Russia
From The Great Boer Escape
by Willie Steyn
It is well known that one cannot enter Russia without a passport, and I believe that we were the only five people ever to do so. The only way we could accomplish this was to dress up as Russian soldiers, and our friends saw to this for us. We were given uniforms and proceeded to march from the harbour, together with the other soldiers, to the barracks.
Nevertheless, the rumour had somehow spread through Theodosia that five Boers had arrived aboard the Kherson, and when the ship steamed into the harbour a multitude of people had already gathered on the wharf. We were only later told that most of them had come to see us. They stood around for a while and, when they heard that we had already disembarked, they followed us to the barracks and would not leave until we were brought out to be displayed.
Before arriving at the barracks, we went through a large gateway where police officers were on duty. They counted the number of soldiers to compare the tally with information received from the Commanding Officer on board; but they must have been well aware of our presence, and I think the counting was done simply to comply with legal formalities.
On arrival at the barracks we changed our clothing, met many officers and Russian citizens, and received various invitations to spend time with them at their homes. We accepted an invitation from a Mr Herman Rhiel, the German Consul, mainly because we were able to speak and understand a little German, which made it easier to communicate with him and his family. We stayed with them for two days, during which time we were treated extremely well.
That first afternoon in Theodosia we strolled through the city to do some sightseeing. We were even photographed a couple of times, and the evening was spent with Mr Rhiel in his salon, where we met a great many men and women who had come to see the Boers.
During the course of the evening Mr Rhiel’s very attractive daughter, Miss Marie, a young lady of approximately nineteen, asked me whether we would sing some songs. I answered that I had never really excelled in singing, and neither had any of my comrades. She then said: ‘Not even your national anthem?’ to which I could obviously not reply in the negative.
I will never forget her look of wonderment when Botha sat down at the piano and started playing. We sang the Transvaal national anthem, and afterwards they insisted that we all dance.
Each of us had to dance, in turn, with the twelve young ladies present. It became something of a matter of national pride, and I was grateful that we were able to acquit ourselves of the task reasonably well. We were complimented on our singing as well as our dancing, and it was good to know that the praise was not entirely undeserved.
I spent the greater part of the following day in the company of Miss Marie. We had a pleasant day with a Dr Meralovich, and dined together. The following evening was spent in much the same way as the previous one.
The next morning we left for St Petersburg on a special train that was transporting soldiers and officers to another garrison. A multitude of people had gathered at the station to bid us farewell on our way to the Russian capital, and on the platform we received several baskets of fruit from our new-found friends.
While we were waiting for the train to leave, Miss Marie (who, like many of the other ladies, was by now quite tearful) came up to me and said: ‘Oh, Mr Steyn, I would so love to go with you; I would surely have done so if my father had permitted it.’ To say that I was confused and embarrassed by this open declaration from such a beautiful lady would be an understatement. Yet at the same time I realised that these people were very different from us Afrikaners, and I was sure that this declaration was merely the result of her feeling of national empathy and admiration – a passing emotion.
With mixed feelings I heard the clock strike, and we took our leave of these dear friends. Moments later the train steamed out of the station amid loud cheering and hurrahs.
The Governor's Bean
From Leipoldt's Cellar & Kitchen
by C Louis Leipoldt
It would be hard to find something more genuinely Afrikaans in a vegetable garden than the good old goewerneursboontjie, or hereboontjie as it is also called. This is not something you’re likely to find discussed in any overseas cookbook. Take for instance the Larousse Gastronomique, that comprehensive manual for the modern chef. It doesn’t even mention our admirable goewerneursboontjie, which is even overlooked in Afrikaans cookbooks, although here and there you may come across a casual reference to ‘dry beans’.
