Sunday Supper Surveillance

 

 

There have been people of my close acquaintance who have shown an interest in my eating habits. Take Harry. Harry was a year behind me at school, so I did not have much to do with him, apart from when we played rugby. It was only two or three years after matriculating that I got to know him better through two mutual school friends. He went to Stellenbosch University and was a National Party supporter, which put him at odds with us ‘liberals’, who loathed the apartheid government and despised most Afrikaners. We had many heated but good-humoured discussions that did not prevent us from enjoying one another’s company. Then, in his second year at Stellenbosch, he suffered his first nervous breakdown, from which he never fully recovered. In fact, his mental state continued to deteriorate, and although psychiatric medication enabled him to function to a limited extent, he struggled socially, and took on the role of an obnoxious buffoon in order to gain attention. In spite of his bad behaviour, however, he was not ostracised, and continued to be invited to braais and parties.

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As time went by and we all followed diverging paths, Harry managed to hold down a sinecure in a government department, owned a car, and even bought a house, where he lived with a succession of highly-strung fox terriers until his death at the age of 59.

He led a largely miserable bachelor’s life and suffered more than a fair share of mental and emotional distress, which included chronic loneliness. To alleviate his boredom he would phone his old friends once a week and try to have a conversation about what had happened to him since the previous communication, and to elicit information about the other person’s intimate life. His calls were often tiresome and at an inconvenient moment but, to my credit, I never lost patience with him, and would give him ten minutes or so before making an excuse to end the interaction. This weekly ritual continued, with occasional breaks, for nearly 25 years.

From early on, he began to enquire about my dietary habits and, because he would phone on different days of the week, he gradually discovered that my wife and I follow a regular regime.

“So, Ian, what are you having for supper tonight? Mmm, Monday. That’s beans and pasta, right?”

“Yes.”

“What beans? The big kidney beans?”

“Could be, Harry. But maybe not. Could be black-eyed Susans, for all I know.”

“And what pasta? Spaghetti this week?”

“Hell, Harry, I don’t know. I could go and ask Krystyna, but she might tell me to bugger off, or get me to do some chores.”

“And I suppose you will have two veg with it?”

“Of course. Got to have our greens, you know. Carrots and cauliflower or broccoli.”

“I don’t know how you can eat broccoli. I hate the stuff.”

“Just force it down. Tell yourself it’s good for you. But hey, look at the time! Got to go, Harry. Duty calls.”

I think he found the predictability of my domestic routine somehow reassuring, and I tried to humour him over the years. His  own existence was painfully monotonous, especially after he had been boarded. The only details of his life as a civil servant that I can remember are these: during luch hour he would lock his office door, remove jacket and shoes, don his dressing gown, and lie on the carpeted floor with his head on a pillow brought from home, and set an alarm to wake him from a half hour snooze; and the other snippet was that he treated himself to a pelvic massage after work on pay days.

He had mental afflictions which, as a student of the human condition, I found fascinating. His psychiatrist was continually adjusting his medication in order to alleviate his bouts of anxiety, manic depression and schizophrenia. Of particular interest to me were his accounts of hallucinatory episodes, both auditory and visual, which filled him with terror and left him in a state of dread at the prospect of a recurrence.

Most of his adult life was tormented, and I would hope that my friendship helped in a small way to lessen his anguish. If I had given way to exasperation and refused to confirm or deny that we were about to enjoy a Thursday pot with chicken livers and rice, and not mince with brinjals and potatoes, because that was what we had last Thursday, he might have felt spurned and abandoned, and paranoid anxiety could well have tipped him over the edge again.

So, that was Harry Pugh. Now for Czesława Zieminski, my mother-in-law, otherwise known as Mama or Babcia, Babcia being polish for Grandma. Like Harry, and most of the human population, she also had mental health issues. Hers were not as severe as Harry’s but, never the less, her anxiety and depression were debilitating. After the death of Artur in 2000, she seemed to decide there was no longer any point in making an effort to remain independent, and it fell to Krystyna, her eldest daughter, to take care of her.

She came to stay with us while her house in Cape Town was put on the market and we tried to motivate her to take charge of her life again. For eight months we tried and got nowhere. Her house went for a good price and we arranged for her to move into an assisted living unit in a newly built retirement centre in Hermanus. The Village of Golden Harvest. She did not baulk at the name, nor did she resist the move away from her family to a new environment where she would be cared for by trained staff and waited on hand and foot.

