20 years today

I was 18. Voting for the first time, just like millions of my countrymen and women.

We were in the tiny seaside town where I grew up. In 1994 there were no designated voting stations. We pitched up with our green bar-coded ID book and voted. All of us.

It was heady, surreal and we knew it was HUGE - even without twitter, facebook, 24h TV, text messages or the internet, we could feel the vibe. Could feel the world's eyes, the enormous exhale, the teeth on edge, the fingertip tingling belly cramping slightly nauseous inducing excitement and apprehension: what next?

For us, what was next was to go down to the beach, huddle out of the rain in the deserted life-savers' shack, play cards, drink quarts of beer, smoke cigarettes, play djembe drums, and try and imagine how this would change the course of our lives.

On that grey and rainbow-hued day, I think this was kind of what I had in mind.

Frieda and her bestie - June 2013.

This country is so radically complex, but basically: humanity wins. Amandla.

a day

Today I did the school run for the last time this year. Then I collected a loaned pram, for my poor youngest with a massive roastie on her knee.

A quick lunch and then to the train (her first time!), with my parents and friends, to town for a final Madiba send off.

We didn't get tickets for the stadium event alas, but we walked through town and talked, and thought and remembered, and educated.

They are so young, but I hope they remember. 

And even if they don't, one day they will understand and be able to say, 'I was there.'

sad and sticky

I'm not ready to talk about Mandela.

Friday was a big day, and I've spoken about my sorrow here before. When I remember that he's gone my heart feels like a balloon, hollow and tight, a feeling I thought was reserved for losing someone closer to me.
Turns out he was that close, to us all.

It was a weekend of comforting things, I'm glad for that.

Husband has a fantastic relationship with food. He loves to eat it, but more especially (as Stella's nanny used to say), he loves to make it.
He cooks, or bakes, to relax. To experiment, to learn, to laugh. To eat.

He grew up in a house in which home-made was a matter of fiscal and domestic pride, his parents were great canners and preservers. They were into food too.
One of my favourite stories from his childhood is how my in-laws used to make their own stash of individual pies. A towering stack of silver foil pie dishes were procured, and a great pie-making project begun - everything from the crust to the filling made from scratch, the completed products stacked in the freezer with pride.
Mostly made from the foods they grew, reared, or ... caught.
Apparently tortoise pie is not to be recommended.

But home-steading's in the genes and over the years he's perfected his bread-making skills, researched and made exotic things, and 'put by' a fair amount of goodies - from pies (pork and fennel for us thank you), to jams and relishes and currently, ginger and buchu beer.

After brewing it all weekend, we bottled it up a couple of hours ago. A couple of hours later, and we've just finished mopping up our sticky kitchen and releasing the pressure on the remaining bottles.
It's fiery stuff this ginger beer.

Making stuff, using our hands, filling our bellies - this is how we find comfort.