Yet what could be finer than an old-fashioned goewerneursboontjie of the large variety? When green, they are magnificent; but it’s a shame to pick them before they have reached maturity, and they taste much better when they have ripened in the sun. They are at their best when the pods have just opened, the two halves curling up to expose the treasure they have guarded with such care. And how splendid are the colours they display, subtle hues of red, black-brown, white and yellow? They lie there like fragments of the finest Amandola marble. It’s true that we rarely see the goewerneursboontjie in all its old-fashioned glory these days, and it seems as if the species has become smaller, more wrinkled and less colourful. There are even some pale-yellow, dirty-white descendants available – inferior tasting South American types that are far less pleasing aesthetically.
So try to obtain the good, old-fashioned variety if you can, preferably from a farm somewhere in the southwestern Cape. Go for those that have grown in river soil and held their ground against the ravages of the southeaster. And please don’t treat them like ordinary dry beans. They are aristocrats, entitled to their privileges, and they have their likes and their dislikes. So keep them properly dry and well cleaned in an air-tight jar, well out of reach, where there is no chance of the jar being, as we children used to mutter in youthful, mock astonishment, mysteriously smashed by inexplicable mishap. And don’t for a minute think this is too much to ask of an overworked housewife. The effort is handsomely repaid, for it preserves the flavor. As Ayah Mina, Anna or whoever it was that taught me respect for the goewerneursboontjie always used to say, ‘The taste, Kleinbaas, the taste is what makes it worth its weight in gold.’
To cook them, remove them from their air-sealed jar – a cupful is enough to start with. Examine them, and discard any that are not pristinely pure, perfect and pleasing to the eye. Wash them in cold water to get rid of any lingering grains, then place them in a clear saucepan and cover them with tap water – or fountain water if there is no tap. Let them soak awhile, but definitely not too long. Even when it comes to the lesser dry-bean types, I am always horrified when I read the instruction in a cookbook to ‘soak them overnight in cold water’. Phantoms of Carême and La Chapelle! That is no way to treat a governor’s bean. Too long a soaking stimulates growth, resuscitating a dormant lust for life and activating that most mysterious of chemical metabolisms that can ruin the taste in an instant. So soak them at most for an hour and a half, no longer.
Drain off the water and submerge them again, this time in lukewarm water with a pinch of salt. But in heaven’s name, no bicarbonate of soda.
Nothing, alas, can preserve the magnificent colour of the beans. When cooked, they lose their colour and turn brown – light brown when cooked slowly and thoroughly, as they ought to be, or a darker brown when cooked too fast. Keep the lid on the saucepan, but give it an occasional shake, and add warm water from time to time so that the beans remain submerged. When soft, take the saucepan from the fire, drain the water in a colander, and shake the beans dry.
For those connoisseurs who prefer a simple, pure vegetable taste, the beans are now cooked and readyfor the table. They're especially good when cold, for it is then that they have the genuinegoewerneursboontjie taste – something in between that of a chestnut and a dried medlar. You can serve them with a sour sauce, or as a salad with a simple mixture of vinegar and pepper, a touch of mustard and a dash of oil.
But what about something more sophisticated, somewhat more refined? There are those who are not content with sheer simplicity, who prefer the lily gilded, a whiff of perfume with the fragrant mignonette.
For the benefit of these connoisseurs, return the beans to the saucepan with a pinch of pepper, ginger and mace. Add a cup of meat or chicken soup, and cook slowly with the lid on. In another saucepan braise a sliced onion (with a suspicion of garlic, if desired), and when it is light brown, mix in a few tablespoons of tomato sauce. Dilute with a few spoonfuls of the soup in which the beans are cooking, then add the mixture to the beans, stirring carefully to keep the beans intact. Cook for a few minutes longer, and serve with a sprinkling of parsley.
Another method. Put the beans in the saucepan with a large tablespoonful of butter or soft, preferably chicken fat. Add pepper, mace and herbs, and braise slowly, taking care not to break the beans. Serve with grated nutmeg or a sprinkling of parsley.
And what to drink with it? It’s a colourful dish, so aesthetics demand a wine of colour – thus a red table wine, one that is not sweet.
