TASTES THAT BIND
When life is very complicated, Sam Woulidge goes back to basics with a simple, nostalgic meal to comfort and lift the spirits
Sam Woulidge shares the simple curried mince recipe she makes for her family in the most trying times.
“And to Max, who with his soft ears and Labrador love, fills an aching part of my heart in a way that neither words nor food ever could,” is how I once thanked the dog I love most in the world in my book Confessions of a Hungry Woman. And now my son rubs those same soft ears and whispers words of comfort to this most loyal friend of ours, telling him not to be afraid of dying, “because Grandpa Ron will be waiting for you and he will be so glad to see you and he will say to you ‘Hallo my baby’.” Max has lymphoma. And the world is in crisis. It is the COVID-19 pandemic and we are in lockdown.
People all over the world are dying and in South Africa many are starving and losing everything. My friends are working the COVID wards and my husband is preparing to do the same. And I weep for them. But my dog is dying. And I weep for him, too. I weep and seek solace in food. I long for curried mince, or rather kerriemince, the most unpretentious of all curries. The one without intricate flavours, also known as basaarkerrie because it is usually served at church bazaars with rice in a styrofoam bakkie. The one made with Rajah curry powder and small cubes of potatoes and frozen peas. It’s not fancy food. It’s food for hunkering down as a family. It isn’t served with sambals and other accompaniments. It just is. It is enough.
I make this curry because it’s the one my ma used to make. And I need to feel close to her. Marie encouraged me to get Max when what I wanted most in the world was a child. My dad had given her a Labrador, Butch, before I was born and when he died 12 years later, she was inconsolable. “No one will ever know what that dog meant to me,” she wailed, pushing us away. But now I do know and I fear what lies ahead. We don’t know how long we will have together; we won’t allow Max to suffer. He gets to eat what he wants (Woolies bran rusks, thank you very much). And he sleeps a lot. But his tail wags when he sees us and he still wants to lie next to his chocolate companion, Truffle. Since level 4, we have taken him for slow walks, and I pretend not to notice how Jacques’ glasses fog up from his tears and the obligatory mask, and I cry each time our friends stop and ask how he is. “Boss Dog,” Seb reassures him, stroking his still shiny coat. I call this precious time The Gentle Goodbye. We are grateful that we have it; that time seems suspended.
As I make the curry mince my thoughts drift to a place that makes one as good as my ma’s. At the Eastern Bazaar near the Grand Parade, you stand in line to collect food in takeaway containers and eat at communal tables. My most memorable meal there was the night Jacques got his specialist degree. The place was crowded with families, and recently capped specialists and professors who had walked over from Cape Town City Hall in their togas to wait in line to eat the flavours of their childhood by way of celebration. And my throat closes up at the joyous memory and the ease with which we all jostled, laughed and shared food. I think of those doctors working the frontline of this pandemic, of the cooks who prepared the food, and those from other parts of Africa who cleared the tables, of the families who were there that night, and I wonder how they all are.
It’s all too much. I need to narrow it down for a few hours: this house, this family, this dog, this meal. Mince, onion, curry powder, potatoes, peas. Keep it simple. Because when you’re at risk of losing so much, you realise what is truly important. There was too much noise before, too much distraction, too many flavours. I just need to focus on the basics. To honour what matters; things Max exemplifies. Compassion. Loyalty. Love.
It’s enough. I have enough.
It’s not fancy food. It’s for hunkering down as a family”