I am imagining a conversation between two six year old boys:
“It’s great that we got here early. I like running and catching the sarmie from the van window. They know me now and it’s a bit like playing rugby, when the ball is passed down the line! I would like to become a rugby player like Siya Kolisi.”
He pretended to pass a rugby ball. And then said: “I hope that I end up with an egg mayo samie.”
“Nah, the peanut butter and jelly is the one I want. Seymo had it yesterday and I swopped bites with him. Yoow, man, it tasted really cool!!!”
“Bet I can run faster than you!”
“Can you run and catch the sarmies at the same time? C’mon!”
Their laughing ‘Siya Kolisi’ echoed after them, as they ran for their sandwiches.
As they ran for life…..

This lockdown has affected everyone, especially children. Because of it, work is non-existent for many. My heart goes out to the poorer communities who are battling to feed their families. This is where George Child Welfare has stepped in so magnificently. In George, during the week, people make sandwiches for the underprivileged children. I have been staying with my friends, John & ‘B’ during lockdown, and every Monday, Wednesday and Friday we make a loaf of egg mayonnaise sandwiches. B’s neighbour, Di, collects sandwiches from twelve people that are making them and drops them off at Child Welfare. They are then distributed to the eagerly awaiting children.

George Child Welfare believes that during this lockdown, it is important to let the children realise that they are still there for them. This lockdown is an unsettling feature in everyone’s lives. They don’t want the children to feel abandoned or deserted. They visit each district in need, smiling in greeting. The van is recognised and the smiles collide!

I already knew about George Child Welfare. Two years ago, a friend and I dropped off a bag of second hand children’s clothing at their HQ on Albert Street. It’s only since lockdown, however, that I have been made so aware of what a necessary and vital organisation it is.

Child Welfare aims to protect and enhance the lives of children.
In George, the organisation is directed by Sue Du Toit. She is a practical, down to earth person with the warmest heart and a dry sense of humour. She told me about their mobile library which fascinated me. This is filled with educational material for children between the ages of three and five. Each home based crèche which is made up of between fifteen to sixty kids, has the library for a month. Imagine the joy and delight as the children are introduced to the seven dwarves in Snow White and the antics of The Three Bears. I can just picture the excitement of having the mobile library arrive. Hearing wonderful stories read, learning how to count, recognising various colours must be an exhilarating experience.

George Child Welfare are unbelievably fortunate to have George philanthropist, Sabine Plattner’s patronage. Through her, a lifeline has been given to many vulnerable children and their families.  Indeed it is through her generosity that houses have been bought which are invaluable to George Child Welfare. The first house is now a permanent home to six children and has a ‘Mum’. This house has been established for a year now. The other house is having final renovations done, then this too will open to six fortunate children.

There is also a ‘Safe’ House.
This is for children who are orphaned, have been abused and consequently removed from their homes or are just not being cared for at all. At least twelve children can stay here for up to three months. This is a place where they can literally catch their breath and while doing so, remember they are children!
If feasible, Child Welfare works to rehabilitate the family as a unit but failing this they find foster homes.

Under the umbrella of George Child Welfare, at least 725 children are currently in foster care. One foster mum, Jody, says: “A child born to another woman calls me ‘Mommy’. The magnitude of that tragedy and depth of that privilege are not lost on me.”
The open heartedness of being a foster parent is bountiful. The thing that is of prime importance is the child. I believe that a foster parent must deal out buckets of love. They mustn’t hold back, thinking: ‘This child is not with me forever. I must guard against loving too much.’
They must be lavish with their love. The child needs it!

Pre-lockdown, on some Saturday’s, George Child Welfare ran a training skills program. Children were shown how to protect themselves against abuse and bullying. They were told where to go for help. They found children in despair because their teachers had upbraided them for having dirty clothes. Their mothers hadn’t washed them. So the children were shown how to wash their clothes themselves. My heart gets very wide at the idea of six and seven year olds washing their own school uniforms. 

George Child Welfare has a bus called Buddy. This, under normal conditions, travels daily into the under-privileged areas. It’s draw card is the hot meals it serves, but it also provides a place where children can ask for help with homework or learn life-skills. If children have problems then they can talk about it to someone with a friendly neutral ear. Child Welfare assist, on an average, between sixty to ninety kids a day. 

‘Out of bad things, good can come!’ I am so pleased that through sandwich making during this virus time, I have had the opportunity to meet face to face, or should I say, mask to mask with Sue du Toit and her George Child Welfare team. Our Western Province Premier, Alan Winde recently said: “Use this Covid19 lockdown to share love!”
Forget about lockdown! George Child Welfare has been sharing love with children since 1925. Almost 100 years!

If with an egg sandwich I can bring a smile to one child’s face, my heart will answer with a radiant beam! 

***

Anyone interested in donating to George Child Welfare can do so via EFT using the following information:
Bank: First National Bank, Account Name: George Child and Family Welfare
Branch Code: 210114, Account Type: Cheque, Account Number: 52291616310, Reference: I care

The post Siya Kolisi Sarmies! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Many of these devices cut out the world around them totally. They render up melodies to be heard by the head-phoned listener alone. Playing with X-Box, interaction is with voices of strangers on the other side of the world rather than friends. Young people spend more time looking at photographs on Instagram or Facebook rather than admiring the beauty around them.
Recently, however I met two sisters of thirteen and eleven with a very different interest. Let me introduce you to Chelsy and Isla whose passion in life is baking.

