Grandparents and Farming

My grandparents would have been elated by my semi feeble attempts at farming, or gardening what ever you choose to call it.

Sekuru vaTiki especially I think, perhaps I'm biased because I have the most vivid memories of him. But they were all agriculture gurus in their own right. I’m told of Sekuru "Kushinga"Chitehwe being a step far ahead of his contemporaries when it came to his farming practices. He was a local legend popularly known as Kushinga- denoting someone who preservers and is strong. He had groves of fruit trees, and gum tree plantations and grew sunflowers that grew bigger than the size of your head I’m told...or maybe they were smaller but I won’t challenge the memory of my mother who worked in those fields as a young girl.

The current urban farming phenomena/craze/fab was daily life to Sekuru Lambert decades before the rest of us caught on to it. I remember seeing his vegetable patch growing in suburban America. His few plants of money maker tomatoes fed us ravenous grandchildren all summer long. It was something quite special for me come to think of it. At the time, our family was based on the East Coast of the USA. Literally on the coast- our back yard overlooked an estuary of the Atlantic Ocean.The most we attempted to ever grow in our yard often got washed away by hurricanes or floods when the vast body of water away turned grey murky and angry.

But back to Sekuru vaTiki, he would be happy. You might say he had failing eye sight but he was on to something spectacular. He often commented on our landscaping choices, or in his opinion, lack off. Our decisions were clearly erroneous; why were we growing so much grass in the yard and not edible plants? He was onto something way before the new movement encouraging people grow food not lawns gained much publicity. I remember his alternative was that we get a little cow or goat if decided to keep all the grass, it would really help in keeping the lawns manicured. Sounded crazy at the time, then I saw the logic of his suggestion some years later in the center of Europe. The city fathers of said city arranged with the local farmers to let their sheep out onto the expansive park land of the city. So it was nothing short of normal to occasionally see sheep innocently manicuring the green lawn, one munch of grass at a time.

Failing eyesight aside he knew that our home was situated on fertile land. You didn’t need to tell Sekuru that the property was carved out of a former commercial farm in the colonial era of Rhodesia. Having been born and raised in rural Zimbabwe and a farmer himself in his own right. I’m quite sure he could see and taste that the land was fertile. Yes taste. That leads me to the story of beans.

There was a time in my memory of Zimbabwe when meat was beyond the reach of the average family household, our household included. But we never lacked protein. Even had surplus. It was a time Mother began to rare her own chickens, something that was a new experience for me. I refused to eat the chickens for a long time since I had seen them grow and had taken care of them, the thought of eating the animal upset me. In my young mind I thought eating them would be very unethical. I got over it at a rapidly, way before I discovered Michael Pollan and the ethics of eating food. It was almost a no-brainer because the only other alternative was beans on Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.  And every day after that that ended in a "y". 

Don’t get me wrong. I like beans. A lot actually.  But it was and still is the combination of limited culinary prowess and those butter bean that I found and still find distasteful. I doubt though that greater culinary capabilities will change my attitude to those beans.

But my Sekuru loved these beans. He said they tasted like meat, bhinzi dzenyama  he called them. Meaning meat beans. Which was a compliment since he really liked his meat.  And  good or even great tasting food as the world is slowly rediscovering is not just in praise of a good cook, but more so of the good farmer who cares for the food.

These beans started off as two or three little beans we had gotten form one of my adopted grandmothers. Like the mythical beans from Jack and The Beanstalk these things just grew, and grew, and grew and are still growing over ten years later. Nothing gets in their way, even when I purposefully forget to water them, the winter, or the hot October heat.  These beans were a saving grace and have fed almost all of our large extended family. I’ve eaten them way too many times, I do not enjoy them. So I’ve found an alternative growing different types of beans since my attempt at sabotage with the beans has never succeeded.

Besides the magic beans growing unattended, I’ve added and care for more intentionally new flavours and varieties of vegetables and legumes. The more conventional green leafy vegetables we find in our home gardens in Zimbabwe taken to another level, last year I experimented with different varieties and colours of broccoli and kale. So today all my grandfathers would have called me a good farmer with my harvest today of Swiss Chard, Sweet Peas, Lettuce, Beetroot, Red Cabbage and then the new and quasi exotic flavours I have picked up along the way of arugula/rocket and fennel.