10 April 1942
Die Goewerneur se Boontjie
Uit Polfyntjies vir die proe
deur Dr. C. Louis Leipoldt
Dit sou moeilik wees om in die groentetuin iets meer eg Afrikaans teë te kom as die ouderwetse “goewerneursboontjie”, of, soos hy soms genoem word, “hereboontjie”. En dit sou ook moeilik wees om hom raak te loop in enige buitelandse kookboek. Raadpleeg maar daardie alwetende Larousse gastronomique, die almovattende, allesbeskrywende leerboek vir die hedendaagse kok, en jy sal vind dat ons mooi, lekker goewerneursboontjie nie eens daarin genoem word nie. Selfs in ons Afrikaanse kookboeke word hy nie aangetref nie, al word daar soms van “droë boontjies” gepraat.
En tog, wat is daar mooier as die ouderwetse, groot soort goewerneursboontjies? Groen, is hulle ’n prag, ofskoon dit amper ’n sonde sou wees om die nog onmondige peulvrug kombuis toe te neem, want hulle is baie lekkerder as hulle ryp geword het in die son. Net soos die peule oopbreek en die twee gedeeltes opkrul om die skat wat hulle tot hiertoe sorgvuldig bewaar het, aan die wêreld te ontbloot, is hulle regtig op hul beste. Hoe pragtig is die skakerings van kleur – rooi, swart-bruin, wit en geel – wat hulle toon. Soos stukkies Amandola-marmer lê hulle daar – en daardie soort is van oudsher beroemd as die beste marmer. Dit is waar, ons kry teenswoordig maar selde die goewerneursboontjie in sy egte ouderwetse prag, en dit lyk al hoe meer asof sy soort kleiner, gerimpelder en minder kleurryk word. Daar is selfs afstammelinge van hom wat bleek-geel en vuil-wit is, Suid-Amerikaanse soorte wat glad nie so lekker smaak nie en esteties veel minder indruk op jou maak.
Kry dus die ouderwetse soort – as jy kan. Liefs van ’n plaas êrens in die suidwestelike gedeelte van die Kaap, waar dit op riviergrond gegroei en teen die suidoostewind stand gehou het. En behandel dit asseblief nie soos gewone droë boontjies nie, want dit is ’n aristokraat en het sy voorregte, ja, selfs sy grilletjies. Liefs in ’n lugdigte fles, goed droog, behoorlik skoon, buite bereik van alles wat, soos ons in ons jeug op geheimsinnige manier gemompel het, ’n knikkertjie kan rinneweer. Moenie dink dit is te veel om van ’n reeds oorwerkte huisvrou te eis nie. Dit betaal dubbel en dwars want dit behou die smaak. “Die smaak, Kleinbaas, die smaak,” soos ou aia Mina, of Anna, of hoe die ou skepsel ook geheet het van wie ek geleer het hoe om met goewerneursboontjies om te gaan, altyd gesê het, “is wat hom goud werd maak.”
En nou wat? Ja, ongelukkig sê die kookboeke niks oor hoe ons hom moet berei en gaarmaak nie. Ek sal egter ’n paar resepte voorlê wat op eie ondervinding berus en wat ek kan aanbeveel. Maar onthou, geduld en lankmoedigheid is nodig om met goewerneursboontjies om te gaan.
Neem hulle dus uit hul lugdigte fles. ’n Koppievol is genoeg om mee te begin. Ondersoek hulle. Gooi weg enigeen wat nie onberispelik rein, volmaak en vir die oog welgevallig is nie. Was hulle in koue water om enige greintjie aardse stof wat daar miskien nog aan hulle mag klewe, weg te ruim. Sit hulle dan in ’n skoon kastrol en bedek hulle met kraanwater, of fonteinwater, as daar nie ’n kraan is nie. Laat hulle daarin lê, maar asseblief nie alte lank nie. Selfs vir die minderwaardige droë boontjiesoorte gril ek as ek in ’n kookboek lees: “Laat hulle die hele nag in koue water week”. Skimme van Careme en La Chapelle! Watter manier van behandeling is dit vir goewerneursboontjies! ’n Alte lang deurweking is ’n prikkel tot groei – tot herlewing van die lewenslus daar binne in die kiem – tot ’n begin van daardie hoogs misterieuse skeikundige stofwisseling wat in ’n ommesientjie die smaak kan bederwe. Dus hoogstens anderhalf uur, nie langer nie.
