Potjie Pap

 

“Look, Steve, it isn’t possible to impart a skill like this over the phone. If you are serious, you will have to attend a demonstration and lecture. I will be cooking pap with our chicken pot on Sunday. You and Sally are welcome to join us, and I can take you through the whole process.”

“Sunday? No, that will be fine. Thank you.”

Steve is my brother’s son-in-law. He shows me just the right amount of deference to give me the impression he respects my seniority, but is unable to convince me he fenuinely values my opinion. Except when it comes to pap.

“Sally and Steve are coming to lunch on Sunday, if that’s alright? I should have consulted you before asking them, but he’s desperate.”

“That’s fine. I’m always happy to see them. But what’s he desperate about?”

I told her that his CEO was coming out from London and would be lunching with him in two weeks’ time. The man was an ex-pat and, on learning that Steve was into potjiekos, had requested his old favourite, waterblommetjie bredie and pap.

“He doesn’t have a problem with the bredie, but the pap fills him with terror. He hasn’t made it for a long time because it always ended up a disaster. Either too soggy or stuck to the bottom with a thick crust. He knows I have mastered the technique and wants some detailed guidance.”

I had told him I would be lighting the fire at 12, and was aiming to have both pots on by one, with the intention to eat around 2 30. The three of them arrived at 11 45. He had asked permission to bring Molly, and I had agreed, with the proviso he pick up anything she might deposit in the garden. What with my eyesight, I didn’t want to be stepping in dog shit after they left.

Once the effusive greetings had been exchanged, Steve and I went out to light the fire, leaving Sally in the kitchen with Kaye, who busied herself with preparing ingredients for the pots.

“I suppose you use Blitz?” I asked as I put a match to the twist of newspaper under the heap of twigs and dry cuttings.

“Lion firelighters. I don’t have access to kindling like you do.”

“And wood? I take it  you buy bags of Rooikrans from the shop?”

“Yes. And you?”

“I get a bakkie load delivered about every nine months. R1600 for a thousand.” I put some light pieces on. “I used to go over the hill and cut wood myself. But that’s hard work and I’m past it now.”

With the fire burning nicely, I asked him to get the key from Kaye and fetch the big umbrella from the garage. He has a sedentary job and likes to keep fit , so it wouldn’t do him any harm if he broke into a sweat lugging it singlehandedly up to the braai.

“The weather is perfect, and we can eat outside. While you do that, I’ll get the pots from the shed.”

On his return, he hoisted the umbrella and I positioned the Number Two close to the flames to warm up.

“Time for a dop,” I said, and we went inside.

Despite having been nattering non-stop, the women seemed to have things under control in the kitchen, and Kaye had loaded the big tray ready for me to take out to the main theatre of operations. I rewarded her with her customary G&T, and Sally with a glass of well chilled Graça Rosé. Steve was drinking some non-alcoholic beer he had brought with him, not wanting to befuddle his brain during the all-important tutorial. I poured my usual Dry white fortified with a dash of OB, and we went out the back door, me with the heavily laden tray and my pupil with the two enamel pots.

I raked coals under Number Two and added a little sunflower oil.

“I can do a chicken pot blindfold,” I said. “First, I get the pot good and hot, and then brown the chicken pieces before adding a slosh  from the 500ml jug of wine and water, and slamming the lid on to trap the steam. I leave it to calm down for two or three minutes, and it is at this stage that I turn my attention to the Number One, and the lesson you have been waiting for, Steve, gets under way. You see the larger of the two enamel pots you brought out? It contains the water for the pap. Remove the lid and dip your forefinger in and tell me what you taste.”

“Salty water,” he said, after licking his finger. “So?”

“That’s good. I always check to make sure Kaye hasn’t forgotten to add it. Absolutely essential. Your CEO would probably fire you if you served up unsalted pap. Tastes like nothing. Right, now pour the water into Number One, put the lid on, and place the pot on some coals in the corner.”

