NaBloPoMo

In a moment of madness, in the blurry recesses of a Sunday night, not under the influence of alcohol, I decided to join in the National Blog Posting Month. So I am committing myself to posting every day through the month of November...in the few days left of October I shall be stockpiling any random flashes of wit or enlightenment and hoarding them jealously till November, in case inspiration dries up once I am face to face with a genuine hard deadline.

If anyone else wants to join in, check out http://www.fussy.org/nablopomo.html for the list of participants, details and what it's all about.

October Summer

Summer has crept up on us unawares, swept spring away with a dry broom and sent us searching for the sprinkler attachments. Overnight it seems the grass has burnt to a dull brown and young trees, yesterday so full of new green leaf, have become dry and stressed. Every year it takes us by surprise and we quickly have to get back into our summer routine of watering every evening. Sensible people have automated watering systems. We move the sprinkler around the house at irregular intervals and hope for the best.

Children outfitted by Granny who is visiting us

Afternoons are now for swimming and the children, after an uncertain first few days, have remembered the skills acquired last summer. The older ones are swimming underwater, as long as they have goggles, and youngest is now confident in the deep end with her arm bands. So now I am wrested away from my computer for the complicated expedition down to the pool. The collection of all the necessary accoutrements: hats, flip flops, towels, swimming costumes, cellphone, book, drinks, snacks, the thorough application of suncream to all four of us seems to take at least half an hour, the impatience of the older ones as finally we are ready and then youngest needs to go to the loo. She then walks extremely slowly, firmly holding onto my hand. down to the pool, as the others jump up and down screeching with frustration at the gate, forbidden to enter without an adult. Eventually we are all there. The water is still fresh this early in the season 74F/23C, but later in the summer it will be bath like, over 80F/30C as the charcoal colour absorbs the sun’s heat.

The pool is our essential luxury. The only way of surviving a summer here in the Swartland. Several degrees hotter than Cape Town (which has ocean breezes to cool it), and dry, dry, dry with a hot wind sucking the moisture from everything it meets. We close all the doors and windows at nine in the morning to retain the cool of the night in our straw bale house, then throw them open again once evening brings a slight cooling down to entice a breeze and the odd mosquito into the house. The mosquito nets envelop our beds like grand palaquin tents and the children sleep under sarongs. We’ll have two or three months of this once mid-summer hits us. Now we know that spring will make a come back soon and bring a little more rain and cool fronts, fighting off full summer for a bit. This is just a taster to remind us of the heat in store, get us in survivor mode and wake us from our winter slumber.

I need to make the mental switch over on the food front too: stop planning Sunday Roasts and stock up for Saturday evening braais instead – spicy chicken wings and lemon sausage cooked by my master braai chef husband over wood embers, with the sprinkler going nearby to prevent sparks setting off a bush fire. Butternut squash foil-wrapped on the coals and baby potatoes boiled with mint. Stir fries, pastas and salad take over from stews and casseroles – no more cottage pie comfort food till next winter. I still have to bake bread though, trying to time it so the oven is on in the evenings, not in the heat of the day.

The sprinklers have plenty of alternative uses too!

Negotiations

Two major triumphs in the diplomacy and negotiations field have taken place in our house this week. I'm surprised that we haven't made international headlines - "Peace Talks Succeed" - that would be a novel one. Most importantly of all, these delicate negotiations have been conducted entirely between the children, with no, or almost no, adult intervention.

The first episode was triggered by the unfortunate discovery by Dad, on arriving home, of his magnetic telescopic wotzit, in two pieces (it is supposed to be just one entire piece!) behind the front door. A summons to the children produced no-one owning up to the crime, they being naturally inclined to blame it on the child who was not there to defend himself, our farm employee's son. Stalemate was reached with the edict "no pocket money until I hear what happened" pronounced in a stern voice.