Gooi dan die water af en vervang dit met ’n nuwe doopsel, hierdie keer louwarm water met ’n grypie sout daarin. Maar in hemelsnaam geen koeksoda nie! Niks, jammer genoeg, kan die glansryke, pragtige kleur bewaar nie; met die kook gaan dit verlore en die boontjies word bruin; ligbruin as hulle behoorlik, stadig maar goed gekook word, donkerder as hulle te vinnig kook. Hou die deksel op die kastrol, maar skud hom soms en voeg nou en dan ’n bietjie warm water by, sodat die boontjies altyd onder en nie bo die water kook nie. Sodra hulle sag is, neem die kastrol van die vuurherd, gooi die water af en skud die boontjies droog in ’n vergiettes.
Vir die eenvoudige kenner wat altyd van ’n suiwer groentesmaak hou, is hulle nou gaar en klaar vir die tafel. Veral koud. Want hulle het die egte goewerneursboontjiesmaak, so tussen dié van ’n kastaiing en ’n uitgedroogde mispel. Jy kan hulle opdis met ’n suursous, of as slaai met ’n eenvoudige mengsel van asyn en peper, ’n snoepseltjie mosterd en ’n bietjie olie.
Iets fyner, meer geraffineer? Ja, daar is sommige van ons wat nie tevrede is met die reine eenvoud nie. Hulle wil die lelie verguld, reukwater oor ’n reseda giet.
Nou ja, vir hulle dan: Sit die boontjies terug in die kastrol, saam met ’n grypie peper, gemmer en foelie, en gooi daarop ’n koppie vleis- of hoendersop. Laat dit stadig kook, met die kastroldeksel toe. Smoor in ’n ander kastrol ’n gesnipperde ui (met ’n rafeltjie knoflok daarby, indien gewens), en as dit ligbruin is, meng daarmee ’n paar eetlepelsvol tamatiesous. Verdun met ’n paar lepelsvol van die sop waarin die boontjies kook en roer dan die mengsel versigtig in die boontjies, sodat hulle nie breek nie. Laat dit ’n paar minute kook en dis op met pieterselie daaroor.
Nog ’n ander metode: Sit die boontjies in die kastrol, saam met ’n groot eetlepel botter of sagte (liefs hoender-) vet; voeg peper, foelie en kruie by; laat stadig smoor en sorg dat die boontjies nie breek nie. Bedien met gerasperde neut of pieterselie daaroor.
Wat om daarmee te drink? Dis ’n gekleurde skottel, en die estetiese sin verlang ’n gekleurde wyn. Dus ’n rooi tafelwyn wat nie soet is nie.
10 April 1942
Deep Impressions and Inward Beauty
From Commando
by Deneys Reitz
We lived in the Orange Free State.
My father was Chief Justice in Sir John Brand’s time and subsequently, in 1887, was himself elected President of the Republic.
Our home was at Bloemfontein, the State capital, and here my brothers and I grew up. There were five of us, two older and two younger than myself, and we led a pleasant, Tom-Sawyerlike existence such as falls to the lot of few boys nowadays. We learned to ride, shoot and swim almost as soon as we could walk, and there was a string of hardy Basuto ponies in the stables, on which we were often away for weeks at a time, riding over the game-covered plains by day, and sleeping under the stars at night, hunting, fishing and camping to our heart’s content, and clattering home again when we had had our fill.
Sometimes my father took us with him on his long tours into the remoter districts, where there was more hunting and more camping, and great wapenshaws, held by the Boer commandos to do him honour.
Our small country was a model one. There were no political parties, nor, until after the Jameson Raid of 1895, was there any bad blood between the Dutch and the English. We had no railways, and the noise of the outside world reached us but faintly, so that in our quiet way we were a contented community, isolated hundreds of miles from the seaboard.