So with this harvest I’ve done half the work, now to add some culinary prowess to make good food. New recipes, from near and far are always welcome. Especially for beetroot.  An iron rich staple in the garden as it grows all year. 

I adapted  this recipe  with the beetroots I had harvested.After a little hardwork, trial and error I had pillow soft bright pink gnocchi.

Gnocchi is best described as a Northern Italian dumpling like pasta. Most commonly made from potatoes and eggs. Lots of adaptions have been made and these pillow soft dumplings can be made out of most vegetables.

The final taste and the time put in creating these dumplings are a labour of love. Where I situated on a different part of the globe I might just have walked into the local pastificio (a pasta factory or shop)  and ordered X amount of gnocchi. But reality is that I am here on this end, and these gnocchi might taste better. So here you are a labour of love.

Beetroot Gnocchi

2 Cups Beetroot Puree*

1 teaspoon salt

2.5 cups plain flour (plus much more for dusting)

1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar

In your food processor or like I did, using my hand held mixer with the kneading attachments on; combine beetroot puree, black pepper, salt and vinegar.

Add in the flour, a cup at a time mixing until well combined. Dough should be soft and pliable to touch. Add in a bit more flour if the dough is too sticky and difficult to handle.  Separate the dough into eight equal portions.

If planning to cook gnocchi immediately prepare a large stock, ¾ full with salted water. Begin to boil the water.

Prepare your work surface by flouring the work surface.  Roll out one of the dough portions into a thick log of about 1.5 centimetres thick and 10-12 centimetres long. Using a sharp knife, cut small logs into 2.5 centimetres . Repeat with the other dough portions.

**If freezing gnocchi for use at later date place gnocchi onto parchment lined trays and place in freezer. When ready to cook; use gnocchi directly from the freezer  and cook without .**

Reduce the heat of water until the water is simmering. Add in about half the amount of gnocchi or less depending on the size of your stock pot. The gnocchi will sink to the bottom, but using a spoon carefully lift them off the bottom to prevent sticking.  When ready, about 6- 8 minutes later gnocchi will float to the top.

Remove gnocchi and place in appropriate bowl.

Repeat the process with the other half of the gnocchi.

Serve with a rich sauce to compliment the earthy flavour of the gnocchi.

Enjoy!

*Beetroot puree, can be made from pureeing in a food processor roasted beetroots- Roasted beets give a richer sweeter flavour and have less water content. So this is ideal. I simply used boiled beets that were in the fridge as it was a quicker alternative.

*Not too sure about the technique? Take a look at this video for the basics.

Of Friendship, Tears and Truth

“There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.” 

-Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

Friendship is a funny thing.

It gets you to do the weirdest things. At the spur of a moment.  An unbridled yes, without the thought of consequence.

Friendship allows you to laugh and cry. And then cry some more and laugh again. And wonder why you were laughing in the first place.

It is those friendships that cause a lot of tears too.

My friends got married last year. It was fabulous. There were parties. A lot of them. There was unsolicited advice to the bride-to- be on all things known and unknown.

And there were tears.

When we shared our favourite memories. Laughter and happiness. About how we had met. And if you have friends like mine sometimes you do not quite remember how you met. It is not a clear memory. A fuzzy and comfortable assumption that the four or is it five years that you have known each other has been forever.

There were more tears when the prospect of moving away to the not- so- foreign- land- of –marriage-ville. No more spontaneous sleepovers where you find your toes freezing (thanks friend who steals the blankets).

There were tears because there were not enough wedding planning hours in the day to do the million things necessary and unnecessary for the eight hour celebration. Weary, exhausted tears. In between the sniffles, snotty noses and frozen toes of the spontaneous slumber party, Mrs _ to- be- asks you a question.

Will you make my wedding cake?

Yes.

Anything, to quell the fears of my friend.  In such times the answer is yes.

Always.

Famous Last Words.