A couple of days later this had faded into the background of their memories. Pocket money was mentioned at lunch. I thought this a good time for a reminder.
"Maybe you had better all talk to each other, while R is here and find out what happened to that wotzit of Dad's, then when he comes home you can tell him what happened and say sorry...I don't want to be there, you guys just sort it out yourselves. "
I started clearing the lunch table and overheard my six year old saying,
" OK, let's have a meeting."

They get a small table and four chairs out and solemnly sit around it. I try to keep out of the way and leave them to it, though keeping my ears peeled out of pure curiosity and motherly nosiness. Various hypotheses are put forward as to how this accident could have happened, though with no-one admitting responsibility. Eventually, while I was on the loo, youngest comes galloping through:
"Mum, we think someone might have poked it under the door, then someone else could have opened the door and it broke.."
Impressed with the results of the meeting so far, I sent them back to the table to work out who might be the person that needs to say sorry to Dad. No-one ever actually owned up to the crime - but my six year old did go of her own accord to Dad the next morning, to tell him their conclusions and say sorry. Pocket money was thenceforth restored.

The second feat of negotiations was brought on by flower fairies - these cute felt finger puppets were presents from the German students we've been hosting for our school. The children were given the one with the long yellow hair when our guests arrived. One finger puppet, three children...! That sharing hurdle was successfully crossed, then came the water ditch - all the children at my son's school were given their own flower fairy puppet, my son choosing the strawberry one. Now we had two puppets between three children - aaaagh far worse than one between three! WIth a burst of quick thinking on my part I found that there had been one left over, after they all had been given out, and I begged it for the last child.

Silly of me. Now the problem was increased a hundredfold. We now have one two-day-old fairy and two brand new, never been played with fairies. Youngest, who had really wanted the golden haired angel/fairy for her own, now could see that the new one was far more desirable and ditto six-year old daughter. Major impasse and breakdown of the happy home ensued.

I came over the heavy Mum.
"No-one will have those fairies until you have sorted it out in a way that you are both happy with."
Refusal to give up new fairy.
"Or I will take that fairy back to the school and say that my children don't deserve it, please give it to another child."

For the rest of the afternoon the two fairies sat side by side on the kitchen counter. Every now and then one of the girls would sidle up to them and gaze. Eventually my six-year-old negotiator opens the talks:
"You want the yellow haired one really don't you"
"No"

I leave the room as this repeats ad infinitum. I am itching to intervene with my proposal that they both share both of them. A quarter of an hour later, they come dancing through all smiles. Youngest with the golden haired fairy, my six year old with the one they both wanted. They had agreed on this with the proviso that they would each let the other one play with their fairy, as long as they give it back when asked.

Miracle of miracles, I hear you murmur, but lest I sound too smug, let me reassure you that on other fronts, major strong arm tactics have been reported, so though the troops are making progress, I still can't retire from the field just yet.

A further incident has marred our transitory perfect peace. Tonight Dad's computer headset was found broken in two places......again no-one knew a thing about it, so tomorrow could be another heavy day at the negotiation table, with pocket money at stake again, this time they get to pay for the replacement!

The Amnesiac Tooth Fairy

The Tooth Fairy responsible for our area has her work cut out at the moment. My son has lost six teeth so far over more than two years, but his younger sister, my six year old, is challenging him on the growing up front. She has already lost four teeth in under a year, is nearly the same size as him and has that strangely appealing gappy smile at the moment. The tooth fairy can’t quite keep up though. With all the best intentions in the world, leaving coins beside our bed as a memory aid, I tumble into bed to sleep and only on waking remember, panicking, that the tooth fairy has neglected her duties.

It’s a weekend, the children have gone through to watch a DVD, leaving us to doze. Has she remembered to check yet? I sneak into the bedroom on the pretext of opening the curtains and putting back the covers. Last time the tooth was still there and I managed to effect the swap in time. Today though no tooth under the pillow. Foiled! I slip the R2 coin down the side of the mattress, where the tooth fairy might conceivably have left it if she was in a hurry and hope for the best. A few minutes later Jungle Book 2 ends and they troop back through. My daughter silent, her hand clutching something. Without saying a word she uncurls her fingers enough for me to glimpse the tooth still wrapped in silver foil. She has been nursing this disappointment all the time she was watching.

