Fabulous Friends, Food And Frivolous Fun

That was exactly how my weekend started. We’re born into families; some are single-parent, adoptive, or traditional. We can't choose them; friends are the people we choose along the way. They intrigue and fascinate us, and we have something in common with them. It might be the child you sit next to in the classroom; later it's the Mum you meet at your child's nursery school or at the dentist’s. If you’re lucky, you’ll remain friends forever. Friends inspire, motivate, teach, guide, and love us undeservedly. Their presence makes us feel appreciated and connected.

On Friday, we celebrated Sarine’s 88th birthday. She lives in her beautiful, large, thatched home, surrounded by her photographs in old frames. Her cups are all vintage English china, covered in flowers and painted yellow, pink and mauve. On the half-moon ball-and-claw table in the entrance hall, there are always fresh-cut flowers and a hat or two on the hat stand. The unmistakable creak of the hardwood floors and the smell of floor polish (Sunbeam) never change. Sanderson linen, velvets, starched table napkins, and faded dark green wall-to-wall carpets have all stood the test of time. Her ancient Venetian blinds are always tilted just so, keeping the house cool and a shade darker. It’s peaceful.

Her name says it all. She’s serene in every sense of the word. Calm, patient, and quiet. Her skin is soft and gossamer, with veins running blue and true. Always well-groomed, her thick hair glossy, brushed through at least 100 times. On Friday, she wore her favourite red shoes and cardigan, and her lips were Dior red. Ask her how she is. It is always: "I'm fine, I have nothing to complain about!" I am her "girlie".

34 years ago, I met my new neighbours, one on the left and the other on the right. Martha and I were pregnant; Sarine had just recovered from a horrific bout of chemotherapy and radiation therapy following a mastectomy. Her children were all but grown up, and her “laat lammetjie” (youngest) was finishing high school.

My children adored the Kochs. They were the 'hands-on grandparents' who loved them, cleaned them, fed them and played with them. They taught them to mow the lawn and to ride on the bumper of a Volksie (Beetle). Bubbles (an ex-Springbok rugby player) taught them his beloved game. With his bandy legs, he taught my children to ride their bicycles; he allowed them to shoot air guns and slingshots and told them stories about Jock of the Bushveld and fishing on the Plaat. In their garden, my children were free to run, hide-and-seek, and roll around in the lawn clippings. They made tunnels through the hedge to visit the neighbours, pinch loquats and apricots, and scoop up pecans. When they got cuts or scrapes, they ran to Tannie (aunty) Bubbles’ house for a kiss and a plaster. These stories are treasured memories that connect us all.

Later, Esmè arrived with her three boys; our corner was complete, and it stayed that way for more than a decade. Circumstances changed, but we remained friends, and when we have something to celebrate, we’ll do it together. They’ve been my anchor when times have been hard. When I’ve wept, they’ve mopped up my tears and made me laugh. They remember my children’s birthdays and highlights, and they enthusiastically catch up on the latest news. These women have been my Marthas.

They’re loyal and steadfast, and I don’t deserve them. They’re the salt of my earth, making my world a much richer place. These women were there when I came home with an afro like Jimi Hendrix's, when my children all had head lice, when I had to push-start the car, when the Jack Russell bit someone, and when Joe drove the brand-new car into the wall for the second time. They hugged me when Timmy went off to boarding school, and I cried. They were there again and again in the years that followed.

And so, it was once again a delight to get together, to catch up, to laugh and reminisce, to rehash old stories, and to make new memories. The three of us younger ones are blessed to have Sarine in our lives; she is a great example of growing older gracefully and of accepting circumstances beyond her control. She lives a simple yet rich life, surrounded by her children, who love her, and her grandchildren, who adore her.

Occasionally, I see her driving to the village to do her shopping; the car guard has fallen for her charms too and will protect her Honda with his life. With a spring in her step, she faces each day with a positive spirit, learning new things and keeping up with our demanding, ever-evolving technical world. The four of us were dubbed the “vrot kol” (rotten patch) by a man of the cloth (a story for another day); I prefer to think of us as the Fabulous Four.

A new Tapas restaurant opened a year or so ago on a hill overlooking the Worcester Valley in Nuy. So we went to Nuy On The Hill on Friday for lunch. It was very nicely decorated. A large space with a huge fire in winter. An enclosed veranda overlooking our beautiful mountains, vineyards and Worcester in the distance. We decided to sit there. It was a typical spring day, a 4-seasons-in-a-day kind of day. I wish I’d had my camera there to capture the sun on the mountains, then the clouds rolling in, eventually the storm clouds covering them, and then the rain cooling things down.

