by Nancy Pirri
Hendrik sighed. “If she thinks that, then why did she marry me?”
“Why a turkey? What’s wrong with chicken? We always serve cold chicken.”
“It’s her tradition, Ma.”
Susanna scoffed. “That’s what you get for marrying an Englishwoman. You know how Pa feels about the enemy.”
Hendrik sighed again, letting out a longer breath this time. “The war’s long over.”
“And the youth forget easily.” Susanna wiped her palms on her long skirt and started churning again. “Your grandfather died for the land you stand on. I followed my mother barefoot over the mountain, fleeing in front of the Rednecks. I could have died, and then, where would you have been? Never born. And now a turkey for Christmas.”
Hendrik was an obedient son who avoided conflict, especially with his mother, so he stayed put, as he hadn’t yet been dismissed. The young man’s feet itched, though. He could almost see the gears turning in Susanna’s mind as she searched for a different tactic.
“Where are you going to get this turkey from? The closest thing to a turkey around here is an ostrich.”
“A guineafoul is probably closer.” They hunted them often for his mother. Because he was a big man with a healthy appetite, he licked his lips, thinking about her bird pot with celery, prunes and dried peaches. “Giepie will bring the turkey with the mail from Cape Town.”
Giepie was their trusted mail cart driver.
“In this heat? The bird will die from dehydration on the wrong side of the mountain.”
Everything beyond the Grayton border was ‘on the wrong side of the mountain’, which may as well have been Sodom and Gomorrah in Susanna’s book. Hendrik, who had never disrespected his mother, realized his wife, Pollie, was right. It was time to be a man. He had his own house now, after all, which meant he had to act like the head of a family.
“Sin and nothing else, all the way from there to Cape Town,” Susanna continued, her head following the round path of the churn handle.
Hendrik’s left eye twitched. Susanna should have noticed, but she was too busy listing Pollie’s shortcomings in her mind, including that she was from that godforsaken city.
“A turkey.” She pulled up her nose. “Not on my table. You’ll have to set it on Santjie’s end.”
Santjie was not a good cook, and sending the turkey to the townswoman’s side of the table was as big an insult as Susanna could deliver.
“Listen, Ma, Pollie is going to cook her turkey for Christmas, and that’s that.”
He turned and just for good measure kicked up some dust as he stomped to the sheep kraal. Pa Dirk’s dusting of the earth always put a stopper in Ma’s complaints. It didn’t work for Hendrik, because his mother’s voice chased after him.
“Don’t expect me to eat any of that English traitor turkey!”
* * * *
The whole thing started going wrong when the schooled editor from Stellenbosch with his fancy words decided to print Grayton’s Christmas recipes in his newspaper. Minister dominee Squint Eye du Preez, so called for his unfortunate strabismus, blamed everything that happened the Christmas of 1910 on the owner of the only press between this side of the mountain and Cape Town. If he hadn’t caught the Protestant dominee, the town’s only minister, off guard, his flock wouldn’t have submitted to temptation, and sin. But according to Dominee it all happened so innocently.
The church hall was a commotion of animated discussion. Dominee tried his best to restore order, but his voice was lost as everyone spoke at the same time.
“Silence!” Dirk bellowed. When the mumbling quieted down, Dominee shot Susanna’s husband a grateful look. Dirk pushed out his chest and twisted his moustache. “Let Dominee speak.”
“What exactly did he say?” Gertjie, Susanna’s neighbor, said.
“He said he’d be here to judge the food, and to write critique on each dish.”
“What does he look like?” someone shouted from the back.
“What does it matter what he looks like?” Dirk grumbled.
“Wait!” Susanna said. “I want to hear. What does the man look like?”
“Well,” Dominee pulled at his suspenders, “he has red hair and freckles, and he’s tall and lean.”
“That’s it!” Susanna said. “He’s a difficult man. Red hair, fiery temperament. If he’s thin, he must be unhappy and disgruntled. How do we know he’s going to write the truth?”
“Does that mean he’s going to eat everything?” the blacksmith said.
