I’ve always loved reading. I’ve always loved writing my thoughts. Tying them together in some fashion that is close to rhythmic. Now look, I’m not at all good at it but I feel caged if I don’t write my thoughts, especially when they flow so freely at times.
I have the same commitment to cooking: I almost feel obligated to enthrall myself within my walls. It is perception that guarantees my own personal influence. Here in Westridge Mitchell’s Plain, a place that used to be an affluent residential area 20 or so years ago, I am old fashioned, but not pompous. I loved the way it took shape, the new building sites intrigued me, I mucked around quite a bit when I was little. I climbed tree’s, I love them with a warmth that is closest to the love I had for my late grandmother Estelle Davis. She also felt close to them, her back Garden was rather huge and she planted many species but the one that we both loved was the Fiddlewood. Green for most of the year, and then….spring does something magical and this time of the year, it becomes a Burnt Fiery Orange.
Getting back to home; I miss the old days. There were places to run. You could walk about at any hour and no one accost you. The sweets were larger and tastier. The grocer always gave you a few extra. It was wonderful to walk to the tikkiebox and make a phonecall to your aunt or grandma ma. Eventually we all got our own landline, homemade jam became a thing of the past. Estelle’s masterful Chicken Casserole was to keep me enchanted for years to come. I still love the way it creates conversation at many a dinner table.This memory keeps me snug in my dreams. Cooking therefore plays an integral part of my history. It has revolutionised the way I stand up and fight for my womanliness, as I’m not a fan of make up nor high heels. I love seeing other woman all done up, I just got into the habit of barefeet or slip slops. My skin couldn’t take the aggrevation of make-up, plus I’m too lazy to try. I morphed into a hippie, always been one at heart, who prefers growing my own veggies, making most of what I have from scratch, that includes my decorating skills here at home, even when it doesn’t fit in with my Loves ideas. He does however, love the fact that I do my own handiwork, love stroking wood, my favourite natural material. Here I miss the time, the space, the little things that make us human. Perhaps I’m judging, but true I’m not trying to, I just want the masks to leave.
Things changed over the years and all we held sacred is no more. The parks are unkempt. Children don’t have many places to play. Sunday afternoon is filled with cussing and drinking. I used to partake but gave it up 5 years back, it doesn’t hold any delight, simply because men and women get drunk with every get-together. No one is sane, children are left to their own devices and I am, I think, in a world I have lost touch with. Women compete with men when it comes to drinking. They are in my view unsightly….Here I don’t judge, please don’t get me wrong. I purely mean it is a disgusting display of humanness. Bickering, swearing, distorted behaviour I watch from afar and I feel dislocated from this community, it irks me. My partner is a part of this web, and it eats away at my patience and mindfulness of others, so much so, that I don’t want to leave my kitchen, feeling safe between the walls, the stove and my pantry of ingredients. I love to live in my kitchen and hope that it’s warmth and honest flavour will not flake when I meet some difficult or complex dilemma. Food has the ability to salvage warmth, feeling, tolerance and sanctuary like music. It lifts you off the floor and carry’s your spirit to a level of awareness that is calming, patient, forgiving…..
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