Their cooking adventure began in earnest at the age of ten and twelve. They decided to make chocolate crosses at Easter last year. They made an astonishing 1300 crosses which were distributed to the congregations of three local churches. Each cross carried the message: ‘It is finished!’
Chelsy and Isla felt these edible delights were more appropriate in highlighting the real Easter message than traditional chocolate eggs and bunnies. This was a non-profit making venture but it was something that went beyond profit. These crosses spoke to the inner person in a deep, meaningful way.

Making the crosses, had set a match to their cooking skills. With the fire burning inside of them, they turned to their parents and said: “We want to do more. Could we make a biscuit that we could sell all the year round?”
Chelsy and Isla are homeschooled. Their parents, Scotty and Liezel, thought that this would be a wonderful way of teaching their children about entrepreneurship.
“I think that’s a great idea,” Liezel commented, “but you will have to work out how much money they cost to make and then price them accordingly.”
They couldn’t simply delve into their mother’s pantry, the girls realised. This was going to be a business. Exciting and also a little daunting!

The first thing to do was find a suitable biscuit recipe. The girls burrowed through their Mum’s recipe books and scoured through Google’s suggestions. They finally devised a recipe with a beautiful peanut flavour.
“Do you think we need to make the peanut taste stronger?” Isla asked her sister.
“No,” Chelsy answered, “I think this tastes great!”

They had concocted their special biscuit, now to sell it. Scotty and Liezel were having no part in marketing. That was up to the girls.
“Hey, Dad, do you think we might be able to sell them at  Ground Control?” the girls asked.
“Phone and make an appointment to see Mr Jamneck. You will have to be really convincing as he only has the best in his coffee shop,” Scotty warned.
Chelsy and Isla were extremely nervous. The future of their biscuits lay in the success or failure of that meeting. 

Stefan Jamneck said: “They were extremely professional and businesslike during the meeting. They showed me their product and gave it to me to taste. I gave them suggestions regarding packaging and labelling: allergy information, name, address and contact number. I also told them that there should be three biscuits in the packet rather than two. I tasted them and loved the wonderful crumbly peanut taste.
“I’m going to take a few of these home to my family and see what they think of them.”
Stefan’s wife and children raved about the biscuits.

Needless to say, Stefan placed a very definite weekly order. This boosted Chelsy and Isla’s confidence no end. In the following weeks they also got the go ahead from the two Root coffee shops in George!
The biscuit making business of the eleven and thirteen year old was up and running! 

I was amused to discover that the biscuit making has actually turned into a family affair!
Chelsy roasts the oats, Isla does the mixing and Scotty places the mixture into moulds before refrigerating. Once the biscuits have set, Chelsy then dips them in beautiful Belgian chocolate. Their mother, Liezel, is involved with packaging and labelling. Finally Sadie, the young three year old brings undeniable laughter and encouragement to the group! When you do something together as a family, it makes it so much more fun.

They can produce thirty at a time which equates to ten packets. One hundred biscuits are needed per week. Root orders are made on Thursday and delivered on Saturday. Ground Control’s order is produced on a Saturday and dropped off on a Monday. All of this is done outside of their school time. I would love to go round to their house on a Thursday and Saturday. I’m sure it gives off that delicious waft of freshly made biscuits that I remember from my childhood.

The girls are learning about economies of scale and product development. They are seeking out quicker, easier and more cost effective ways to get the job done. Baking the oats in advance and buying their ingredients in bulk. Refrigerator space or rather the lack of it is something they are now having to consider. As to the future, they are thinking their biscuits without the chocolate might be a great energy food for cyclists!
I am smiling in admiration at their latest concerns. At their age, I was more interested in riding my bike and climbing trees!

Chelsy and Isla admitted that running a business isn’t as glamorous as they had originally thought. The repetitiveness of producing these mouthwatering treats, can become a bit of a chore at times. But, they are learning important life lessons:
Once you have entered into a contract with customers such as Ground Control and Root these are commitments you cannot break.
And, making money, although fun, is not easy. It requires hard work and dedication when sometimes you would rather be playing the piano or dancing! 

I am laughing at my image of the girls combining all their loves at the same time. I am imagining that while Isla is doing the mixing of the biscuits in a bowl, her feet are doing balletic push ups. While Chelsy waits for the oats to roast, I picture her practicing a C piano chord on the counter.
Biscuits, ballet, piano and my imagination. What a combination!

Seriously though, pushing my imagination aside, I look at Chelsy and Isla in absolute awe and admiration. In those two young girls, I see a blend that is extraordinary, unusual, curious and rare!

What a mixture to face the world!

The post What Treats! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

At my birthday parties, Mums knew to make me an ice cream cake. I simply couldn’t stomach the  chocolate or vanilla sponge varieties that my siblings were treated to on their birthdays. I found all cake sickly sweet and..and…crumbly!

When I moved to George, I discovered this marvellous coffee shop, Beans About Coffee not far from where I live. They definitely serve the best coffee I have ever tasted. Their lattes are simply to die for! 