“He’s going to take your votes into account, but his decision is final.” The town dominee didn’t feel altogether good about this, but it was too late now, since he couldn’t think up an excuse when the imposter had faced him in the vestry. “The winner gets the prize money, but the top ten recipes will be printed in the Herald.”
“Good,” Gertjie said. She looked at Susanna. “It’s about time we have an impartial opinion in this town. And fair is fair. The best woman will win.”
A murmur of approval waved through the small crowd.
“This will make Grayton famous,” Marthinus offered.
“The headline will read,” Dominee cleared his throat and glanced at the paper in his hand, “Grayton Annual Christmas Food Festival.”
“But that’s not what it is,” Susanna protested. “It’s a religious event.”
“No harm in bringing business to town,” the butcher said.
The miller hummed his agreement. “’Bout time we were put on the map.”
“Each family will have a number, which you have to display with your dish,” Dominee explained. “No names. That way Mr. Harris will conduct the tasting fair and square.” He paused for effect. “And the surprise is that Mr. Harris has organized a photographer to take a group photo for his article.”
The hall erupted in excited chatter again. A photographer had never been seen in the district of Grayton.
“If you ask me, that apparatus is a thing from the devil,” Susanna said.
“Now, now,” Dominee gave her a wavering smile, “God blessed us with technology too.”
* * * *
The ill feelings between Gertjie Basson and Susanna escalated to a new height the day Dominee told them about the Christmas supper contest. In Gertjie’s heart, she knew the root of the problem was Susanna’s competitiveness. Gertjie blamed everything that happened the Christmas of 1910 on Susanna.
A week after the Herald editor had dropped the bucket and spilled the milk, the women gathered after the Sunday church service to talk about the Christmas supper.
“Gertjie says your Pollie is going to cook us a turkey,” Jakoba said. “Never had no turkey.”
Susanna looked around. Gertjie was still talking to Dominee, who stood quietly, listening with his head cocked, but in reality desperately wanted to escape.
“I wouldn’t trust a woman with a man’s name if I were you.” Susanna sniffed. “What on earth went through her mother’s head to call her Gertjie?”
“Only child. They always wanted her to be a boy,” Jakoba said. “I’ve heard that stuffed turkey is won-derrrr-ful.” She rolled her ‘r’, reminding everyone of her Capetonian descent.
Susanna snorted. “Says who?”
“Why, the queen of England eats it for Christmas. Comes with all sorts of things in the inside. Raisins and bread and port and liver.”
Susanna’s concern was piqued. If there was one thing she knew, it was blending, and those ingredients sounded dangerously compatible.
Jakoba glanced over Susanna’s shoulder. “Where’s your Pollie, anyway?”
Susanna’s face turned red. Not to show up for a Sunday service was one of the worst sins in her mind. If Pollie didn’t want to put her Anglican shoes in their humble Protestant church, she shouldn’t have married a devoted Calvinist. And to keep Hendrik from the service, too, was unforgiveable.
“She’s not my Pollie,” Susanna said loudly. “Now, about the Christmas supper, who’s doing what?”
Susanna pinned the younger woman with a stare. “I do the potjie every year.”
“But not a curry pot.”
“One potjie is more than enough. What we don’t have is dessert.”
Nettie crossed her arms. “Fine. I’ll bring malva pudding and a curry pot.”
“You can’t do both,” Susanna said, even redder in the face than before.
“Why not? Pollie’s bringing a Christmas pudding.”
“What’s a Christmas pudding?” Jakoba said.
“Some date and fruit thing with custard,” Jakoba said. “Had it once in Wellington at the mayor’s house, and it’s rrrreally good.”
Susanna’s back went rigid. “Magdalena always brings a fruit cake. No need for an English fruit cake.”
“But it’s not the same, is it? Besides, Magdalena pours too much brandy over her fruit cake,” someone else complained.
Gertjie came walking up to them, her smile as thick as golden syrup.
“What did you talk about with poor Dominee for so long?” Susanna said with narrowed eyes.