We all decided on burgers: mine was a Banting burger, Martha had a huge regular burger, and Sarine and Esmè treated themselves to a burger with lashings of curry sauce. Our boards looked fabulous, and the homemade patties were delicious. Here was comfort food that looked good and tasted delicious. Pizzas, it seems, are what other guests rave about; I’m sure they’ll be divine too, and there’s a Banting option as well. It’s encouraging to see that eateries are accommodating patrons with alternative dietary preferences. Well done, Nuy On The Hill.

I never, ever go out without lipstick. I wish I didn’t set such high expectations, especially as I get older and less inclined to get all dressed up, preferring to go au naturel. For one, my mother would be distraught. Unfortunately, all this nonsense started when I was a teenager. I thought it was hot to wear make-up. Later, I had no option, as I had to look the part in the fashion industry, and I thought it was cool. My naked reflection in the mirror will always motivate me to put on the creams, unless I’m in the bush (without a mirror) with a hat on my head. Then I feel liberated and carefree.

Saturday was not a day to open my dressing-table drawer and find it empty. But it was. I searched high and low, in my weekend bag and handbag. I even upended all the drawers and shelves in the bathroom. Hot flushes shot through the top of my head. Murphy’s Law. It was my class reunion. A class with some of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. Sexy, smart, thin, gorgeous and ever-young, they are. They’re the Class of ’74. Not the occasion for au natural, I’m afraid.

I had forgotten to pack my pink make-up bag. Back into the drawer I went. Do remember that this is our holiday cottage. It’s minimalist. The drawers are virtually empty. That’s how I like them. On Saturday, I could’ve kicked myself. Fortunately, the gods were on my side. There was an old compact with a few pieces of crumbly blusher, and another two-tone compact with a smidge of eyeshadow, which I applied using a small wad of cotton wool. I did a lot of dabbing and toning with my index finger.

I had to scrounge around the guest bedroom, and there, stuck in the back of a drawer, I found a dried-up mascara. Under the tap, I ran the applicator, and with much rubbing backwards and forwards, I managed a few browns and gloppy lashes. Not my finest hour.

Avontuur. Manicured lawns, white picket fences, stables and racehorses were my destination. A vineyard, cellar and restaurant I’d never visited before. The reason? Might you wonder? Because of my most embarrassing moment and a 30th birthday party 3 decades ago. My then-husband was there, all blue eyes and looking like Mel Gibson. He, the shameless flirt, was having it off with Miss Legs (they owned Avontuur then) at the swimming pool.

So, while I was slaving away in the kitchen plating beautiful seafood, he was trying his hand at some racy legs. I had to get my back and found the opportunity while they were gazing at each other, sipping champagne. I gathered my skirts and apron and flew down the manicured, contoured lawns at top speed, intent on giving him the nudge that would send him flying into the pool to cool down.

I had one step to go. My hand outstretched, ready. And then he side-stepped closer to ML. While they cooed and whispered sweet nothings, I went flying into the cold water. To my rescue came the hostess with a towel and dry clothes; she was the only person to see the spectacle. He was oblivious. With my tail between my dripping legs, I had to get back to the kitchen to serve dessert. Always ended up being the village idiot.

But I was here for a class reunion with the class of ’74—the infamous class who have managed to stay friends. There were 14 of us, each with more to say than 100 people. It was non-stop laughter and chitter-chatter. Like a swarm of weavers, we chirruped all afternoon. They’re all still beautiful, clever, creative and full of joie de vivre. I couldn’t have asked for better classmates. We missed you, Ron, Cia, Tracy, Wendy, Ingrid and all the other girls who couldn’t make it. Janine, you’re a star for making the effort to be here. You’re all an inspiration. You’ve achieved so much and have remained true to yourselves. I look forward to seeing you all again next year.

The reunion was what we went to Avontuur for. The meal was a secondary consideration, and the server had a hard time getting us to place our orders. Many chose fish and chips; a few had quiche and salad; and one or two of us had the roulade with salsa and vegetables. All the meals were beautifully presented and tasted fabulous. The flavours were subtle; my roulade was light, and the portion was just right. I thought the roulade was a little dry, but it didn’t spoil my meal at all. This is a popular lunch venue, as all the tables were reserved and patrons were enjoying their meals as the sun brightened and warmed during the afternoon. Someone recommended the Bread-and-Butter Pudding; I fell for it, of course. It was dreamy, creamy, rich and just perfect. It took me back to my boarding school days—the perfect touch on a perfect day.

The year is speeding up, weekend diaries are filling fast, and soon we’ll be planning other birthday celebrations and reunions. I’m happy I could join in, rekindle friendships and catch up in person. Nothing beats a good face-to-face confab.