Twenty months after my fall, I turned thirty. Shirley Johnston, an acting friend of mine and her husband, Dave, decided that they would give me my thirtieth birthday party. I stayed with Shirley and Dave that weekend. I was going to help with the catering by making two lemon meringue pies. I was a great lemon meringue pie maker. Or rather, I used to be!

I bought two rolls of digestive biscuits which I emptied into a packet. I left that on the counter, while I went to double check the recipe. I needed to crush the biscuits until they were mere crumbs. Then empty them into a bowl and mix with melted butter. Yes, I remembered how to do this. I picked up the packet, made sure it was tightly shut and then swung it axe-like over my shoulder. Directing it onto the counter as hard as I could I ‘heard’ all the biscuits give out their rasps as they cracked into pieces. Shirley swung around from her lasagna making.
“Gaynor, what are you doing?”
I laughed at her bewildered countenance.
“This is the way I crush all the biscuits,” I said laughing at her expression. CRASH! Down came the bag once more.
“But, Gaye, are you sure that…”
CRASH! “I’ve never had one of those biscuit crushers. I actually have always preferred doing it this way.”
CRASH!
“Gaye, it doesn’t sound like….”
CRASH!
“I love doing this! You’ll see, Shirl, it works as well as a biscuit crusher and is much more fun.”
CRASH!
“But, Gaynor, are you sure that…”
CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!
“One more and the biscuits should be fine crumbs.”
CRASH!
“Whew, it’s exhausting. Okay, now look, Shirley,” I bent to open the packet, “the biscuits are all…”
I looked in the packet to see two dozen eggs dripping in a mangled mass. I had picked up the wrong packet. All my eggs were completely destroyed. The digestive biscuits grinned safely at me from their perch on the counter.
There was a muffled sound behind me. I turned to see Shirley doubled over clutching her stomach, tears of laughter sprang from her eyes.
“I…I tried to tell you…,” she spluttered.
It wasn’t only my hand that caused me problems with my cooking . My hearing and downright carelessness contributed to the condition. We had to buy another dozen eggs!!!
In spite of my Lemon Meringue calamity, that thirtieth birthday party was one of the happiest days I can remember!

But, oh, my cooking!!!

I love holding lunches or even more special, dinner parties. Woolworths is both a clothing and a food store. They sell magnificent soups. Butternut is my favourite. I often invite people round to lunch and the butternut soup, with cream and rolls appear regularly. When I was living in Durban, I invited my cousin and her husband round to lunch on the weekend .
“Great, Gaynor, I would love to come. Let me see if Jonathan is free. Darling,” she shouted, “are you free to pop around to Gaynor’s for butternut soup on Saturday?”
“How did you know I was serving butternut soup?” I asked astonished.
“Well…well, you always do!”
Uh, uh…I needed to change my cuisine, I thought.

I moved to George and became firm friends with B. B loves cooking. Whenever she invites friends around to dinner, my questions the next day is: “How was dinner?”
She then regales me in detail about every dish. When I had a dinner party and invited her, it definitely could not be – butternut soup!!!

I logged onto the internet and discovered this delicious looking recipe. And it appeared relatively easy. With my one and a bit hands, I thought that I just might be able to make a super deluxe meal! It was called: Chicken Parmigiana. I was sure to be able to create this marvellous looking dish. I invited B, my special friend, Jans and my golf teacher, Val Holland for Thursday night dinner. I had a golf lesson on Friday. Glory, a lot was riding on this recipe, I thought.

I looked at the ingredients:

2 large chicken breasts sliced through the middle and flattened.
2 beaten eggs
75g breadcrumb
75g grated parmesan
1 tbsp olive oil
2 garlic cloves, crushed
half a 690ml jar Passata
1 tsp caster sugar
1 tsp dried oregano
half a 125g ball light mozzarella, torn

Okay, so I needed to double the recipe. I went to Red Barn Chicken Farm to buy my chicken. Their chicken is free range. I always feel easier eating those chickens. I picked six beautiful chicken breasts. After all, somebody might want seconds, I thought, grinning to myself. I then headed for the supermarket where I filled my basket with all the other interesting ingredients. I got home and placed everything on the counter. Okay, now to bash the breasts, I thought shuddering at the thought.

I got two pieces of cling film and put a chicken breast protectively in between. Then I looked for something hard with which to bash. I wished I had a rolling pin! My eyes fell on an antique wooden shoe mould that I had on my table in the lounge. It had a wonderful steel bottom. That would be perfect! So, apron on – all cooks wear aprons! – shoe mould in hand, I began to beat the hell out of the chicken breast. I was extremely disciplined in that I used my right non-working hand. This would give it some much needed exercise, I thought. When the breast was suitably bashed, thin and floppy, I removed it from the cling film. I then dipped it in beaten egg, rolled it in breadcrumbs, Parmesan and put it in the fridge. I got to work on the next. By the time I was on my fourth breast, I was exhausted. Breast bashing was no easy matter! I caved in and did the last two with my left hand! They joined their peers in the fridge. I looked at the six flattened, bashed in, bread and parmesan coated breasts.
“I’m really sorry I had to do that to you,” I muttered apologetically as I popped them into the hot oven, “but…well, the recipe called for it.”