While he did this, I opened Number Two, savoured the gallinaceous vapours, and layered the veg on top of the three pairs of legs, wings and thighs that were mixed in with the hefty breast pieces and the scrawny back and rib ‘bonies.’ First the onion and garlic, then the brinjals followed by coarsely shredded cabbagio, and topped with large chunks of lurid orange pumpkin. A quarter handful of salt, twenty turns of the pepper mill and, to quench the dismembered fowl’s thirst, the rest of the wine and water. Lid on, turn the pot, and rake coals in under its fat black belly.

“Now it must cook vigorously for a good twenty minutes, and then it can saunter along at a slow dawdle.”

I wiped my brow with my hat and quaffed some vino before asking Steve to lift the lid on Number One.

“It’s boiling,” he said.

“Good. The water should be bubbling energetically. Now we take the smaller enamel pot and pour the mealie meal into the seething cauldron and stir with the fork. The mixture should start  glub-glubbing almost immediately, and we remove the pot from the heat and place it on the sturdy little work table standing alongside. I stir the thin porridge a few times and then let it rest for five minutes.  We can load the tray, except fror the fork and the jug, and then, if you don’t mind, please take it in to the kitchen while I half fill the jug with water from the garden tap over there. Don’t let the ladies waylay you for more than a minute or two, because the next step is crucial.”

On his return, I noticed he had switched from the non-alcoholic stuff to genuine beer. This I approved of, as I firmly believe one should be in the right frame of mind when cooking potjiekos. Being uptight anxious or,anal is as bad as falling about half pissed, because, either way, the pot is bound to turn out a fuck-up.

“Now, for a few moments, just feast your eyes on the transformation that has taken place. The maize meal has absorbed as much water as was freely available to it, has swelled and spread out to form an unsullied, creamy white lake. It seems a pity to plunge one’s fork into the soft but dense expanse that is encompassed within the concave black walls of iron, but we can stand in wonder no longer, and I therefore cast restraint aside and thrust the fork deep and stir the thick cereal, scraping and dragging  it from the perimeter to the centre. Once we have built a volcano, we use our utensil to create a central vent, like this,” and I drilled down until the fork struck metal. I withdrew, slowly and respectfully, careful not to collapse the walls of the shaft.

“We fill the crater with water, and create a shallow moat around the heaped up pap. The lid is replaced and the pot is positioned in the corner of the fireplace, care being taken not to expose it to excessive heat. And we can take a breather.”

I turned the Number Two, which was rumbling determinedly without being frenetic, and asked Steve for a time check.

“13 06.”

“It’s all on,” I announced on entering the kitchen. “We should be able to eat at two thirty.”

Sally asked Steve if he had seen Molly, who is an elderly Jack Russell with a reputation as a skilled hunter of rodents.

“I think I saw her heading off into the bush about ten minutes ago. Do you want me to go and call her?”

“I hope she doesn’t come across any snakes.”

This was the kind of answer that contained a veiled threat. If any misadventure befell the dog, blame would be apportioned to he who was supposed to be keeping an eye on her. I filled my glass almost to the brim and added a cube of ice, Steve grabbed another beer, and we hurried outside.

He called and whistled, and she soon appeared.

“Come, Molly. You must go inside now. I have important things to attend to.”

I turned both pots, and added three pieces of wood to the fire, which had burnt down to coals. When he came back, we sat at the table under the umbrella and he opened the notebook on his phone. “Alright, I said. “First, I will run through the ingredients. Just pap, water and salt; couldn’t be more basic. Premier coarse braai pap is the best on the market, so there is no need to mess around with anything else. You can read the recipes and cooking instructions on the packet, but for God’s sake don’t take their quantities and proportions seriously. Many a novice has been led into a waterlogged swamp, or a scorched wasteland by following these treacherous directions. Take this down: the correct amount of maize meal is 100ml per person, measured out meticulously, and not just sommer roughly. For every 100ml of pap, you should have 150ml of water, which makes the arithmetic simple. Today there are four of us. That means Kaye has given us 400ml of coarse braai pap in the small enamel pot, and 600ml of water in the larger one.”

“What about the salt?”