While I was sipping a latte, my best friend, B, said to me through a mouthful of cake:

“I know you don’t like cake, but I defy you to turn your nose up at this carrot cake. Go on, give it a try.”

I gave a shudder as I placed the teeniest bit of carrot cake in my mouth. And then I stopped and really tasted it. It was quite simply ambrosial. I couldn’t suddenly be liking cake? Carrot cake! I disliked all vegetables, for goodness sakes! 

I took another bigger bite of the carrot cake.  It had a delicious taste. It was moist, fresh and I loved the decadent cream cheese icing. I simply adored this cake full of a vegetable I wasn’t particularly fond of.

How did carrot cake come into being, I pondered. I was utterly amazed to discover that carrots have been used as a sweetener in cakes ever since medieval times. The oldest known recipe for carrot cake dates from 1892, in a book on housekeeping from Switzerland.

In World War 2, the popularity of carrot cake was revived because of rationing. Carrot cake even helped the British stop the Blitz! In 1941, the British developed a unique radar system, to help the Royal Airforce spot Luftwaffe planes at night. As a means of keeping it secret, the British government ran a campaign stating that the citizens should eat more carrots. The totally fabricated reason given was that carrots made you see better at night. With the Luftwaffe being spotted time after time at night, the German command fell for the plot. It had to be because the Brits were seeing better because of carrots! As a result, the sale of carrots skyrocketed in both Germany and England! The making of carrot cake increased. The Blitz came to an end in May of that year!

I asked Stefan, the owner of Beans About Coffee who made his carrot cake. 

“I get it from Tyrone,” he said handing me a card.

Prince of Tarts was printed on the front and on the back was Tyrone’s cell phone number. I phoned him instantly and we arranged to meet. Where? Beans About Coffee, naturally!

I was approached by this gentle looking man with eyes that danced.

“Gaynor?” I nodded, smiling, “I saw you scanning the restaurant and thought you were perhaps looking for me.”

We shook hands and made our way to a table. 

“What are you having?” I asked, “I’m going to indulge in their gorgeous hot chocolate and have you tried their carrot cake? It is divine,” I said laughing. 

“A cappuccino and may I share the carrot cake with you? I believe they do really big slices here!” he said, returning my laughter.

“How did it all begin,” I asked about to take my first blissful mouthful. 

“I always loved good food and enjoyed experimenting in the kitchen from an early age.”

I ate his share of carrot cake and listened as he filled me in.

“Tyrone, I need you to do me a big favour,” his mother stared at him intently. “I would love to go away for four days but I feel terrible deserting my stall on Saturday.” His mother ran the Saturday morning pastry stall at Wild Oats Market in Sedgefield. “Do you think you could take over for me this Saturday?”

He knew exactly what to do. He had watched and helped his Mum get her pastries ready week after week.

“No problem,” he said, his big grin spreading.

What fun he had preparing the pastry stall that Saturday. Milk tarts, pecan nut pies, apple tarts and lemon curd tartlets were conjured up with surprising ease. (My carrot cake had not yet made it’s appearance in Tyrone’s life!) He actually ended up making more than his mother usually made that Friday evening. The next day at Sedgefield Market, he sold everything!

The bug had bit!!!

He started to regularly assist with the baking and selling of tarts at the Market. His mother, who had studied at hotel school, was against Tyrone making a career in the food industry. She knew what hard work it entailed. Tyrone thought differently.

He saw the potential of running his own business. About three and a half years ago, Tyrone decided to ‘confront the lion in it’s den’. He made beautiful samples of his offerings and took them to all the coffee shops, restaurants and hotels he knew. Time after time, the door was very politely yet firmly shut in his face. Tyrone would give his wonderful produce to the homeless on the streets. Their pleasure did something to salve his pride. Then it was often onto his surfboard where his outmanoeuvring of the waves restored something of his confidence. Back into the kitchen once again to make more of his edible delights. The following day, the whole process would begin once more.

People couldn’t keep on shutting out his creativity. Eventually Shell at Kraaibosch, The Blue Olive Restaurant in Wilderness and Double Shot Restaurant In Plettenberg Bay decided to give this man a chance. They stocked and displayed his products which sold immediately. And they  ordered more. 

Tyrone was in business!!!

Once he got his foot in the door, others suddenly woke up and took note. I want to break into that song from Cabaret: ‘And the money kept pouring in from every side…..’ The money didn’t suddenly start pouring in, but the clients did. They saw a good thing and wanted to be part of it. I love Tyrone’s attitude when he said: “The growth of my business happened organically. It came about when the time was right.”

It took a lot of feeding the homeless and surfing to get his business on the go! 

Since April 2017, Tyrone has been the co-owner of a registered company, ‘Prince of Tarts’. At Sedgefield Market, his mother was known as the Queen of Tarts. When Tyrone began helping her he was called the Prince of Tarts. A perfect name for the new company! 

Tyrone is an idealist at heart. Too much of our food is produced in a way that is harmful to both animals and humans. The thought of chickens spending their lives in those concentration camp cages caused him to shudder. He would like to own a farm where he could grow and produce fresh ingredients. It would be bliss for him to have chickens scuttling past his rows of freshly planted carrots.

“Carrots,” I exclaimed, “tell me about the most important thing – your carrot cake!”