In 1894, when I was twelve years old, we were taken to Europe. It was a wonderful experience for inland-bred boys to journey to the Coast, to cross the ocean in a ship, and to see the great crowds and cities of the old world. We went first of all to England, where we stayed for a while in London, marvelling at the things we saw. Thence to Amsterdam to visit the senior branch of our family, that had remained in Holland when our ancestors emigrated to South Africa long ago. The head of the old stock lived in a house on the Heerengracht – a wealthy man apparently, for he kept many servants and had fine paintings on his walls.
As our republic had taken its name from the House of Orange, my father was well received by the little Queen of the Netherlands, and the court and people made much of us. Next, we travelled to Paris to meet Casimir-Périer, the newly elected President of the French. He took us to lay a wreath on the grave of Sadi Carnot, his predecessor, lately assassinated by an anarchist at Lyons. From there we went to Brussels to see Monsieur Jesslein, our Consul. His house stood in the rue de la Blanchisserie, and he told us it was the one in which the Duchess of Richmond had given her famous ball on the eve of Waterloo. We were presented to King Leopold, an old man with a hooked nose and a long white beard, who extended only his little finger in greeting, perhaps because we belonged to a republic.
From Belgium we went to Hamburg to take ship across the North Sea to Edinburgh, and from there to visit the Cathcarts at Auchindrayne on the River Doon. My father had studied law in Scotland and my grandfather before him had studied agriculture, and they had both spent much time at Auchindrayne, so that my father wished his sons in turn to carry on the tradition of friendship which for nearly a hundred years had linked the two families.
My grandfather first went to Scotland in 1816. He met Sir Walter Scott, to whom he took a lion skin which the poet Thomas Pringle had sent from Cape Town, and he became intimate with the great writer. In later days in South Africa, he loved to tell of their meetings and of the banquet at which he was present when Scott for the first time admitted that he was the author of the Waverley Novels. Both my grandfather and my father had returned to South Africa with a deep love of Scotland and Scotch literature, and at our home scarcely a night passed without a reading from Burns or Scott, so that we felt as if we were among our own people.
From Auchindrayne we went to London to meet Sir George Grey, who, as Governor of the Cape, had been a friend of my father many years before. My father used to say that if the English had sent more men like him to South Africa our history would have been a happier one, and although I was only a boy, and Sir George Grey a very old man, he made a deep impression on me – a something of inward beauty not easily described, but which I have not yet forgotten.
From London we sailed for South Africa.
On our return my brothers and I were received by our less fortunate playfellows like pilgrims safely returned from Mecca, so hazardous an undertaking did our journey seem to them in those days.
We took up our old carefree life once more, all unaware of the storm that was brewing between the white races in the Transvaal.
Diepgaande indrukke en innerlike skoonheid
Uit Kommando
deur Deneys Reitz
Ons het in die Oranje Vrystaat gewoon.
My pa was die hoofregter in sir Jan Brand se tyd en vervolgens, in 1887, is hy tot President van die Republiek verkies.
Ons huis was in Bloemfontein, die hoofstad van die Vrystaat, en hier het ek en my broers grootgeword. Daar was vyf van ons, twee jonger en twee ouer as ek, en ons het ’n aangename, Tom-Sawyer-soort van bestaan geniet soos maar min seuns vandag die geleentheid kan hê. Ons het geleer om perd te ry, te skiet, en om te swem amper so gou as wat ons kon loop. Daar was ook ’n klomp geharde Basoeto-ponies in die stalle waarop ons soms vir weke aaneen die wêreld ingevaar het. Bedags het ons oor velde gery waar dit van wild gewemel het en snags het ons onder die sterrehemel geslaap. Ons het na hartelus gejag, visgevang en gekampeer en eers weer teruggekeer huis toe wanneer ons genoeg gehad het.
Soms het my pa ons saam met hom geneem op sy lang toere na afgeleë plekke waar daar nog meer jagtogte en kampering was, en daar was groot wapenskoue wat die Boerekommando’s ter ere van my pa gereël het.