Now for the sauce, I thought.
I heated the oil and then I added my crushed cloves of garlic. I sniffed appreciatively. I am mad about garlic. It’s just as well I am single, I thought. My partner would have to put up with a garlic reeking person at night. I thought with a smile of Perdita, my dog, and Spencer, the cockatiel who share a room with me. Tough luck, Chaps!
I added the Passata, oregano and sugar. Then I seasoned. I knew that Jans was not a great one for seasoning so I held back on the seasoning front. The rest of the dish went exactly according to plan. I poured the sauce over the cooked chicken, tossed on the torn mozzarella and browned the dish under the grill.
I had bought a salad from Woolworths, as well as their extremely more-ish cheese cake.

B is a superb cook and her opinion meant so much to me. She was simply blown away by my main course. Since then, that main course has featured at a luncheon for ten in Sheringham, England. It also proved to be just as successful for eight of my friends in our little cottage in the Cotswolds.

I am now not a fast mover in the kitchen. It took me ages to make the Chicken Parmigiana. It would have been far easier to heat up and serve Woolworths butternut soup. But I have realised something. By spending time and care on preparing a meal for people, I am actually saying: I care for all of you. This meal showed how much I care for you, my special Jans with the rainbow eyes. It showed how much I care for you, Val, my generous golf instructor and friend. And it showed how much I care for you, B, my soulmate!
I cooked.
I care.

The post Cook with Care! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Gillian came into steam bath, her limp and slightly spastic left hand were clearly evident. Here was someone like me. She was wearing a blue baseball cap which covered her shaved head. It’s odd but I like shaved heads on some women. Those with beautiful facial bone structure actually look stunning. This woman’s prominent cheekbones and large grey eyes made the shaved head beautiful. But I got the impression that this woman’s “scalp” was not a thing of choice. I wondered what had happened to her. Another motor car accident, I thought. Perhaps the blue cap hid surgical wounds like I had had. I smiled at her and the answering smile was broad and light. She had deep eyes that indeed seemed to dance.
“I’m deaf,” I said, “so I’m not all that good at conversations in here. I am without my Cochlear Implants. Would it be alright if I hold you under your chin? That enables me to pick up your vocal vibrations and I can tell what you are saying.”
“Yeah, sure,” she said. “I know who you are, Gaynor. I often see you in the gym.” She introduced herself and we chatted together. I was amazed to discover that she had a deaf sister who had married a deaf man and they has two hearing children. Glory be, what a coincidence!
“You are so like me,” I said emboldened by our conversation, “You limp and your hand is slightly spastic. What happened? Was it a car accident?”
“I wish,” she said, getting up to sprinkle some water in the furnace. Sitting down she said: “I have Cancer of the colon. I have been for five courses of chemotherapy and the chemo has killed off certain nerves which results in my limp and this hand that can do very little.”
Why? I wanted to shout at God. Why, dear All Powerful Lord, do you allow such a thing to occur? But there never is an answer to a question such as that, is there?
Later I was thinking of Gillian and this amazing gift of life that is entrusted to us all. This life of ours is so fragile. It is an inconceivably precious thing. Too often I tend to forget the value of each day and simply “schlomff” through life. That must stop! We must nurture life. I have found that the more one gives in life, so much is returned in countless different ways.
A wonderful example of receiving as a result of giving is Thembalethu. This is nothing to do with the ‘location’ named Thembalethu in George where I live, but is an incredible initiative situated in Addo, in the Eastern Cape of South Africa.
Here, the members of three churches decided to collaborate their outreach programs to give hope to the impoverished and those in need. They were faced with a community that was battling severely with poverty, more than 50% of them were HIV positive, drug abuse and alcoholism was rife. Unwilling to be deterred by these factors, they established Thembalethu Aids and Edu Trust.
They take care of Aids victims in so many different ways. The Trust is involved in home visits, they give advice on nutrition, provide counselling and spiritual support. Bedridden patients are given much needed transport to the local clinic. In the past, patients were either traveling to the clinic in a wheelbarrow, or on a relative’s back! Because of this Aids support group, these people are now feeling empowered. They acknowledge that they are responsibility for themselves and their future.
A care program has also been established that helps orphans, vulnerable and disabled children appreciate their self worth and become productive members of society. Children are provided with pre-schooling, counselling, medical assistance, food, shelter, school uniforms, clothing, the list goes on and on!
My heart smiles at this. Thembalethu has provided musical instruments and a music teacher for a youth band. The aim of the band is to teach the community about Aids Prevention through music. That is the right approach to take with the youth. Teach them with something that they are passionate about – music!
The people behind Thembalethu Aids and Edu Trust are Givers. But in giving, I believe that they get so much back. A glistening smile from a child kitted out in their new school uniform, being enfolded by little arms in a hug, a half whispered ‘thank you’ from a hospital bed. The knowledge that they are making a difference.
Thembalethu means “our hope”.
And so, my “thembalethu” for you in 2015, is that your opportunities to give be countless.
May you live life!