“One and a half hours are spent grating fresh carrots per day,” he replied. “Recently I have taken to reducing the amount of sugar I use. It’s a far healthier option. We bake six days a week. Often we work until midnight, or we start baking at 2 am. Mum was right when she said the food business is a tough life. But I’m happy, I’ve found my niche.” 

He is passionate about his work. What he would ultimately love to do is have a large bakery where people can meet, relax, pick and buy fresh produce, learn how to bake bread. He wants to uplift others lives. Food can bring great enjoyment to people. Smiles ripple out. Seeing pleasure on peoples faces gives him happiness. 

“I see how you have enjoyed my carrot cake and it makes me smile, inside and out.”

And Tyrone has that effect on people. I left Beans About Coffee that day, my craving for carrot cake satisfied. Tyrone made me smile.

Inside and out!

*******

Tyrone can be contacted on 082 850 7292 / 044 873 2843 / tyrone@princeoftarts.co.za

*******

The post Calling all rabbits! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

“No one has ever become poor by giving.”

Giving!
I love receiving but it is through giving that I gain so much joy. The day before Christmas, a friend of mine took a large packet of sweets and handed them out to the children in an area of high deprivation. It gave her untold happiness seeing the unbridled delight that her Christmas treats were giving to these unexpectant children. These small Christmas treats were totally unexpected. The jubilant faces that greeted my friend’s offerings were for her the biggest Christmas present she could have hoped for. She gave to those children, but what she received back was so much more!

That is the thing about giving. The giver often receives more joy than the person receiving the gift!

In my last blog, I spoke on how I planned to give to people by cooking for them – having friends round to dinner and by giving meals to the homeless. This ‘resolution’ was put to the test when my friend, Jans, recently invited me to her dinner party. B, Jans and I do so much together. When B announced that she was making pudding for Jans’ dinner party, I thought that it was time to step forward.
“I would also like to help with your dinner party, Jans. I will do the starter. How does a…” Glory, what could I make? “…soup sound. A cold cucumber soup?”
Cold cucumber soup! Why had I said that? I didn’t know how to makes soup, never mind a cold cucumber one. I bought my soups all ready made from Woolworths.
“That will be scrumptious, Gaye. Thank you,” was Jans’ response.
“How many people are you expecting?”
“Six.”
Six people would be eating a cold cucumber soup that I had no idea how to make. Glory be, what had I let myself in for?

B knows me so well.
As soon as we got home, out came her iPad.
“We need to look up a cucumber soup recipe for you.”
Google provided a mass of cucumber soup recipes. Which one to choose?
“This one is tailor made for you. Look!”
B handed me the iPad and my eyes fell on: ‘Easy Cold Cucumber Soup.’
Just the thing!
I read it through. Yes, I could make that. One thing bothered me.
“It says the cucumber must be de-seeded. How do I…”
“Yeah,” said B, “yeah, it does. But Gaynor, I don’t think it matters if you leave the seeds in.”

I went out and bought all my ingredients. It said: One and a third cups of sour cream and one and a third cups of yogurt. I bought this gigantic carton of yoghurt. The biggest they sold. That would definitely give me enough yogurt. When home, I took the stock cubes I had bought and made two beautiful mugs of it which I put in the fridge overnight. I also stripped the cucumbers of their skin and wrapped them up in cling film for the night. Tomorrow was cooking day!!! I was excited but also I had a nervous energy zinging through me.

At a quarter to six the following morning, I received a message from B.
“Jans says your must de-seed the cucumbers. Apparently it is absolutely necessary. They might make the soup bitter!”
Oh, big shytenhauzen!!!
“I will see you at a quarter to seven and show you how to de-seed them.”
Thank goodness for B!

B cut the cucumber straight down the centre. Then she picked up the one half and with a teaspoon gently but precisely dug the seeds out of the middle. It lay there forlornly with it’s insides strewn in the sink. I could almost hear the other half jeering at it. It didn’t jeer for long!
“And now it’s your turn,” I said picking it up. I looked at B and she smiled encouragingly.
I lacked B’s deftness and precision but I made up for it with the enthusiasm with which I regarded my completely disembowelled half.
“I did it,” I exclaimed to myself. I looked up at B, my eyes shining. “I can do this next one.”
“See you tonight,” B laughed as she left this highly delighted cucumber cutting woman.

I have an efficient yet small liquidiser which wouldn’t fit everything in it at the same time. So I made my soup in two batches. I put one beautifully nude, disembowelled and diced cucumber into the liquidiser cup. I also put in some sour cream and yoghurt and one clove of finely chopped garlic. I put the lid on and turned on the knob. This growling sound emanated from my little machine. Glory be! I switched it off immediately and looked at my liquidiser in consternation. It shouldn’t be growling like that. I switched it on more tentatively. Once again this sound like a cow dying reverberated forth. For goodness sakes! I switched it off. The creamy mixture looked at me helplessly. I felt equally impotent.

I went to pour myself some freshly squeezed orange juice while I considered my problem. I reached into the fridge for the juice and my eyes fell upon the two mugs of vegetable stock. I had forgotten to put them into my liquidised goulash! This could be the reason my ‘potion’ wasn’t turning. It needed the moisture of the stock. I tipped the stock into my cucumber mixture. It didn’t pour as I expected it to. No, it came out with a squelching plop! I put the lid back, switched it on and my liquidiser…liquidised beautifully!

