours of a beautiful aquatic vertebrate animal?
The fish is a majestic creature. And each one has its own individual flavour and fragrance. Some delicately perfumed like kabeljou, or mild and sweet like Kingklip. Others wild and meaty like swordfish. The gastro-ageusia-nome even prefers big fat greasy chips, usually chopped up in small pieces so it slides down their throats quickly, not like crunchy pencil thin pommel frites, where they would have to physically bite into the potatoes flesh. As far as they were concerned, the shorter the vulgar experience, the better.
Some of them go a step further. They become harbingers of gloom and insist on giving a lecture on intestinal virtue and the consequences of the perils of pleasure. Seeing our lack of interest only seems to spur them on, reminding us the consequences of oral pleasure – death by knife and fork. Rather water by the bucketful. Lots of steamed fish, herbal infusions and no naughty glasses of wine.
In moments of reflection I wonder whether people with no sense or interest in taste, ask themselves, why it is that people get their jollies from eating food like I do. They observe us taking in slow deep breaths of the food fragrances emanating from the cooked ingredients on our plates until our eyes have a mist-like quality filled with pleasure. Then, taking a discerning nibble, swirling the appropriate wine and swishing the two together. Then watching our eyes roll around in ecstasy analysing the flavour – and, then climax with ohhs, ahhs, umms, repeated continuously, until the orgasm has subsided. Then swiftly starting the whole procedure again until our bellies are full. I suspect they would probably gag, but more likely choosing to avert their eyes to view the aesthetics surroundings of the restaurant – the linen cloths, the bland carpets, the waiters shoes and white ceilings.
On average most people have 10000 taste buds. The less they have, the less likely they will appreciate delicious food, is my theory. I believe, I have about 7000 actively involved tastebuds. Ten years ago I had about 8000. Decadence and age eroded the lost gustatory cells. I’m not privileged with the talent of Hester Blumenthal, Luke Dale-Roberts and other outstanding chefs or gourmands that have 10000 taste buds continuously working like a Humboldt squid hellbent on tasting everything in the sea; they have fine-tuned every one of their gustatory cells. I’m happy with my 7000, I could have eroded a lot more. If I had more I would resemble a balloon of enormous proportions. But knowing me I would be pedalling at the gym twice as long as my allocated 45 minutes by my cardiologist.
So today I pay a tribute to the gastro-ageusia-nome. No, I am not planning on cooking anything bland. Quiet the contrary. Today is a day of flavours. The sun is shining in the Elgin valley. It’s green and the sky is blue but its raining in my heart for all those gastro-ageusia-nomes lost in their gastronomic wilderness.
I’ve been training my body for a few days. I’d been a bit self-indulgent and needed to do something about it. I certainly didn’t want my life to leach out of control and become impossible to repair. I had to get the balance right for the forth-coming barrage of flavours my tastebuds and of course my body would experience. I not only had to be physically right, but also my psyche had to be tuned perfectly. I find that a detox for a few days gets my tastebuds excited again. They become a little anaesthetised with too much decadence, unlike one of my close friends Dennis Higgs, who has the capacity to match Gérard Depardieu over a ten course meal (Dennis likes to point out Depardieu has Vladimir Putin, President of Russia as a best buddy, whereas he has me . . . is that a complement I ask myself?)
Then my iPhone went, Tring! Tring!
‘Hello Rossi . . . What’s for lunch?’
‘Summer Herb Tarts. Fresh Salmon Trout Bruschetta followed by Asian de-boned roast leg lamb, finished of with Blackberry ice-cream and fresh hairless Mapumalanga mango . . . and I’d like to add freshly picked blackberries!’.
Today we have a visitor. A master food cinematographer and film director. A master at seeking the pleasures of any oral kind. A master gourmand who loves to wallow in sybaritic splendour. Master Ian Difford, an indulgent epicurean.
I have a theory and there are no statistics to support my view. People that love the fragrant pleasures of food behave with some irrationality when a culinary morsel of sublime flavours is offered. Their behaviour pattern changes.
When at a wedding they ask the groom first what’s on the menu, before congratulating them on their third attempt at marital bliss, forgetting it was actually their second. At a funeral, while prayers are being said and solemn eyes stare at the ground, just before the coffin is lowered, the question whispered is, what are they serving at the wake, and is there going to be the deceased’s favourite foie gras? And at a christening: did the parents plan on a celebratory a la carte degustion, after the holy water anointment?
All these questions are harmless, until the epicurean has an empty stomach. They will drive twice as fast as the speed limit, in order to satisfy their craving. And so it was with our guest Master Ian Difford. One minute he was an echo at the end of a mobile phone and the next minute he was knocking on the front door. And I am sure causing a few heart-stopping moments to his fellow drivers along the way. They no doubt watched his dust-smudged blur as he made his way through winding avenues, amber lights, speed bumps, clipping manicured grass verges on the bends and no doubt left the odd blackened tyre burn mark at the occasional traffic light. If he could fly, he would, his gastronomic juices were in overdrive. By the time he entered the house with two delicious bottles of wine, he seemed breathless, panting slightly like our dog Tyson. Further complications arose through his fresh un-blunted senses of smell. Overwhelmed by garlic and ginger and fresh coriander, and grassy fragrances of sauvignon blanc and lemongrass, and baking tarts and Tyson’s slobbery kisses, his eyes grew into giant fish like orbs.