Ons klein landjie was ’n modelstaat. Daar was geen politieke partye nie en, tot na die Jameson inval, geen kwade gevoelens tussen die Afrikaners en die Engelse nie. Daar was nie spoorweë nie, en die rumoer van die wêreld daar buite het ons later maar skrapsgewys bereik. Op ons stil manier was ons volkie tevrede en gelukkig so honderde myle afgesonder van die naaste kus af.
In 1894, toe ek twaalf jaar oud was, is ons Europa toe geneem. Dit was ’n wonderlike ervaring vir ons seuns wat in die binneland gebore en grootgeword het, om kus toe te reis, om oor die oseaan met ’n skip te vaar, en om die baie mense en stede van die ou wêreld te sien. Ons het eerstens Engeland toe gegaan waar ons ’n rukkie in Londen gebly het en ons verstom het aan die dinge wat ons gesien het. Daarna na Amsterdam, waar ons die ouer tak van ons familie besoek het wat in Holland agtergebly het toe ons voorvaders lank gelede Suid-Afrika toe geëmigreer het. Die ou stamvader het in ’n huis aan die Heerengracht gewoon; ’n ryk man oënskynlik, want hy het baie bediendes gehad en daar was pragtige skilderye aan sy huis se mure.
Aangesien ons Republiek sy naam van die Huis van Oranje ontleen het, is my pa goed ontvang deur die klein koningin van die Nederlande en die hof en mense het ’n ophef van ons gemaak. Vervolgens het ons Parys toe gereis om Casimir-Périer, die nuut verkose President van Frankryk te ontmoet. Hy het ons na die graf van Sadi Carnot, sy voorganger, geneem om daar ’n krans te lê. Hy is kort tevore deur ’n anargis by Lyons vermoor. Vandaar het ons Brussels toe gegaan om Monsieur Jesslein, ons konsul, te besoek. Sy huis was in die Rue de la Blanchisserie geleë en hy het ons vertel dat dit die huis was waarin die hertogin van Richmond haar beroemde bal gehad het op die vooraand van Waterloo. Ons is voorgestel aan Koning Leopold, ’n ou man met ’n krom neus en ’n lang wit baard. Hy het net sy pinkie uitgesteek om ons te groet, miskien omdat ons net aan ’n republiekie behoort het.
Van België af het ons Hamburg toe gereis om van daar af per skip oor die Noordsee na Edinburgh toe te vaar, en van daar af het ons die Cathcarts by Auchindrayne op die Doonrivier besoek. My pa het regte in Skotland studeer en my oupa voor hom, weer landbou. Hulle het altwee heelwat tyd op Auchindrayne deurgebring. Dit was my pa se wens dat sy seuns daardie tradisie van vriendskap, wat reeds vir amper ’n honderd jaar die twee families verbind het, sou voortsit.
My oupa het vir die eerste keer in 1816 Skotland toe gegaan. Hy het sir Walter Scott, die groot skrywer, goed leer ken nadat hy vir hom ’n leeuvel gevat het wat die digter Thomas Pringle uit Kaapstad vir hom gestuur het. Op geleenthede later in Suid-Afrika het hy daarvan gehou om te vertel van hulle ontmoetings en van die banket waarop hy teenwoordig was toe Scott vir die eerste keer erken het dat hy die skrywer was van die Waverley-romans. Beide my oupa en my pa het teruggekeer Suid-Afrika toe met ’n ware liefde vir Skotland en die Skotse literatuur. Tuis by ons huis het daar amper nie ’n aand verbygegaan sonder dat daar uit Burns of Scott gelees was nie. Dit was asof ons tussen ons eie mense was.
Van Auchindrayne af het ons Londen toe gegaan om sir George Grey te ontmoet. As vroeëre goewerneur aan die Kaap, was hy vir jare lank al ’n vriend van my pa. My pa het altyd gesê dat, as die Engelse meer mense soos hy Suid-Afrika toe gestuur het, ons geskiedenis ’n baie gelukkiger verloop sou geneem het. Alhoewel ek net ’n seun was en sir George Grey ’n baie ou man, het hy ’n diepgaande indruk op my gemaak. Hy het iets soos ’n innerlike skoonheid gehad – moeilik om te beskryf, maar wat ek nooit vergeet het nie.