The first batch finished, I then put my second diced cucumber, cream yoghurt AND stock into the liquidiser. I was really enjoying myself now. I began to sing one of my favourite song very loudly: Doe, a deer, a female deer, Ray, a drop of golden sun…..
The liquidiser and I were vying for prominence.

“Right, let’s see how you’re doing,” I said to my whirling cucumber soup. I switched it off, removed the lid and tasted it. It was ambrosial! Another minute of spinning should do it. I switched it back on and gave a screech.I had forgotten to put on the frigging lid. Sprays of creamy cucumber soup were painting my kitchen in merry arcs. Switching it off, I gazed at the amount left. I hadn’t lost too much. Combined with the first batch, there was still plenty.

I placed my cold cucumber soup in the beautiful red bowl  Mums had given me for Christmas. It hibernated in the fridge all afternoon. I took it out that evening and sprinkled the mint and dill on top. I laughed at myself. I had tried chopping the mint and dill with a knife. With my spasticity, that was not the easiest thing to do. Not easy at all.
‘I wonder if my liquidiser will do this for me,’ I had thought.
The finely chopped mint and dill seemed to laugh at the world from the top of my cold cucumber soup!

The joy I felt in giving the cucumber soup to Jans that evening was intense. Francis of Assisi said: “For it is in giving, that we receive.”
I thought how true those words were.

I watched the pleasure on my friends faces as they polished off my cucumber soup. I was delighted that it was giving so much enjoyment. I must also admit that the feeling that coursed through me was one of pride. For the first time, I hadn’t relied on a Woolworths soup. This dill and mint sprinkled cucumber concoction had been created by me.
And so, in true Francis of Assisi style, I would like to give this cold cucumber soup recipe to you. I’m sure you will enjoy it.
It made my heart smile!

Easy Cold Cucumber Soup

2 large cucumbers – peeled, seeded, and diced
1 1/3 cups sour cream
1 1/3 cups plain yoghurt
2 cups vegetable stock
1 clove garlic, minced
1/2 cup chopped fresh mint
1/2 cup chopped dill

Directions:
Combine cucumber, sour cream, yoghurt, vegetable stock and garlic in a large bowl, blend together using an immersion blender until smooth. Blend in the mint and dill. Refrigerate until chilled, about 1 hour.

The post My Soup for the Soul! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Dis Tyd, the sign said. It’s Time.
I smiled to myself as we entered the room. A fire crackled, merrily accompanying the sound of people chatting. It was a miserable day outside. I was so glad we had followed Eduard’s advice and investigated his wife’s new coffee shop.

Every week, my best friend, ‘B’ and Eduard met for their Sunday bike rides. Hither and thither they rode hectically through the George forests and mountains. Eduard and ‘B’ shared a ‘life’ I knew nothing about. That was fine. He was her cycling buddy. He was her ‘Young Gun’!

One day, ‘B’ said to me: “Eduard tells me that his wife, Mia, has opened this wonderful coffee shop near Fancourt. He suggested we should pop in. After pilates lets try out her cappuccinos!
We stood in the coffee shop and looked for a spare table.
“Can I help you?” asked this petite woman with a wide mouth and eyes brimming with life.
“Yes, please. We would like a table for two.”
When she took our order, we introduced ourselves to Mia. “I had a suspicion you were Eduard’s ‘B’,” she laughed. “He told me you were small and had a force and energy that bowled people over!”
An apt description of ‘B’!

“Here is that gorgeous ‘chocolate bomb’ cake we ordered,” ‘B’ enthused. I looked in the direction of the approaching culinary delight and my eyes fell, not on the cake but on a table. Such an incredibly beautiful table. It’s pedestal looked as if it was made with different pieces of wood all slotted together. I walked around it and sighed. It was stunning.
“That was made by Eduard from Kiaat wood.” I hadn’t even noticed Mia standing beside me. “In fact, he made all the furniture in this shop.”
My eyes took in the furniture around me: the tables and chairs were all different, the side board, amazing wooden vases.
“But…but Eduard cycles,” I said stupidly.
“He does that too,” Mia laughed, “He is a furniture manufacturer.”

Eduard and Mia met when they were both about 15 months old. Their parents were friends and they visited each other in Tzaneen. Mia cherishes a photo that was taken of the two children sitting on their mothers laps, shyly peeping at one another.
As I devoured the ambrosial ‘chocolate bomb’, I knew that I had to meet with Eduard.

Eduard’s factory was not far from Dis Tyd. The dust swirled lazily in the shafts of sunlight shining through the open door. Eduard grinned shyly and introduced his assistant, Jacques.

The room was dominated by a huge wooden sideboard. It had obviously been sanded. It had that raw, fresh smell to it.
“This is what I’m working on at the moment,” Eduard said.
“So you restore furniture as well as make it. How beautiful this is.” I ran my hand along the top. I had grown up surrounded by beautiful furniture inherited by my mother. I recognised the handsome antique oak wood beneath my hand.
“You should have seen it when it was bought in to us. A bit of crumbly old furniture that looked ready to be thrown away. Thank goodness the owner knew what it could look like. He handed it over to me and it was love at first sight. I saw the sideboard’s potential and Jacques and I got to work.”
“The owner will do a hop, skip and a jump when he sees it,” I enthused.
“Well…um…he will be pleased,” Eduard said practically.