.

If you would like to learn more about the work of the Thembalethu Aids & Edu Trust watch this short video by clicking HERE!

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“Bible Study” is an inappropriate name for the weekly meetings I attend. That term somehow seems to suggest a serious theological survey of the Bible. “Bible Study” implies that we are comprehending, studying and learning about the meaning and mysteries contained within each and every one of those many pages!
Well, yes, at our weekly meetings we do attempt to do all that, but we do more. Oh, so much more! We laugh, we argue and disagree, we joke and rag each other, we cry, we marvel at the workings of God and Christ.
Basically, we have an unadulterated fun and rich time together!
I have always asked questions, a lot of questions. You can imagine what happens when I am confronted by a book like the Bible. The questions seem to flow out of me ceaselessly. “But….. But…… Buttttttttt….” I have a great faith, don’t get me wrong. It is just that the more I discover, the more questions there seem to be! Why is that? Glory, there I go again with another question! Our Bible Study group has simply accepted that Gaynor and questions are irrevocably entwined!
There are about ten of us in our group. Yes, we can all fit into my lounge but it is a real squash. So we have delightfully accepted Mum’s kind offer of her beautiful lounge for our meetings. Our Bible Study is made up of single women. They have either been widowed, divorced or as in myself and one other case, we have never asked anyone to marry us – yet!
Everyone is completely different in their background and their age. Because of our differences we each bring a divergent perspective to discussions. Things that had played no part whatsoever in my life are suddenly made very immediate and real to me. As a result, everyone’s horizons are broadened and enriched. Gentle laugh – what we do have in common is a complete belief and love of God and Christ!
In life one tends to stay within ones own peer group. One misses out and lacks understanding about many things because one has never had to confront them. One never has to face the problems others have to face. Losing jobs, worrying about money, having a roof over ones head, health issues, being alone……All these problems are suddenly bought home to each and every one of us. We share our problems, our joys, our questions, our failures and our triumphs. Together we are strengthened, appreciating God’s all knowing and ever protective love!
A year ago, I had a ‘disagreement’ with two dogs and the results were debilitating, to say the least! My right hand was put in plaster for six weeks. My left hand had to be operated on twice and was also wrapped in bandages for 8 weeks. I moved in with Mum and was totally dependent on her. She had to bath me, feed me, brush my hair, put on my moisturiser…etc, etc and damned well etc!
“What would I do if Mum were dead?” I asked my BS friends. “I would have to get on a bus and shoot down to my sister in Cape Town. And Liz has three young children who need all her attention, as it is. I’m…I’m just so grateful for the fact that Mum is here.”
I was very close to tears. Betty spoke up. “You most certainly would not go down to Cape Town,” she said, “We would look after you.”
“No, you don’t understand, Betts! Mum does everything for me. I can’t do a thing.”
“Gaynor, what do you think my job is?” gentle Marion asked. “I am a Carer. I do exactly what your Mother is doing for you. I ‘care’ for people.”
“We would do your shopping for you,” said Sharon “and take it in turns popping in to make sure you’re alright. I see that you are using certain fingers. That’s great!” She was right. I was managing to use certain fingers of my left hand that were poking through the bandages.
“It’s just a few more weeks and then you’ll be able to give people the finger once more!” joked Heather saluting me with the rude third finger in the air. “Sorry, Sharon, sorry, oh, Bible Study leader, sorry, sorry, sorry!”
As we laughed I looked at all of the faces folding with mirth before me. And I thank God for them. Recently I found this piece on the Bible written by Henry van Dyke.care,

It summed it up so aptly…..

“Born in the East and clothed in Oriental form and imagery, the Bible walks the ways of all the world with familiar feet, and enters land after land to find its own everywhere. It has learned to speak in hundreds of languages to the heart of man. It comes into the palace to tell the monarch that he is a servant of the Most High, and into the cottage to assure the peasant that he is a son of God. Children listen to its stories with wonder and delight, and wise men ponder them as parables of life. It has a word of peace for the time of peril, a word of comfort for the time of calamity, a word of light for the hour of darkness. Its oracles are repeated in the assembly of the people, and its counsels whispered in the ear of the lonely. The wicked and the proud tremble at its warnings, but to the wounded and the penitent it has a mother’s voice. The wilderness and the solitary place have been made glad by it, and the fire on the hearth has lit the reading of its well-worn pages. It has woven itself into our dearest dreams; so that love, friendship, sympathy and devotion, memory and hope put on the beautiful garments of its treasured speech, breathing of frankincense and myrrh.”

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