“I’m glad you asked about the salt, which is a vital ingredient. Here, we are less precise, for some unknown reason. When I asked her, Kaye said a level teaspoon for two, and a rounded one for four. I suppose a few grains this way or that is of little significance. She normally adds the salt to the water but, on rare occasions, she has absentmindedly put it into the uncooked maize meal, and it doesn’t seem to make any difference. Well, there we are: the pap, the water and the salt.”

“I suppose it’s the technique that’s the secret?” He sounded a trifle disappointed.

“Don’t underestimate the importance of the quantities and proportions. But yes, you are right. The technique is what separates disaster from success. I have taken you through the early stages of the cooking process, and now to proceed further.”

I got to my feet and remove the lid of Number One.

“Take a look. After twenty minutes the pap is already beginning to stick to the bottom. With the fork I stir and scrape the pap over to the hot side of the pot, and then dribble a very small quantity of water down the side. A faint hiss should be audible. We replace the lid and wait another half hour before checking progress again.”

I turned Number Two, which was grumbling quietly, and resumed my seat.

“What pots do you have, Steve?”

““A Number One and a Number Two, like you.”

“Most versatile, until you have to cook for a large gathering. I also have a Three and a Four. With pap, it is important not to overfill the pot; otherwise, it doesn’t cook thoroughly. For more than four servings, I prefer the Number Two.”

His thumb moved briefly on the screen to record this tip.

“You know,” I resumed in a conversational tone, “it was the Dutch settlers who introduced cast iron pots to Africa back in the 17^th century. Over the next 300 years they were assimilated into the everyday lives of the indigenous population until they became ubiquitous. They used to be known as kaffir pot.”

“Please!” Steve nearly choked on his beer and glared at me in horror.

“It’s alright; I’m just telling you what people called them way back before you were born. Am I supposed to revise history and tell you they were referred to as k pots? Anyway, it was only in the 80’s that potjiekos took off and the pots became known as potjies.” I could see from the look on his face that he was thinking seriously disrespectful thoughts about me. “Time check?”

“13 55.”

“Five to two? Jesus, now we must concentrate. I’ll doctor the chicken pot and then we must attend to the pap.”

I went inside and prepared the muti, which was a concoction of frugally dispensed soya sauce, six shakes of Worcester sauce, two globs of chutney, and a heaped teaspoon of tomato sauce mixed together in the aluminium jug. There was no sign of the women, so I assumed they were somewhere in the garden.

When I got back to the braai, there they were, seated at the table under the umbrella talking to Steve and laughing about something in a way that suggested they weren’t entirely sober. I was half pleased and half annoyed to see them. Pleased because I enjoy the company of most women when they are not nagging, complaining, or talking about ailments and bbabies, and annoyed because their presence would be distracting.

After lifting the lid of Number Two and setting it aside, I rotated the pot, poured in the muti, and placed the jug upside down on the simmering contents  and left it to steam clean.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said loudly, “but I must show Steve the last critical stage of the pap process. Steve?’

He drained his beer and got up, a little reluctantly, I thought. I removed Number One and set it on the sturdy fireside table.

“See that?” I said, after lifting the lid and allowing the steam to dissipate. “On the side where the pap is heaped, it is now free, but on the other side facing the coals, it is forming a crust. Again, we scrape the pap across and pour a little water – not too much, mind you – down the side and listen for the telltale hiss as it encounters hot metal. I usually drag a little pap off the fork and take a taste, like this. Ah, excellent! Done. Now it is a matter of freeing up that bit of crust, and then merely keeping the pot warm.  Time check?”

“14 23.”

“Are you aiming for half past?” Kaye asked, and she got to her feet. “I had better get ready to dish up. Sally, can you arrange glasses and cutlery out here? And open the wine?”

Sally began to follow Kaye when she emitted a piercing shriek that convinced me she had just broken her ankle.

“Molly!” she screamed. “What are you eating? Drop it!”

The dog had been lieing at the base of the Manetoka, and now leapt to its feet and took evasive action by running for the kitchen, all four humans in pursuit.

“Has that little brak gone and killed a bird?” I demanded. “I’ll break its bloody neck for it!”

