Valentine's Day

So it was that schmaltzy, red-and-pink-bedecked, money-making holiday yesterday. The one that got us excited as high school girls when we’d spray perfume on paper and send red enveloped letters to the boys, hopingwishinghoping to get one back. I think I eventually got one in my final year, when I (finally) had my first boyfriend. Luckily Valentine’s Day was before I found out he’d kissed my best friend’s sister at a party we were both at, causing wild throes of fury and teenage angst and a rapid end to our budding affair.

I don’t think I was all that perturbed, really. I remember kissing him in his bedroom while looking around his room and thinking that his choice in posters was poor. It was never meant to be. We became good friends after and he married a lovely girl and had two sweet children and then died of colon cancer way, way too young. I stray.

Valentine’s Day at The All Girl’s Boarding School was A Big Thing. The dining room was decorated by the Std 9’s and breakfast consisted of everything pink – milk, rice crispies, French Toast. With the amount of red colouring used, my stomach is probably still a deeper shade of red than it should be. Then, at break time, roses were handed out, in front of everybody, from the boys at our brother school, down the road. Mortifying for some, glorious for others. Me? I was on the non-receiving, but only partially-mortified side. Of course I’d have loved to get an enormous bunch of them. What 16-year old wouldn’t?

And now? Nope, no pink milk, no bated breath waiting for my name to be called in the quad, just (age-induced?) cynicism at the commercialism of it all. I almost wore my red shirt yesterday and then realised, in the nick of time, and put on a white one instead.

BUT… I had lovely drinks near the sea in the muggy heat of last night beneath the pink-lit ferris wheel with two dear friends, while we watched happy, loving, couples, some in co-ordinated clothing (seriously! Snigger) and pondered over all sorts of things, old and new. When I got home I should’ve bated my breath. Because there I found a well-timed (but non-Valentine) parcel from overseas. Thank you Angela! A little fluffy donkey and a bag of gum sweets shaped like sharks. Just perfect for Valentine’s Day.

So today I am wearing my red shirt, and my wooden heart bead necklace and my breath is bated with what’s to come next.

New Year's delight

I have ten minutes, then C, G and I are off to catch the train into the city to meet Pop and Shuzie for lunch, a New Year's Eve lunch. I have never been an NYE fan - the searching for the best party, the feigned excitement, the slobbery kisses from strangers at midnight. Sometimes I have a braai at my house, last year I had something resembling a party, with people I love. This year, it's a DVD, and sleep, probably way before midnight, and a fresh, clear, 1st of January 2011.

I have a feeling about 2011, I'm not sure if it's good or bad, but it's expectant. I don't think I've had that before. What I wish for, for us all, is happiness. Happiness like that I have seen in my 17-month old little nephews over the last ten days - undaunted, unstoppable, crazy-shit happiness that makes them giggle amd squeal at small things. What a treat to have them here, they are delicious.

So, yes, a quick note. I have much to tell of those squeals, of the fascination of one nephew with his grandfather, of watching the bond develop, tight as tight can be, of Christmas lunches and family, of friends, and love, and a little tinge of sadness, but mainly of those delighted squeals. I'll be back soon, as soon as I have time. Right now, peak-a-boo, buzzing like a bee and pointing at the butterflies that hang from my roof, all to elicit that delight, is way more important.

Wishing you all out there a delight-filled 2011. Remember to giggle and see the joy in everything.

Shiny x

Absence due to jollification

Oh bugger, how did that happen? I’m trying to be a good blogger and write lots and lots. Not daily, mind, but often. Like in maybe everyday and then, all of a sardine, it’s been five days since my last post. Five? Surely not. That time flies thing? I think it might be true.

I’ve been busy you see. This entails not so many hours type-typing away on my computer and many more hours spent doing so many other more fun things. Like drinking cocktails full of crushed mint while the sun sets, turning the sky brilliant pink and The Mountain hazy purple, while seagulls fly above laughing at the ice cream lickers below.