Thirteen years ago, Eduard had done a course in furniture technology at Saasveld College in George. He had then gone into business making kitchen cupboards. He found that gave him little joy so six years ago he opened up this workshop. Suddenly things fell into place. He was doing what he loved to do. He was creating and restoring furniture.
“When I restore furniture, I feel a bit like a plastic surgeon. I return youth and vitality to a decrepit object. And being able to create my own furniture is liberating.”
“Do you use your own designs or do you use a computerised design system?”
He laughed and tapped his head. “They all come from up here!”

For me, ‘B’s cycling buddy had been transformed. I realised that I had wrongly categorised and inadvertently compartmentalised him. I had thought of Eduard as being ‘B’s cycling buddy and nothing more. I thought of my hairdresser, manicurist, dentist, doctor. Too often we label people and by doing so, forget that there is so much more to them. Suddenly Eduard had altered. Why? Because I had been granted a window into his life. Suddenly he was no longer merely ‘B’s cycling buddy but a person. A person with a sense of humour, a passion for his work, a gentleness that touched on all around him. We are not given windows into everyone’s life. But I will no longer categorise people. My hairdresser is not someone who merely cuts my hair. She has a life that includes hair cutting. Whether I am ever given that window into her life is neither here nor there. I will just remember.
As I will remember, ‘B’s cyclist who turned into so much more.
Eduard changed me in the process.

One day when I move into a bigger house, it will have a beautiful round table in my entrance hall, made by Eduard. It’s pedestal will be made up of different facets of wood that catch the different hues and tones surrounding it. It will be made of oak.

I love oak.
And ‘chocolate bomb’ cake!

The post No Labels! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Jarryd, one of the barista guys, approached me.
“Yesterday I saw your Absa film. You had me crying and I don’t cry easily. It was great!”
“Thanks, Jarryd,” I replied, “I so enjoyed making it and we’ve had an incredible response. Tell me,” I asked as I took a blissful sip of coffee, “do you own this place?”
“I wish! I’m only the manager” he laughed and pointed to a man walking through the door. “There is the owner. Stefan!” he called. A dark haired man turned towards him. “This is the girl in the film I was telling you about.”
“Hi there, I’m making myself a coffee,” Stefan said, “Would you like another cup?”
“Who wouldn’t?” I responded with a laugh.
Stefan Jamneck is a big man with eyes that grin at you. He owned La Maison, a restaurant in Pretoria, where he worked front of house. However, he longed to be more involved creatively. He envisaged spectacular creations coming out of the kitchen and found it frustrating when they didn’t appear. He wanted to produce food with flair and panache. And so, at the age of 32 he ‘went back to school’ and trained as a chef.

In 2006 he moved to the Western Cape, where in a beautiful old railway station, beside a quiet lagoon in the tranquil town of Great Brak River, he established his hugely successful restaurant, Transkaroo. Here he dished up plates full of passionately created South African cuisine made from the finest ingredients . In 2011 he won the Nomix Garden Route Chef of the Year award. Quite clearly, Stefan Jamneck didn’t do things by halves!

He loved his time in the Transkaroo restaurant. It was in the kitchen he finally found his feet and felt at home. He was like a sponge soaking up the new experience and creating fresh and novel delicacies. His meals became an art in themselves and his clientele flourished.

Stefan Jamneck is a perfectionist. One thing bothered him with his cuisine. When the meal concluded with coffee, instead of finishing on a high as it should have, the “fireworks” fizzled and went out. Where there should have been the flash and sparkle of unbelievable colour and taste, there was simply a damp hiss. The problem was….. the coffee. Something needed to be done.

Typically, instead of looking for a different coffee supplier he decided to take the matter into his own hands. He and his brother attended an exhibition all about coffee and coffee manufacturing in Singapore. They discovered what was required to make superb coffee. A coffee that causes your mouth to tingle with a desire for more! Through local agents, he imports coffee beans from all around the globe – South America, Central America, Africa, Indonesia. And his piece de resistance is a fabulous coffee roaster manufactured in the Netherlands. He showed it to me at the back of his coffee shop. It is a beautiful piece of machinery that carries with it all the gravitas that a roaster implies. A machine that is able to convert the raw, green coffee beans into dark, exotic beads of taste, ready to be secretly blended, ground and brewed. I didn’t ask Stefan how long the beans are roasted or at what temperature. I just know that this is one of the reasons why his coffee tastes so extraordinary. A formula known only to him and his workforce. It is during the blending stage that Stefan’s creativity can really run riot! Sidewalk, Piazza, Black Gold are some of the delectable blends his hands passionately craft.

He has now opened six branches of Beans About Coffee on the Garden Route: two actual coffee shops in York Street and Kerk Street, three in-store coffee bars in George and his latest project a coffee bar located in Spar at Plettenberg Bay. I found myself admiring not only his brilliant coffee roasting and blending skills but also his wonderful business acumen. Two years ago he sold Transkaroo. He told me the reason why he had sold the restaurant, that my admiration turned to liking.