Van Londen af het ons teruggevaar Suid-Afrika toe.
Met ons terugkeer is ek en my broers soos pelgrims wat veilig van Mekka af teruggekeer het, ontvang deur ons minder bevoorregte maats. In daardie dae, het ons reis vir hulle na so ’n gewaagde onderneming gelyk.
Ons het ons sorgvrye lewe weereens hervat, totaal onbewus van die storm wat aan die broei was tussen die wit rasse in Transvaal.
Things Our Forefathers Loved and Cherished
From The Mask and Leipodlt's Cellar & Kitchen
by C Louis Leipoldt
In his historical novel, The Mask, the third book in the trilogy known as The Valley, Leipoldt cannot resist describing – in the manner that he does – an evening family meal at the home of the local village attorney. He does so at length and in words that reveal Leipoldt the connoisseur of old Cape cuisine, Leipoldt the expert cook, Leipoldt the poet.
We know that the village in question is Clanwilliam, where Leipoldt grew up and where his father was the dominee from 1884 until 1910. Perhaps this is why Leipoldt gives free, uninhibited reign to his poetic and culinary imagination, not to mention his nostalgia.
Dinner in Clanwilliam
‘Ayah Mina, an excellent cook, had served a meal worthy of her culinary skill, a simple, well-cooked dinner such as the old master delighted to eat because it not only pleased the palate but pandered also to his nationalistic taste.
Home-baked bread, crisp-edged and loose in the crumb, made from farm wheat ground between stone rollers by the homemade machinery in some oak-shaded farm mill-house where the water splashed monotonously over the slits of the big wooden wheel and the big tarantula spiders twinkled their diamond eyes from between the cobwebs dusty with the powdered flour; white bean soup, richly-creamed and served with snippets of black-toasted bread; a savoury stew made from the half-opened buds of the scented aponogeton, the white, pink-tinged little water lily that grew in masses on the river ponds; deliciously steamed rice with every grain separate and distinct from its fellow, fully expanded and glistening in its miniver whiteness; sweet potatoes, amber coloured, in a thin syrup; a braised Muscovy duck, meltingly tender, stuffed with onions and sage; a salad of cooked beetroot, decorated with hard-boiled eggs; and for dessert a baked custard with stewed peaches, sun-dried and flavoured with cinnamon and the peel of tangerine orange.
And with the coffee, strong and subtly aromatic, for the beans had been freshly toasted and ground that afternoon, a glass of Van der Hum liqueur or a glass of that rich golden muscadel whose taste lingers on the palate.’
Things Our Forefathers Loved and Cherished
‘The traditional atjar, as we Bonades used to know it, has disappeared completely. It has melted away like snow on the Cederberg mountains in August.
There are those who are able to speak without emotion about the dying off and disappearance of old habits, old friends, old fashions and old things, and who would not shed a tear about the loss of something our forefathers loved and cherished. They are, as the Latin poet said bluntly, “unfeeling stones that do not notice the slow erosion of wind and rain”. It is they who today satisfy themselves with So and So’s Pickled This and That, Tom Dick and Harry’s Sauce, Potdamn’s Pickle, Ouma’s little Wake Me Up, and heaven knows what else is scraped out of bottles and tins and served up with our best dishes.
We Bonades are different. We like the old stuff. We are loyal to what our forefathers cherished. And one of the tannies still makes the genuine, traditional atjar.’
[The Mask is set in the late 1920s and was written in English not long thereafter. The column on atjar was written in Afrikaans and published in Die Huisgenoot on 21 March 1947, three weeks before Leipoldt died; it is published in English in Leipoldt’s Cellar & Kitchen under the title ‘Atjar’.]
