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.”