He needed to spend more time with his wife and children.
Although he liked the pace and creative excitement of a hot kitchen, he missed not being home with his family at night. Not being able to spend Sunday’s with them was dreadful. He sold Transkaroo and suddenly his life was transformed into that of a normal father. At five o’clock he is able to ‘shut up shop’ and go home. Now he can sit and drink a glass of wine with his wife while his children regale him with their exploits at school.

Too often in life, one settles for second best simply because it is easier. Stefan doesn’t consider this an option. If he thinks he can achieve perfection, he’ll give it a good try.
Restauranteur!
Chef!
Coffee creator!
Dad!
To me, he is a reminder that we all have so much potential. When something fails in our lives, we mustn’t plunge ourselves into a chair and think: That’s me done for!
We must see the world as Stefan sees it.
A place filled with endless possibilities and fabulous coffee!

The post A Passion for Coffee! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

And no, it was not with a brand new, sparkling spouse, or even with the companionship of my wire haired dachshund. I spent the night alone in my bed but what a blissful stay I had. Perhaps I should have kidnapped the beautiful tabby cat that greeted me at the door when I arrived, resplendent in diamanté collar! I later discovered that his name was Skabenga meaning hooligan or vagabond in Zulu! Apparently, earlier this year, Skabenga went off his food and so an appointment was made for him to see the vet. With that Skabenga vanished and was later discovered ten kilometres away. Vets obviously did not appeal to him!

Walking into the Oyster Box is an experience in itself. One enters through a beautiful revolving door. I have walked through countless revolving doors but this one is different. The door seemed to sum up the hotel itself with it’s solid old fashioned, colonial brilliance. The wood, brass and glass shimmer with an elegance all it’s own. I smiled at the doorman who welcomed me for he was kitted out in perfect in colonial Raj attire, complete with a cream pith helmet.

The Indian theme continued with lunch. Exquisite tiffin curries of every kind were served. I would love to say that I sampled several kinds of this delicious fare. I didn’t.
I don’t like curry!
My mouth was filled instead with the ambrosial delight of a prawn cocktail. Sheer heaven!
The service was exceptional with friendly people who were well prepared to go the extra mile. I must say that for the whole of my stay, I felt very much like some form of royalty. My every wish was catered for, even before I knew that I had wished it!

As I walked around the hotel, I gloried in the decor surrounding me. Light, airy colours. Soft and neutral shades adorned the walls of a traditional British Colonial interior. Pale greens, blues, tans, creams and whites contrasted beautifully against darker wooden blinds, fans and door frames. Beautiful Persian rugs, incredible hanging lamps, black and white terrazzo tiles in the reception area and foyer. There is the most outstanding original wrought iron balustrade that simply took my breath away.

In the atrium ladies were indulging themselves in the most beautiful of English ‘teas’ whilst being serenaded by a a wonderful pianist. I, on the other hand, met my cousin, Judith and her four children outside on the patio for milkshakes! The youngest daughter, Alice, was so overawed by her surroundings, especially the trees bedecked with beautiful fairy lights, that her milkshake was ignored for five minutes. Then as if coming out of a daze she announced to the world:
“Cool, this place is real cool!” before dunking the straw in her mouth and slurping with gusto.
Later that night, while dressing for dinner, I thought how apt Alice’s words had been.
Cool, this place is really cool!

That night I joined my friends, B and John for dinner. As we were walking towards the dining room, John said: “Just tell me again, who are we meeting for dinner?”
“Nobody, John,” I replied a little impatiently, “it is just us.”
I noticed a hefty kick aimed at John’s shin by B. We were led to our table. But it was not empty. My aunt, Libby, who is like a second mother to me, was there, together with my cousin, Judith and Jonathan. I was completely taken by surprise. Libs was practically dancing with delight at my astonishment.
How utterly wonderful a dinner we had that evening! The food was subliminally outstanding, beautifully served and the wine flowed.

I stood on my balcony that night, looking out onto the sea. Ships were crossing that broad expanse, their lights fireflying into the purple darkness. My Cochlear Implants were put away so the breaking waves below my window were silent. But the crashing of waves filled my head and the tangy smell of the ocean lulled me to sleep in that magical hotel.

The next morning I was in for another surprise when a friend of mine, Gorvs, arrived to join me for breakfast. “Gorvs, how utterly divine to see you but how did you know I’d be here?” Gorvs looked across at B and I clicked. “B, you are a total star, thank you!”
Seeing Gorvs was wonderful but my breakfast that morning was something else! I was able to have as many oysters as I was able to eat. They slipped down my throat, together with lemon juice and Tabasco sauce as if they were simply returning home!

My time at The Oyster Box was undefinable as far as enjoyment went. It was everything I hoped it would be and more. I have realised something about myself. People are important to me. I remember going to Paris when I was twenty-one. Paris is one of the most romantic cities in the world. I experienced it alone. I stood there looking up at The Eiffel Tower and longed to share it with someone. The intimate delights I discovered at the Louvre were locked inside of me. I am a person that needs to share with people.

The delights of The Oyster Box were transformed to joy because I was able to share them: my nieces and nephew, B and John, Libby, Judith, Jonathan, Gorvs. How incredibly fortunate I am to have ‘people’ in my life.