For eight months of my life, I played a significant part in looking after my wife’s mother, and for eight months the dear old relative shared breakfast, lunch and supper with us, and it is Sunday supper that stands out in my memory.

By no stretch of the imagination can I be regarded as a patriarch, and I am certainly not the head of our household but, nevertheless, I have always sat at the head of the table with my wife at my left hand. While she was with us, Babcia was seated to my right facing her daughter. It sometimes amused me to think of myself as a Christ-like figure with just two disciples, the others having betrayed me and gone elsewhere for supper.

As Harry would have confirmed, the menu for our Sunday evening meal seldom varies. It consists.  primarily of soup and toast. This is not soup from a can or, worse still, from a packet, but is produced by my good wife from fresh ingredients, both nutritious and wholesome, and comes hot from the stove exuding a mouth-watering aroma. Her stock is made by boiling in water the bones of farm animals, be they poultry, sheep or cattle, over a lengthy period to extract the goodness contained in the marrow, and has a superior flavour to the concentrated cubes bought at the supermarket. My personal chef specializes in Polish barszcz made from diced beetroot cooked in smoked gammon stock. In a similar category are chicken broth and clear soups such as French Onion and the Italian variety. She does on occasion make beans with shredded chicken breast, as well as lentils cooked with shin, but she is averse to the over consumption of meat, and favours vegetable potages whose main ingredient could be pumpkin, cauliflower, broccoli, carrot or tomato.

I enjoy two pieces of buttered toast with the meal. The bread used is home-baked yoghurt bread, and I cut both slices lengthwise, so that I have four halves to work with. I eat the first half with the soup, saving the bottom crust to mop the bowl. On the second half I spread Beefy Bovril and eat it with two slices of tomato. Having consumed this, I tackle the remaining halves. First, I smear a liberal layer of Black Cat peanut butter, which is unsweetened and has few additives, to both surfaces. Then on the one toast I apply Seville Orange marmalade, and on the other, apricot jam. Finally, I top each portion with a slice of yellow cheese, cheddar or sweetmilk, depending on what is available. I am then ready to do justice to both pieces, starting with the marmalade version.

It was on the second Sunday that she was with us that I noticed Babcia was taking an interest in how I participated in the evening repast. She, herself, enjoyed her bowl of soup with one slice of plain toast and, once finished, was free to observe the proceedings on her left. Over the many Sundays she had me under surveillance, she never ventured a comment, and her habitually dour expression remained inscrutable. however, I could tell from the way her eyes, which were generally dull and glazed like those of a dead fish, became clear and focussed that I was providing her with stimulating entertainment.

As a devout Catholic, her life had been steeped in religious ritual, and she might well have recognised something ceremonial in the way I went about the elaborate preparations before partaking of the sacrament. Again, I was reminded of Harry’s delight in being able to predict what I was about to put in my mouth, and I suspect both he and Babcia experienced a thrill of triumph when they were proved correct.

Harry died in 2009, and my mother-in-law passed from here to there in 2016. I thought my eating habits would never again be placed under such scrutiny. But, in 2018 my wife’s younger sister, who is recently deceased, came to stay with us for three weeks. On the very first Sunday, I was astonished to find that she was becoming engrossed in the proceedings viewed from the disciple’s chair on my right. On the second and third Sabbaths she observed the formalities with anticipatory eagerness, an expression of wonder tinged with disapproval and disdain plainly registered on her stern countenance.

So, there we are. That’s that. Or is it? I thought it extremely unlikely that I would ever again fall under the female gaze that reduces me to an object of voyeuristic fascination. But, lo and behold, my wife’s other sister, the one in Australia, has decided to visit us at the end of the year, and will be here for three Sundays. Does this fill me with trepidation? No. Somewhat perversely, I am actually looking forward to her arrival. Will she, too, notice what I eat? She is a voluble extrovert, and she could well be too occupied with her own presence and concerns to bother taking an interest in what her brother-in-law is getting ready to shove down his gullet. If she does, indeed, pay no attention to my behaviour, it will be a minor blow to my ego by adding to my sense of redundancy. It could be further evidence that I have become superfluous am no longer worthy of attention. But that need not worry me, as I can always follow Harry’s example and start carrying on like an obnoxious buffoon, thereby justifying my existence.