Steve gave me a dark look that I interpreted as, ‘Just you try, old man.’

“It’s alright,” said Kaye. “It’s a dead robin. It’s got ants on it. She must have bound it in the bush.”

Sally was kneeling next to Molly where she lay in a couchant position on the mat. Between the two of them, the women managed to prise open the dog’s jaws and extricate what was left of the bird.

“You silly dog,” said Sally. “Now I suppose you are going to be sick? Come outside.”

“The pots!” I shouted, suddenly remembering where my duty lay. I hurried out and was relieved to find that the fire had died down to a bed of grey coals and posed no threat. Number Two was bubbling demurely, and Number One had retained enough heat to keep the pap ready for serving.

“That’s the beauty of potjiekos,”I said to Steve. “A distraction like this needn’t result in a disaster.”

The meal was served, the wine poured, and all agreed that both the chicken pot and the pap were deliciously up to my usual standard.

“Well, there you are Steve,” I said just as they were departing a while later. “Now that you know how it is done, I am sure you will have no trouble cooking pap for your boss.”

“We will have to see,” he said, and got behind the wheel. “Thanks for the lesson.”

We all waved goodbye, and they drove off.

 *

A couple of weeks later, Sally phone Kaye and told her the waterblommethie bredie had been a huge success, and the CEO had offered Steve a promotion.

“And the pap?” Kaye asked.

“Oh, the pap was great. Steve found a foolproof recipe on the Internet and did it in the microwave. It was dead easy and came out just right.”

 

Senile Delusion

 

 

“Christmas comes but once a year, and when it’s gone, I jump and cheer.”

It has been a few years since I said this, mainly because they finally agreed to cut right back on that ridiculously excessive present giving, and also after my wife admonished me for acting like a miserable old curmudgeon and a wet blanket. Now that I don’t have to endure two hours of Father Christmas handing out the gifts, and the unwrapping and oohing and aahing over the trinkets, I am better able to appear affable and interact with the company once the ritual is over.

On this last occasion, I accepted another beer and went out onto the terrace, where a brother-in-law, Jack, was talking to one of the niece’s partner, George. I suppose he is called her partner because they have been living together for several years, and that makes him more than a boyfriend but not quite a husband. He was saying to Jack that he was surprised at how full Pearly Beach was this year, and how many new houses had gone up.

“Yes, there are a lot of people moving to the Cape as the rest of the country falls into ruin and the unemployment crisis worsens. These ANC monkeys are incapable of growing the economy.”

“Be careful how you use the m word,” I said as I joined the conversation. “One of the youngsters could be videoing us, and what you say could go viral on social media. You don’t want to be had up for hate speech.”

He just snorted and took a drag at his beer. George also lubricated his throat, and I followed suit prior to mounting my hobby horse.

“Talking of the unemployment crisis, it is clear that no one knows how to solve it. But I have been giving it a lot of thought, and I have come up with a possible solution.”

“I didn’t know you were an economist. I thought you used to be a house builder before you went under?”

I was tempted to say, ‘Fuck you, Jack,’ but instead continued with my grand proposal. “The way I see the situation in South Africa is this. There are millions of people hanging about doing nothing other than scratching for enough food to keep themselves and their families alive. Most of them are semi-literate, but many are moderately well educated and even qualified, yet they are all without work, even though they are desperate to find employment. Now, I ask myself, is there nothing for these people to do? The answer comes back loud and clear: there is more than enough to keep them busy for ever and a day. Just look at them sitting on their arses in front of a dilapidated RDP hovel or an iron and cardboard shack. What’s to stop them building themselves a proper house, for starters?”

“Money. It costs a good half million to build a half decent house.”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head, Jack. Money. If people had access to money they would get to work. So, why don’t we print the money and hand it out, in a strictly regulated way, and start a building boom that would get the economy fired up and create thousands of jobs?”

“Oh, for God’s sake! If you started printing money and handing it out to all and sundry, it would become worthless in no time.”