We eased into lunch like Usain Bolt limbering up, five seconds before takeoff.
SUMMER HERB TARTS
4 sheets of phyllo pastry – 50g butter melted – 6 shallots finely grated – 15g fresh basil coarsely chopped – 15g fresh chives chopped – 15g fresh parsley chopped – 20g fresh coriander chopped – ground black pepper – 10 g micro rocket – 2 teaspoons basil pesto – 100g fresh cream – 100g mascarpone – 125ml cream – 2 large eggs – course sea salt
Preheat then oven to 180 degrees C. Place the 4 sheets of phyllo pastry on top of each other on a flat surface and cut into 6 even rectangles. Lay 1 rectangular sheet on a flat surface and brush with melted butter. Lay another rectangle on top, brush with butter and repeat twice more. Do this with the rest of the pastry. carefully put the prepared pastry into six 10 cm loose-bottomed tart tins and trim the edges with scissors.
Mix all the chopped herbs in a bowl. Add the rest of the ingredients except the seasoning and micro greens and gently mix together. Season the filling to taste with salt and pepper and pour into the tart shells. bake 30-35 minutes until the filling is set. Top with micro rocket just before serving.
FRESH SALMON TROUT BRUSCHETTA
500g of fresh salmon trout or Norwegian salmon 1cm thick – 100g Pickled nasturtiums or bottle capers drained and coarsely chopped – 3 tablespoons of fresh lime – 3 tablespoons of fresh lemon juice – 3 tablespoons of Kikoman soya sauce – 3 tablespoons of Chinese plum sauce – 2 thumb size ginger peeled and grated – 2 Roma tomatoes, deseeded and shells chopped coarsely – 2 shallots chopped coarsely – I ciabatta bread cut into slices and toasted
A few cloves of garlic – Olive oil – Grated parmesan cheese optional
Slice the fresh salmon and place in a bowl. Add the first 8 ingredients to the Salmon and gently turn. Seal with cling wrap and place in the fridge for an hour turning occasionally.
Toast the ciabatta slices. Rub a garlic clove into the toast. Drizzle with olive oil. And lay the Salmon trout mixture on the bruschetta. You can sprinkle Parmesan cheese on top but this is optional.
ASIAN BUTTERFLIED LEG OF LAMB
Marinade ingredients:
A large resealable plastic bag – 2 jalapeño chillies finely chopped – 1/2 cup of rice vinegar – 2 large onion finely chopped – 1 cup of freshly grated ginger – 1/2 cup of freshly chopped garlic – 1/4 cup honey – 1 cup of Hosin sauce – 1/4 cup of soya sauce – 1/4 cup of lemon juice – Salt and Pepper
2 kgs of deboned leg of lamb
1 cup of chicken stock
A few preserved Moroccan lemons (optional)
Baby potatoes half cooked
Olive oil
Mix all marinade ingredients throughly together. Cut incisions into lamb and poke in marinade ingredients. Rub what’s left over into the lamb and massage for a few minutes. Place meat and all marinade in a large resealable plastic bag, seal refrigerate for 8 hours overnight.
Preheat the oven to 180 degrees C. Take out the marinated lamb and wipe 50% off the marinade. Place the half cooked potatoes in a roasting pan. Place the deboned lamb on top of the potatoes and dress the lamb with the preserve lemon quarters. Drizzle the lamb lightly with olive oil and loosely cover with tin foil.
When half cooked, take off tin foil and place back in the oven for the last 30 minutes. Take out of the oven and place lamb on a wooden board and cover with the tin foil while it rests for 5 minutes, then slice. With off the oven and place the cooked potatoes in a bowl with the preserved lemons in the oven to keep warm. Quickly deglaze the roasting pan with the chicken stock for the sauce and pour into a gravy boat. Place the lamb and the potatoes back into the roasting pan and serve.
BLACKBERRY ICE CREAM
In this recipe we used wild blackberries that we picked at Tangleberry Cottage. We prefer the wild blackberries as the juice is thicker, more jelly like. You can also use the more mass produced found in supermarkets. The process is the same. If you use frozen blackberries then the cooking time is longer as frozen foods carry more moisture. Also wild blackberries have a larger seed and juicier flesh. We extract the seed through a mouli but you can also press through a sieve.
Ingredients:
500g or 5 cups of blackberries – extra to decorate – 75g of superfine caster sugar – 30 ml or 2 tbsp of water – 300ml or 1.5 cups of whipping cream – 1 Mango peeled and sliced – Fresh mint to decorate
Directions:
1. Simmer the blackberries with the sugar and water until just soft. Tip the fruit into a mouli and turn handle until all the juice is extracted into a bowl. Leave to cool and then chill.
2. Churn the chilled blackberry puree in an ice-cream maker for 10 to 15 minutes until thick, then gradually pour in the cream and continue to churn the ice cream until it is firm enough to scoop.
3. Scoop into dishes and decorate with three slice of mangoes and fresh mint.