And sitting in a garden that feels like a small oven in the Summer sunshine while a big boy cooks meat on the braai and a little one throws brightly coloured balls into his sandpit-without-sand and then into his pool-without-water. There’s no water in it because otherwise he will never get out. Ever. Not even at bedtime.

Or sitting amongst the warm happiness of a large family, celebrating birthdays in a hidden valley on a stoep next to a very much loved herb garden while the children zoom about, swinging, climbing, and the adults drink wine with lots of ice in it.

Then there’s the taking out of the Christmas lights, checking that they work and getting the box of decorations, old and new, from the top of the cupboard, and persuading my father that he really, really, does want to go and buy a tree from the guys next to the racecourse and put it up in my house. A smaller tree this year, though, not one which reaches the roof like he always gets me, which I love (despite my mother always telling him to get me a smaller one.) No, this year the tree must stand on a table, slightly above 16-month old twin boy height because… THEY’RE ARRIVING, next week, for Christmas! My beautiful nephews, and their mothers.

First though, tomorrow, is my annual Christmas Tree Decorating Party. When people pass through, some stay a half hour, others all night, with their children, their friends. There’ll be food and Christmas songs and everybody who walks through the door has to put at least one decoration on the tree, from the box.

See now, why I’m being a naughty blogger? I’m busy jollifying.

The larney dinner

It's one of those places where there are terribly polite, slightly disturbingly obsequious people around every turn, wanting to open doors for you, offer you drinks, carry stuff, wipe your nose. Okay maybe I'm taking it too far, but you get the idea. It starts when you drive up the driveway and park next to the extravagant water feature and two dudes in suits rush up, one to open the door and one to offer to take your car away for you to some unseen garage. The only cars allowed to stay in the vicinity are big and black, with tinted windows and huge price tags.

You walk into a triple volume (possibly even quadruple) room with an enormous chandelier thingamy above a bar and little groups of chairs huddling around small tables on which to set your designer drinks. It's all very gracious and stylish. One whole wall is glass with a view of The Mountain (the one I refer to in the phrase The City Beneath the Mountain). It's beautiful. Here, too, many men quietly ambush you with menus, drinks etc. I had a Rose Petal Mojito. It was as beautiful as the decor, filled with blood red rose petals and deep green fresh mint. Very Christmassy colours really.

Then next door to the restaurant where Aubrey, our waiter, placed an enormous file on the table - the wine list, all gazillion pages of it, complete with index. Now, here I need input. The wine could be bought in a number of formats - 50ml, 150ml, 250ml or a bottle. Honestly, who drinks 50ml of wine? Do you think they give it to you in a syringe, like you give babies muti? I went for the 250ml, expecting a carafe. I got an enormous glass, into which they poured it. I kept looking to see if there was a goldfish in it.

The menus were printed on large pieces of paper, embossed with the chef/owner's name. Next to us, a married couple sat, looking not-too-pleased to be there. What a waste to go to such a special place and not enjoy it. That's beside the point though, the funniest thing happened. While Shuzie and Pop discussed the merits of the wine list, and I glazed over (I'm a pleb when it comes to wine), I suddenly smelt burning. The not-so-happy-man's menu had caught alight on the flame of the oh-so-stylish little candle on their table.

The food was sublime, I asked many questions about what was what, it had lots of unpronouceable-but-delicious-sounding things on it, as predicted. The company was even more sublime, and we all ordered different things and classily handed them all around the table so we could taste everything. C's order of pork belly was the ultimate winner - delicate medallions of pork, each with a little jacket of perfectly crisp crackling.

G managed to join us for pudding, leaving the monster boss behind. She chose the 'Lemon and Olive Custard'. I was pleased because I'd been intrigued by it. That's what it was called and beneath its name it said 'Cocoa crumble, chocolate mousse, chocolate tile'. It came in a large creme brulee dish - yellow-looking, half the top covered in dark chocolate (tile?) with a small ball (mousse?) covered in edible (I hope) gold paper. It was horrible. Tasted like... well... olive oil. Turned out the crumble was underneath.