“As I understand it, it is called debt monetization, and it is what the US and other developed countries do when they need to stimulate their economies. Remember quantitative easing, and how the banks were bailed out in the financial crisis? So why can’t we do the same?”

“You don’t seem to understand the fundamentals. You can’t compare this banana republic with the strongest economy in the world. The US has more than four trillion dollars of debt, but they can still continue to issue bonds because investors have confidence in the financial health of the country and its ability to keep inflation under control. The dollar remains the dominant currency in the world. If we started printing money to finance our fiscal deficit, the rand would crash. Argentina has tried this stunt several times, and on each occasion it has resulted in hyperinflation and the collapse of the peso.”

“Yes, but if we extended credit to the por in order for them to acquire a fixed asset like a properly built house, it would not only improve the quality of millions of lives, it would create a huge demand for related goods and services. The economy would be given a massive boost, tax revenue would pour in, the rand would strengthen, and investors would clamour to get in on the boom.”

Jack drained his beer, and I could see from the look on his face he was in no mood to pursue the conversation.

“I, for one, would be dead against what you are proposing. I would rather stay with the status quo, unsatisfactory as it is, than risk hyperinflation and the almost certain collapse of what’s left of the economy. At least under the present situation my pension and investments are moderately secure. Now I must rejoin the company and leave you to peddle your crackpot idea to a younger audience.”

“He doesn’t seem to share your idealistic vision for the future, Uncle,” George, the niece’s partner said, once the old fart had buggered off.

“No, Jack comes from a social lineage that has produced, through selective breeding, individuals like him who have lost the traits of altruism and idealism.”

“Interesting that you should say so. From a sociological and psychological perspective, that is. The two of you are of a similar age, I believe? That makes you baby boomers, many of whom, in the 60’s and 70’s, were fired up with youthful rebelliousness and a desire to change the world, for the better, of course. Now, what interests me as a Sociologist – you know I teach at UJ? – what interests me is how most of your generation have given up on activism and utopian dreams, and have become more pragmatic and conservative. The responsibilities that come with earning a living, bringing up children and providing for the future give them a deeper understanding of the complexities of social and political change. On the other hand, there are individuals like you, Uncle, who retain a sense of outrage with the world’s problems, and see ongoing and new injustices as a reason to continue the battle to bring about change through radical ideas and actions.”

I drained my beer, and he hurried inside to get us each a fresh can. While he was away I looked out to sea and thought about the direction in which this young fellow was leading the discourse.

“Yes,” he said on his return, “I was saying there are some elderly people who retain their youthful radicalism and stick to their idealistic world views, and you fit into that category. But, the question arises, is there something more to your posing of simplistic solutions to major problems than just a desire to see a better world?”

“Simplistic? Alright, let’s let that go. What else could be motivating me?”

“The insidious deterioration of physical and mental capacity associated with old age. . In my PhD, I focussed on Gerontology, which is the …”

“I know what Gerontology is, damn it! Do you take me for an ignoramus?”

“Not at all, Sir. Far from it. Anyway, studying the effects of advancing age has provided me with valuable insights into the behaviour of old codg… I mean, old men like yourself and Uncle Jack.”

“You know, I find it mildly demeaning the way you are examining, analysing and categorizing me. It feels a little dehumanising. But no matter; it’s interesting. And I could subject you to the same scrutiny. You millennials exhibit behaviour that comes across as neurotic, obsessive and antisocial at times. You are slaves of the computer and Internet age. But, be that as it may,, continue with your explanation of why we old folks carry on the way we do.”

“Thank you. As you move into your sixties and seventies, and especially after retirement, there is a growing tendency for you and other elderly individuals to respond to constant reports of disasters and conflicts with utopian ideas and unrealistic solutions. This can be seen as a coping mechanism related to aging and the sense of diminished agency. As you grow older, you feel a heightened awareness of your mortality and a desire to leave a positive impact on the world.” He paused to wet his whistle. “I hope I’m not boring you with all this text book stuff?”

“No, it’s food for thought. Carry on.”