I have one regret about my stay at The Oyster Box. There was a TV at the end of my bath. I never had a luxurious, leisurely soak while watching that TV.
I will save that for next time!

The post Finding a Pearl! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

I

The post Mac-Heaven!!! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Most

The post ‘To market, to market……’ appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Because of my accident, I have only 40% eyesight and no depth of field awareness so I am unable to drive. I walk everywhere. To my unutterable delight, my apartment is directly behind a Spar supermarket. It is a really great shop. It’s always clean and the shop assistants are friendly with ready smiles.
Perdita, my Wire-Haired Dachshund, is not allowed in the shop. She has become quite used to our shopping expeditions. I tie her to the shopping basket stand at the door. I then leave her there and proceed to do all my shopping. If I disappear down an aisle where she can’t see me for long, then Perdita begins to bark. Wherever I am in the shop, I shout out: “It’s okay, Perdita, I’m coming. Just wait!”
She mutters to herself and continues to stand and search. When she sees me she gives a joyful yelp and then sits quietly once more, her eyes never leaving me. The Spar security guard, Rita, has taken note of her distress when I disappear. She goes and stands with Perdita and speaks softly to her until I appear to collect her. Then she hands me her lead and we make our way home.
Recently I took Perdita outside to do her late night wee just before bed. She sniffled around the fence, did her wee and came running when I gave a small whistle. We went back inside, Perdita  ahead of me. I locked the gate and the door behind me. Then I took Spencer, my cockatiel, through to the bedroom and shouted out to Perdita who was obviously eating her food in the lounge: “I’m just doing my face and teeth. I’m coming to bed in a moment.”
I did my face and teeth and went through to the lounge to check my doors were locked and switch off the lights. Perdita had obviously gone through to the bedroom. I closed the door behind my sliding gate and was about to switch off the light when a program on television caught my attention. I watched for about fifteen minutes then finally switched it off. I yawned as I got into bed. I was tired. I snuggled down to where Perdita normally was in my bed…and there was nothing! I shot up. “Perdita! Perdita, where are you?” No dog appeared. I put my Cochlear Implants back in so that my sound was restored and searched the flat. I have a small apartment so that didn’t take long!
No Perdita. Was I going mad? I thought back and I realised that I hadn’t seen her since she had run into my flat. Damn it! I realised that she had run ahead of me and straight out again through the sliding gate. Shytenhauzen, where the heck had she disappeared to? I went and stood in the dark garden and did her whistle. No response. I didn’t dare call her as it would wake up my flat mates. It was already ten past eleven. Perdita, please don’t do this, I thought. This was when I needed a car so badly. I needed to comb the streets and see if I could find her. It wasn’t safe for me to go “walkabout” in the pitch dark. Blast it! Then I saw that my neighbour Norene’s light was on. She was still awake. I phoned her and five minutes later we were both in her car heading into the night. We drove around the neighbourhood our eyes scanning every nook and cranny. No Perdita! We passed through the back of Spar, the corner where the dustbins are kept. All looked quiet. And then, mercifully, I saw her. The car’s headlight picked out this surprised dog picking at the rubbish. She had gone to collect all the little bits and pieces that were thrown out and collected by the rubbish van the next day. Perdita had obviously made a bee-line for all the lovely morsels of decaying food!
“Perdita!” My voice was low and deadly. She ran towards me but with her tail between her legs. Roughly I scooped her up and we drove home.
“Norene, I don’t know what I would have done without you. She could have been hit by a car. She could have been stolen. Thank you.” I was close to tears. We said good night as I let myself into my flat.
“You make so mad,” I fumed at Perdita. “How dare you go up to the Spar at this time? And by yourself!”
Perdita looked suitably ashamed. I was beside myself. “And don’t think that you are coming to sleep with me tonight. You can sleep in your basket in the study.” Slamming my door, I got into bed and yanked out my book. I hated sleeping by myself. I missed that warm body nestled into mine. “Blasted dog!” I muttered. Half an hour later I opened my door. Perdita, sitting directly outside, looked up at me. “All right, you can come in,” I growled. She flung herself at my bed in joyful abandon. Lying there with Perdita in my arms, I thought of those Mothers who had lost their children and never found them. I thought of those two hundred Nigerian school girls held captive since the 14th April. I cannot even imagine what those parents are going through. Are their daughters alive? Have they been raped? Where are they sleeping? Why can’t we find them and bring them home? I thought of Madeleine McCann’s mother. Her child has been missing for seven years. How do all these parents ever manage to fall asleep? Not to know whether your child is alive or dead! The anguish and despair they must go through is unthinkable. Perdita was missing for about an hour! I felt ashamed of my histrionics! I kissed Perdita’s head softly. I went to sleep as normal with Perdita tucked into my stomach snoring gently.
The next morning, needing some milk, Perdita and I made our way to the Spar. We passed the turn off to the dustbins and she did not even look in that direction. Good dog, I thought. At the door we were greeted by Rita, “I’ll tie her up for you.”
I handed Rita Perdita’s lead as I went in to do my shopping.
Yep, I love Spar. Laugh, and as far as Perdita is concerned: THAT SPAR IS HER SPAR!

The post Spar’s Child! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.