“Oh,” Gertjie swayed her hips from side to side, “I baked him buttermilk rusks. A man living alone can’t eat well.” She paused. “Is it true that Pollie’s making a turkey?”
“And a Christmas pudding,” Jakoba said.
“I’ve heard many things about turkeys that time Marthinus took me to Cape Town,” Gertjie mused. “It’s the latest fashion. Some say it’s too dry. Others say that with the right filling there’s nothing better on earth. And I suppose if it’s good enough for the queen... Just in case, I’m going to dolly up my pork on the spit this year.”
“What are you planning?” Jakoba said.
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
Susanna wasn’t going to give up just like that. “You talked a long time with Dominee. What is such a big secret that it can’t be said in front of us? You know what they say about whispering.”
“No,” Gertjie said sarcastically. “What?”
“Soft talk is the devil’s talk.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Susanna. We discussed the area for the spit. Since this year’s pig is huge, we agreed a bigger fire is needed, by the waterhole.”
Susanna got to her feet too quickly, locking her back in a painful position. “That’s my spot.”
“You don’t need a big space for a potjie,” Gertjie said sweetly. Before Susanna could utter another word, Gertjie turned and strode away, her yellow hessian skirt brushing the ground.
If Susanna could move, she would have gone after the woman and given her a flat hand on the head. She could only press her fist in her side and groan.
“Jakoba, go call Dirk. Quickly. I think I sprained my back.”
* * * *
A combination of factors and personality traits contributed to shape the unfortunate incident. It was impossible to blame a single person or isolated event for what happened the Christmas of 1910 in Grayton.
As habitual, the one hundred inhabitants of the village and surrounding farms would gather in the town’s only church on Christmas morning for a long service delivered by minister dominee Skeeloog de Preez. The solemn sermon was followed by camping, equally subdued, since it was a sin to light a cooking fire, take a whip to an ox, or hear a child’s laugh echo down the dirt road on a religious day.
The town was a jewel, hidden in the Overberg Mountains, and therefore undiscovered and underdeveloped, which the inhabitants favored. None of them was to foresee the sudden boom the town would undergo seven decades later when motorized transport made it more accessible, its serene setting and unequalled nature attracting artists from around the globe, which in turn caused property prices to shoot through the roof. But in the year of 1910, the town was small and tranquil. A few stone houses lined the only street, which was dominated by the simple church. Anything elaborate or decorative in design was a sin in the eyes of the Calvinistic community, who condemned materialism. They did appreciate the natural beauty of the green valley, the blue iron rock peaks of the mountains, and the broad Sonderend River (literally meaning river without end) that made their valley fertile. Hence, it was no punishment for folks to abstain from work on Christmas Day, when they could lie in the meadow and smell summer brewing in the warm air.
On the twenty-sixth of December, Boxing Day, however, the townsfolk and farmers would break into a scurry of fervent activity to prepare a community Christmas supper. Children could not go off to play until they had collected firewood and water for the cooking pots. Women rose before the birds to knead dough for vetkoek and white bread, while the men assembled the long tables and benches by the river. Occasionally, the adult male population tasted the mampoer to ensure the sixty-four percent alcohol brewed from peaches or apricots had exactly the right bite. Fanie Boep’s brew wasn’t called ‘Barbed Wire’ for nothing. It could hook a man and rip a hole in his liver.
People came from high and low. Farmers who lived too far away to attend more than a wedding, baptism, or the monthly communion, packed to set up lager for a week. As the weather was hot and the season dry, no tents were needed. Families who trekked to town with their ox wagons and horses slept in the open. The few people who lived in the village supplied the customary homemade ginger beer, lemonade and Pinotage from Franschhoek as tokens of their hospitality, while the farmers brought lambs and ostriches for slaughter.