“Right. So, as your perception of decreased personal agency due to physical limitations, retirement, or reduced social roles, can prompt a focus on grand, sweeping solutions that might seem beyond reach to younger generations. This may provide a sense of hope and purpose, allowing you to feel you are contributing to discussions on global issues despite not being directly involved in decision-making processes anymore.”

“Well, put like that, I sound rather pathetic. What you are saying is that my debt monetization proposal can’t be taken seriously, as it comes from an old man with diminished faculties who is trying to delude himself that he still has something valuable to contribute and should be taken seriously, and not dismissed as useless, irrelevant and superfluous.”

“Don’t worry about it. As  you have pointed out, no generation is safe from the Sociologist’s dispassionate gaze. We all have to develop coping mechanisms. Formulating grand solutions to the world’s problems is just one in your arsenal. Another common strategy with the elderly is to rewrite history, or, in other words, put a different spin on the retelling of past events.”

“Ah, I think I know what you mean. I have picked up this idiosyncrasy with Jack. When he talks about past events or relates an anecdote he casts himself as the central character who is in charge of the action and plays a more or less heroic part. I have caught him out, on more than one occasion, altering facts in his narrative to such an extent that it becomes pure fiction. I suppose it helps him deal with the painful truth that his life was unexceptional, and there is no prospect of him ever making a mark.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I had in mind. It’s all to do with the awareness of declining physical and mental vitality. The elderly become increasingly less active, their joints wear out and need replacement, their eyesight and hearing are compromised, their memory iss unreliable, their ability to learn new skills diminishes and technology leaves them behind and results in feelings of frustration, alienation and powerlessness. Furthermore, as a man becomes more decrepit, his libido wanes and, instead of accepting this as a natural process, he dreads the onset of impotenc and seeks medical assistance through the prescription of drugs designed to treat patients with clinical dysfunction. This often results in further misery for both him and his spouse, who resents him making a nuisance of himself.”

He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. Damned impertinence! There was no way I was going to be drawn on this topic.

“Do you have a bucket list, Uncle?”

“A bucket list? No, I am too poor to have a bucket list. But I know a few contemporaries who are able to tick off several items a year. I suppose you see it as another coping strategy?”

“Exactly. As people retire and enter their later years, they become increasingly aware of their mortality, and they reassess priorities and unfulfilled aspirations.”

“It strikes me they draw up the list and keep adding to it in order to delude themselves they are staying ahead of the biological clock. I know one couple who spend at least half the year travelling to exotic destinations, one after another, and each time they come back it’s as if they get into a panic because they might suddenly age and become too old to embark on the next adventure.”

“That may be so, but travel is not the only way to feel a sense of achievement. Learning a new skill, or even another language provides cognitive benefits by keeping the brain engaged and reducing the risk of mental decline. Have you ever thought about writing your memoir? It wouldn’t cost you anything, and it could be most beneficial.”

“Hell, no! That would depress the shit out of me, sifting through all that rubbish. A litany of wrong choices, foolhardy enterprises, disgraceful personal conduct, bad luck, embarrassing blunders and missed opportunities.”

For a moment he looked a little daunted, and I realised, with some irritation, he had been trying to encourage me to adopt a more sanguine outlook with regard to the dwindling time that was left to me.

“Well, maybe a bucket list isn’t for you, Uncle. But for many it is a psychological tool for managing the approaching end of their days, and they find meaning in an enhanced quality of life. It helps old folks shift their focus from loss to fulfilment, from regret to action, and from routine to excitement. It ensures that the final chapters of life remain rich and purposeful”

“You know something, George? You would make an excellent motivational speaker. If you ever tire of Academia, you could make a decent living by going on a speaking tour of lifestyle and golf estates as well as old age homes and retirement centres.”

He found this funny and was about to reply when his partner, the niece, and one of the granddaughters came out to join us. I ran a lascivious old eye over breasts, rumps and expanses of beckoning young flesh. An initial rush of delight was soon replaced by searing pangs of envy, regret and bitter resignation. Not for your gaze, old man. I muttered something about my weak bladder and slunk back into the house. Maybe another beer would help me delude myself that old age wasn’t such a kak story after all.