Wat ons voorsate ingestel het
Uit The Mask en Polfyntjies vir die proe
deur Dr. C. Louis Leiplodt
In sy geskiedkundige roman, The Mask, die derde boek in die trilogie wat bekend staan as The Valley, kan Leipoldt nie die geleentheid weerstaan om ’n gesin se aandete by die huis van die plaaslike dorpsprokureur op sy unieke manier te beskryf nie. Hy doen dit breedvoerig in woorde wat sy status onthul as ’n connoisseur van die ou Kaapse kookkuns, ’n voortreflike kok, en een van ons groot digters.
Ons weet dat die dorp ter sprake Clanwilliam is, waar Leipoldt grootgeword het en waar sy pa die dominee vanaf 1884 tot 1910 was. Miskien is dit waarom Leipoldt as volg, nostalgies en ongebonde, vrye teuels kon gee aan sy poëtiese en kulinêre verbeeldingsvermoë.
Aandete in Clanwilliam
“Ayah Mina, ’n skitterende kok, het ’n ete opgedis wat reg laat geskied het aan haar kookkuns, ’n goed voorbereide aandete wat die oubaas genot verskaf het om te eet, want nie alleen het dit heerlik geproe nie, maar ook sy nasionale smaak behaag.
Tuisgebakte brood met krakerige kors en bros krummels, gemaak van plaaskoring fyngemaal deur steenrollers, vervaardig deur tuisgemaakte masjinerie, êrens in ’n plaasmeule in die skadu van eikebome waar die water eentonig oor die gleuwe van die groot houtwiel geplons het en die groot tarantula-spinnekoppe hulle diamant-ogies tussen die melerig- gepoeierde spinnerakke geflonker het; witboontjiesop mildelik beroom en bedien met brokkies swartgeroosterde brood; ’n smaaklike bredie gemaak van die ontvouende botsels van geurige waterblommetjies – die klein wit, met ’n sweempie pienk, waterlelie wat in oorvloed op rivierpoele groei; heerlike gestoomde rys met elke korrel los van sy maters, ten volle uitgeswel en glinsterend in sy hermelynse witheid; soetpatats, goudbruin van kleur, in ’n dun stroop; ’n gesmoorbraaide makou, smelt-in-die-mond-sag, met salie-en-uie-vulsel; ’n slaai van gekookte beet, versier met hardgekookte eiers; en vir nagereg gebakte vla met stoweperskes, songedroog en gegeur met kaneel en nartjieskil.
En met koffie, sterk en subtiel-aromaties, want die boontjies is net daardie middag gemaal en gerooster, ’n kelkie Van Der Hum-likeur of ’n glasie ryk muskadel waarvan die smaak in die mond draal.”
Wat ons voorsate ingestel het
“Die ouderwetse atjar, soos ons Bonades dit geken het, is skoon verdwyn. Dit het weggesmelt soos kapok op die Sederberge in Augustusmaand.
Daar is mense wat oor die afsterf en verdwyn van ou gewoontes, ou vriende, ou modes, ou dinge, sonder aandoening kan gesels en wat nie ’n traan durf stort oor die verlies van iets wat ons voorouers bemin en liefgehad het nie. Hulle is, soos die Latynse digter reguit gesê het, ongevoelige stene wat nie eens die stadige verwering van wind en reën besef nie. Dit is hulle wat vandag vir hulle tevrede stel met So-en-So se Ingelegde Dit-en-Dat, Jan Rap se Sous, Potverdorie se Pekel, Ouma se Opwekkertjie en die hemel weet wat al meer wat ons uit bottels en blikkies skraap om op tafel by ons beste skottels te eet.
Ons Bonades is andersgesind. Ons hou van die ou goed. Ons bly getrou aan wat ons voorsate ingestel het. En een van die tannies maak nog egte, ouderwetse atjar.”
[The Mask speel af teen die einde van die 1920’s en is nie lank daarna nie in Engels geskryf. Die rubriek “Atjar” is in Afrikaans geskryf en drie weke voor Leipoldt se dood op 12 April 1947, in Die Huisgenoot gepubliseer, en jare later weer in Polfyntjies vir die proe.]