Guilt strikes me – the magic of finding a bright silver coin under your pillow in the morning when you wake is such a big thing and now one chance is gone. We hurriedly search the bed. My son is now an expert, his coins have mysteriously turned up inside the pillow slips, sometimes two days later. He inspects the pillows closely, then we discover the coin lurking down the side of the bed. But what about the tooth? Will the tooth fairy come back for it tonight? We put it carefully back under her pillow in case. What should the tooth fairy leave on her second visit for the same tooth, do you think? The coin has already been handed over, maybe she should just tuck a flower under the pillow as she carries off her bounty....if she remembers!

A Lentil Recipe

Further forays into Madhur Jaffrey’s Cookbook have yielded some more useful vegetarian recipes. We’re hosting some students from our sister school in Germany this week and I was all geared up for ravenous teenagers, planning sustaining meals for after they had been working hard at the school all day. Visions of loaves of bread vanishing in an instant and double quantities of everything faded before the reality of the individuals themselves. Unassuming eaters, they sampled everything in small quantities but hardly made inroads into the mountain of food I’d assembled. One is vegetarian, so I hurriedly consulted Madhur Jaffrey for an alternative to the cottage pie I’d made and found a simple recipe for lentils and tomatoes that works hot or cold.

Lentils with Garlic and Tomatoes

4 tablespoons olive oil
5 cloves garlic finely chopped
½ lb/225g tomatoes (1 large or 2 small) peeled and finely chopped
6 ½ oz/185g dried whole green lentils washed
¾ - 1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon lemon juice

Heat the oil in a heavy pot over a medium flame. When hot put in the garlic. Stir and fry till the garlic browns lightly. Add the tomatoes. Stir and cook for about 5 minutes or until the tomatoes turn to a paste. Put in the lentils and 1pint/ ½ liter of water. Bring to the boil then cover, lower heat and simmer gently for one hour. Add the salt and lemon juice. Stir to mix.

I will try this with some fresh herbs added too, maybe some fresh coriander or just chopped parsley - with a dollop of greek yoghurt on top and a hunk of bread it could be a meal in itself. We had baked potatoes with it and salad, as well as the cottage pie for the meat eaters.

I’m now looking up recipes with chick-peas for another meal. I like them, but naturally the children aren’t keen, so this is another chance to experiment with new recipes. The students are off to Hermanus to see the whales for the weekend now, so I’ll have to restrain my hospitable ardour till their return. Then I’ll be planning meals for my parents’ imminent visit...what do you fancy for supper on Wednesday, Mummy?!

One thing about having visitors here in South Africa is that almost all the flights from Europe are overnight and from the States or Australia day and night, so everyone arrives at early morning rush hour, exhausted from sitting up all night with little sleep. We have learned to be gentle on new arrivals, providing light refreshments, no sight-seeing and then plenty of time to sleep for half the day. Unfortunately the children's excitement over seeing Granny and Grandpa and anticipation over rifling their suitcases for certain riches of new clothes and maybe other presents, means that they usually have to hold out till the afternoon for a nap. Our visiting students crashed out at ten o'clock for the rest of the day, so that goes to prove that the oldies have more stamina than fresh faced youth!

Fashion Free

Fashion. Long neglected by me in that style-free zone of mother to young children living on a farm. Echoes of it still reach me though. Occasional forays into shopping malls to replace worn out trousers and T-shirts, nudged me into unavoidable exposure of my cushiony tummy and eventual acceptance of low waistlines, discovering the joys of letting it all hang out! Shouts of horror and outrage have reached me recently over the Net as more connected blog friends react to the latest designer dictates of high-waisted skinny jeans and leggings re-entering the fashion arena – sighs, groans as we recall how terrible we looked in them the first time round when we were still young and taut bodied. One good thing this season is that T-shirts are longer, now covering up that draughty gap that used to reveal pale stomach. I’ll be chucking out all my old skimpy tops with no regrets and racing to be at the forefront of style on that count!