When Aubrey came back we discussed this with him. Unfortunately somebody else took our pudding order and he sympathetically told us that he would have warned us against it had it been him! It did not detract from a fabulous evening, though, the beginning of my Jolly Season and we left, through the door opened by another dude-in-a-suit, satiated with delicious food and good company.

Who could ask for more?

'Tis the season to be jolly

Okay, that’s the Pity Party done for the year, black jelly beans and stale Cheese Curls all eaten up and I’ve left the party, with not a glance backwards. ‘Tis now the season to be jolly. Tinsel and sparkley things. And jolly I plan to be.

I’ll be starting the jollification process with a very delicious sounding meal tonight, at one of those very smart, very in, restaurants where I have to ask the waiter a million-and-one questions because I don’t understand the menu because it's filled with oh-so-fashionable-but-unpronouceable ingredients. Normally in the form of a foam or a jus. I can always see them shaking their heads and rolling their eyes when they turn away, at my ignorance. I’m persistant, though, and normally have them on my side by pudding.

I’m going with three of my favourite people. It was supposed to be four, but G’s boss is a monsterous ogre with fourteen arms and one eye and she has to work late and is not allowed to come. I shall attempt to smuggle out a small something for her, probably unpronounceable, but which, I’m sure, will taste delightfully delicious. I’m sure they won’t mind washing out my lunchbox from work lunch (tuna stir-fry) and putting it in there. Why would they?

A weekend in the country

I went away for the weekend to a funny little house on a baby dam overlooking a big dam with a huge sky above it. The sun set behind the big dam each evening flinging beautiful pinks and oranges across said huge sky. There were five of us, old friends, and the Big Black Dog (BBD) who C kindly sat squashed up with in the back of the car. She thought she’d died and gone to heaven (the BBD, not C.) It was lovely. On Friday we went into the little village across the valley for lunch and Shuzie wondered what I’d blog about. There was much blog fodder.

I could blog about the little house, with its neighbours sitting on top of us, their bathroom just on the other side of Pop and Shuzie’s bedroom, providing them with late night irritation entertainment of the bath/toilet sounds variety. Or the fact that the other three of us slept in the lounge, allowing for cosy five-in-a-bed lazy mornings of tea, chat, and impromptu Thirty Seconds challenges.

Or I could blog about the delicious lunch we had at a hidden little restaurant where a simley (moon-faced) Zimbabwean waiter served us cold beers in salad dressing bottles, ‘beautiful baby potatoes’ and risotto with ‘delicious pea sprouts’ from the restaurant garden and ginger beer out of a can which the barman swore had bits of ginger in it (as opposed to the rust it really was.) The BBD fell in love with a very elegant golden retriever and whined like a teenager to be set free to go and snog (or whatever Big Black Dogs do to their loves) around the corner.

Or I could blog about the prawns on a braai supper we had, followed by a Thirty Seconds competition as the most enormous wind storm buffeted the funny little house on a baby dam overlooking a big dam with a huge sky above it for the whole first night. I thought the roof would blow of. It didn’t.

Or I could blog about Pop, and her hair falling out in clumps from the chemo (she goes for her second session today) and our discussions of hats and scarves and healthy eating and how brave she’s being and how I want to wrap her in cotton wool and put her safely in a bejewelled box where she doesn’t need to go through all this, but that’s her story to blog.

Or I could blog about lunch at the place where the frogs live where we saw no frogs, ate not-particularly-good food but admired the deep blue of many, many peacocks and then went home to sit in front of the funny little house on a baby dam overlooking a big dam with a huge sky above it and looked at the dam and the sky and watched G and the BBD swim in the baby dam while fish jumped out around them, checking to see who was invading their territory.

Or I could blog about the revitalising feeling of spending a weekend with old friends who require no explanations, no airs and graces, no pretence. And then, a donkey to wave goodbye as we headed home toward the City Beneath the Mountain, a little cherry on top.

Or I could just not say anything about it, couldn’t I?