Experiment
done woodwork in high school it takes a number of conversations with sales representatives to get the right table top, some makeshift table legs, primer and paint. Getting the three table tops into hatchback is a fairly scuffless task when there are additional hands doing the work. When attempting
unload, things prove significantly trickier.
The vehicle suffers minor damage when miscalculated angles lead wood bruising upholstery. Trying hoist a cumbersome 2m plank out
car with just one pair of hands is exponentially more difficult. After transferring the haul to the backyard, the afternoon is spent getting carried away drizzling white paint on to the wood in blobs and drips.
Friday May 13: I go to my happy place, the grocery store. It’s right up there with the beach and bed. The produce is fresh with a glistening sheen of moisture. It’s an invitation to start juicing — promptly.
The staff and I have become familiar to the extent that they’ll go out of their way to fetch fresher, leafier vegetables from the back for me. Or point out specials I’ve missed.
Saturday May 14, aka #OneMoreSleep: The pastry chef arrives with a purple, recyclable shopping bag. In it, among other things: a knife of the vegan revolution in Israel; the new, intriguing vegan artisanal food movement, including fermented and age-matured vegan cheeses.
But readers expect reviews of the latest places, chefs and trending foods, and I’ve largely exiled myself from that world. My inbox is full of set rolled in a sleek black bag; a rolling pin because floured wine bottles, which suffice in our kitchen, just won’t do; a metal icing spatula to spread the homemade toffee on to the date pudding; and a sharpening steel, which leaves me giddy with excitement as I learn and apply the technique to my knives.
Growing up we used to have a rock that lived in the kitchen, which carried out the job with similar efficiency.
We enjoy a lemony chicken stew, tossing the leftover peels into the pot after the zest required for the lemon curd has been grated off. Then we peel, chop, cube and slice while my guy and I learn terms like mirepoix and paysanne — things that separate chefs from home cooks.
An elegant red in long-stemmed glasses accompanies the conversation, which sways from hip-hop and ballet to the virtue of single-sex schools. With the samp and beans soaking, the ice cream setting in the freezer and the mutton defrosting, we crash just before midnight.
Sunday May 15, aka #NoMoreSleeps: The alarm goes off at 6am. Switching the kettle on and steeping the flavoured teabag happens in a post-waking, pre-functional blur. On to the stove goes the samp and beans pot, a sturdy stainless-steel beauty given to me by my mother.
Meanwhile, my guy works on the coal fire for the potjie. Between tidying up and setting up, the playlist shuffles between Beyoncé, Chance the Rapper and The Roots.
God has given us the gift of sunshine, which is usually sporadic at this time of year in Cape Town. Guests arrive closer to 2pm t han the one o’clock starting time. They’re welcomed with our signature ginger beer with a cinnamon or cayenne twist.
Then come the starters amid the conversation and connecting. Catalysed by food created as a labour of love, dialogue fluctuates between blessers and Boity’s new bae. Cue mains. Then it’s the sex positions that register on the Richter versus the ones that result in a flaccid phallus. Enter dessert. Long after our doors have officially closed guests remain in animated laughter, in gasps of shock and disagreements. And eventually, with Monday beckoning, goodbyes are said with requests to be on the list again next time.