My eight year-old son has now brought home a fashion, that we first saw long ago in our London photographic studio, when hip photographers would be wearing their jeans at half mast, with acceptably labelled boxers just about covering their extremities. Now my son has a complicated ensemble to put together each morning: briefs first, then fancy boxers with Spiderman on in sateen material that a friend gave him for his birthday and he loves, followed at last by jeans. Happily for me he hasn’t quite mastered the art of wearing the jeans halfway down his legs, so he achieves the requisite look by hoisting the boxers up above the waistband of the jeans and is satisfied with that.

Back in the eighties when straight men wore kohl eyeliner and we all had floppy fringes, fashion was fun. It was all about dressing up, as a pirate, clown or eighteenth century beau. It was colourful and outrageous. I embraced two tone tights (do you remember those – one leg black, the other hot pink or white! I took note of Charlotte’s fashion note and agree with her, but then the eighties never were a matter of good taste!), baggy trousers, ra-ra skirts, later I rifled charity shops for mens pyjamas and petticoats as day wear. Now it seems to me that fashion has lost its zest, become a matter of style dictates and taste rules, an awful lot of them laid down by self-appointed authorities Trinny and Susannah. I agree we mostly looked pretty terrible then but we enjoyed it and there was room for creative expression and individuality in our dress! Now it feels more like a uniform we must don, femininity denoted by a sparkly belt, individuality limited to one tasteful bauble around our necks. So if leggings and miniskirts do have to come back in, let the teenagers enjoy them, preferably in clashing gaudy colours.. I might just get out those clown trousers with rainbow braces, that I never did throw out and embarrass the kids by wearing them again!

Golden Memories in the Making

Yesterday we had one of those golden, sun bleached days on the water, that are the best South African holidays. They are there for us to reach out and pluck, azure and sparkling along with the gold, yet all too often we stay bogged down in home and work.

Friends of ours have a boat and we went to join them on a dam (reservoir) in the mountains an hour and a half away. It turned into a Swallows and Amazons adventure for the children, aside from the fact it was a motorboat, instead of little sailing dinghys and they did have to take us grown-ups along!

We went across the water with the boat and found a remote sandy beach with not a footprint in the sand before ours. There were hills and banks of sand, narrow inlets of water, shallow fresh water to try out the boogy boards. While the adults set up a canopy for shade the older children (all swimmers) were able to explore safely out of sight, no currents to worry about, no strangers anywhere.

It was the kind of day that, as sanctimonious students in eighties England, boycotting Barclays for ignoring sanctions against apartheid South Africa, from the depth of our ignorance we imagined those priviledged whites indulging in all the time, in between ordering about their oppressed servants and lying beside a pool drinking iced cocktails. Our two dimensional image took no account of the many middle-class South Africans, struggling to make ends meet, no different from the rest of the world, protesting against apartheid in the few ways they could from the inside and treating their employees well.

For them, as well as for us now, jewel-bright days like these are treasured interludes in every day life, stored up in children’s memories, to be brought out later as adults nostalgic for the idyllic summer days of their youth. These are the riches we want to bring up our children with: rich experiences of freedom to explore, imagine, try themselves out physically with sun, water and sand. I hope with this they will grow up to self confidence and self knowledge, without the unfounded arrogance that can be the legacy of unbridled monetary riches.

Meanwhile we appreciate the bounty of nature here in South Africa, for providing us with a plethora of playgrounds with water, sand and mountains and the generosity of our friends for sharing the opportunity to explore it with us. Today back home on our farm, sun-kissed and sandy still, we are also blessed to have space for the children to run around, water and sand to play with and family to share with, so though we are still working on the monetary riches, we feel very lucky to have such a treasure chest of jewelled moments at our disposal.