Each family contributed to the communal table. The meal provided would attest to the donor’s material wealth, but more importantly, to his God given riches. Dominee always said, “Prosperous is a man whose wife works diligently with her talents.” This was the time when the women showed their worth. Ostrich steaks seared on a hardwood barbecue fire (the meat took on the flavor of the wood, thus the choice of wood for the fire was of the utmost importance) with wild red berry sauce and sour cream. Root vegetables baked with garlic and green onions in the clay oven. Kudu liver wrapped in caul fat and grilled over Acacia wood coals, oxtail stewed for hours with fatback, rosemary, thyme and cloves, rusks as white and brittle as snow, malva pudding soft as a honeycomb drenched in caramelized sugar-butter... People talked for months after about the event.
Because of the good women of Grayton’s prosperous talents, news of the feast menu travelled as far as Stellenbosch, where the editor of the Cape Herald decided to collect the ten best Grayton recipes for a special Christmas edition. The news caused excitement and consternation in town and on surrounding farms. What to cook? What to bake? A tried and trusted dish or a new innovation? A variation of a flop-free theme, maybe?
The women turned to their great grandmother’s recipes, laced with secret ingredients. If there was one thing Susanna van der Merwe was good at, it was cooking. God had not given her Santjie’s golden hair, or Miena’s milk white skin, but he had blessed her with the talent of fusion and blending, mixing and paring. She knew her Dirk was the envy of everyone. What good did Santjie’s beauty do if her Willem never enjoyed tomato stew with meat that fell of the bone, or marrow roasted on pot bread? Because Susanna didn’t want a selfish finger pointed at her, she shared her treasures freely.
“What wonderful koeksisters,” Miena exclaimed. “You have to give me the recipe.”
Susanna’s koeksisters were a golden color, shiny with syrup. They were crunchy on the outside, and soft on the inside, not an easy result to achieve with fried desserts. It all depended on the temperature of the oil. Too hot and the crust scorched to a bitter brown. Too cold and the braided dough absorbed oil, the center turning stringy. When Susanna’s koeksisters were bitten into, a subtle mix of cinnamon and lemon could be tasted in the syrup. It could make a grown man close his eyes, groan, and lick his fingers, one by one.
“Easy as pie,” Susanna said, continuing to explain the preparation of the dough and syrup, but leaving out the cream of tartar.
Miena never understood why her sugar crystalized. “It’s your golden
hands,” she said to Susanna with envy.
Santjie winked. “My son loves your upside-down apple pie, Susanna. I’d like to bake him one when he comes to visit.”
“Oh,” Susanna wiped the crumbs from her apron, “it’s no big secret.” So she recited the recipe, minus the eggs.
Santjie had to throw the flat, sticky caramel that knotted her false teeth into the garbage can.
“What will we do without you?” the women on the church bazaar committee said, and Susanna knew it was true.
Except for Gertjie’s pork crackling and glazed ham. Gertjie’s husband was a pig farmer, and she could work wonders with pork. Her pig on the spit with the rum and raisin basting had caused an uproar the year before, almost as much as Susanna’s game potjie. She had to be careful this year, Susanna reckoned, or Gertjie would snipe the first place and prize money from under her nose.
It was all Pollie’s fault. If Gertjie didn’t feel so threatened by the queen’s turkey, she wouldn’t have invested in a new recipe. She would have prepared the pig on the spit like the previous year, and Susanna would have known what she was up against. Now, because of Pollie and the English queen with her turkey, she had no idea what to expect. Already Janneman, who she had sent over the mountain to spy on Gertjie’s yard, had reported that a piglet fattened on cream and sorghum were already so round around the ribs, he couldn’t see the head from the curly tail backside.
This year, Susanna was going to have to pull out all the stops for her game pot. She needed wild mushrooms, from the foot of the mountain on the Caledon side. If only Pollie wasn’t a useless English woman who believed in having a job rather than managing her home like God meant her to, she’d sent her to walk the treacherous trail Susanna’s legs could no longer conquer. The mushrooms were fragile, and a man’s fingers too uncultured to bring them back unbruised.
* * * *
Dirk pulled the horse cart up to the town house where Hendrik and Pollie lived. It still irked Susanna that Pollie was too good for the farm. Had to have a fancy house in town.