My thoughts were clouded by mushy whimsical feelings and thoughts of the wonderful wedding cake that I would miraculous breathe life into.

In my head it was still a joke. A joke because a few weeks before, in the wedding planning book, we had already written and  chosen a reliable lady, who bakes cakes for a living, to be tasked with making the cake.

She called me up. My dear friend, the bride-to-be. Now clear minded, no frozen toes or snotty nose.

I’m serious Coco. You’re baking my cake.

Yes.

In such times the answer is yes. 

Always.

Vanilla. Chocolate. Red velvet.

I’ll bring the ingredients.

She’s not joking. She’s  as serious as the ring on her finger.

Challenge accepted.

But then I remembered that I was not baking a cake for just the wonderful bride and groom but, cakes for small armies of cheerful, appreciative, kind-hearted speckled with hungry, judgmental, wanting –to-get-the-most-value-of-their-free-meal wedding guests.

When the now Mrs_s who were once Mrs_ to- be-thanked me for the cakes a little while after their big days; I said it was a pleasure and honour. It was. I just left out the more important details of the near melt downs I had.

So a year later I think it could do no harm to tell the Mrs_s the truth.

Dear Mrs _,

Thank you for entrusting me with such a grand part of your special day. What an honour it was to love you in such a way.

I’m glad you were happy and have pleasant memories of that magical day.

But now I need to tell you the truth. Your cakes caused me a lot of tears and near melt downs.

There was the day that the melt down was more a burn down. All those eggs and butter and flour and milk not to mention the sugar mixed together were not the golden yellow colour that the recipe book had predicted. More like a crusty brownish combination of all things gone wrong. My dogs had a feast that day. But I held my head high, fighting back the tears with sniffles instead.

I tried. Again.

And again.

Third time lucky. Pillow soft golden cake.

And then there was the day that I would have single-handedly destroyed a glucometer. Absent-mindedly I poured, and poured, and poured some more- oops! Too late!

 Nearly triple the amount of required sugar into the batter.

I would have solved your problem of your lack of wedding favours. Your guests would have been given hyperglycaemic induced comas.

So I tried.

Again.

I survived that and it was all ok.

My offer to bake your cakes should have come with payment in anti-anxiety medication.

A huge dose at that.

But I wouldn't have known that until…

 The not so metaphorical 11^th hour.

It was cold, dark and icy outside, possibly the coldest night of the year. Perfect weather for cake decorating, you couldn't have picked a better day. Did I mention it was possibly the coldest night of the year in Harare, with frost on the ground.  Even the wedding guests who had come to stay from afar were cold. They braced the cold in my near fridge like house.

How did the icing melt?

Explain how that happened.

A statement or even a question that were it an exam I would have gotten zero for. I had had months of preparation. Several practice cakes, taste tester approved, all decorated with the said icing.

So at the 11^th hour or more like the early hours of the morning of the wedding while you were asleep or still up late getting pampered, I took a deep breath and inhaled.

The frosty sugary vanilla buttercream anxiety accented air.

I.

Exhaled.

Thirteen hours later. Three hundred cupcakes. Three golden yellow cakes- beautifully iced, not a chance of melting on possibly the next coldest day of the year, later.

It felt good.

So to the Mrs_s, thank you for the honour and the challenge. And of course the tears. But they did not end there.

There were more that came unexpected, welling up from the deepest depth.

Ones of joy, and happiness, and finally finishing the grand task you entrusted me.  

But not that many, it would have smudged my makeup and then I would have had a real melt down on a day that I wanted to be looking my very best.

You should have also given me some waterproof makeup, and handkerchiefs.

And we must both thank the Cupcake Fairies. Your wedding cakes would have toppled over and fell or never made it the venue on time or anything else that could have gone wrong that had not yet happened.

They were surgery sweet solid as rock candy personalities. They baked. Iced. Arranged. Stacked. Sprinkled. Laughed. Danced. And best of all they were the Prozac.

So those tears have dried up now. Just as they have dried I am beginning to breathe in awaiting the celebrations this year. This time round, I’ll breathe in, all the vanilla buttercream wedding accented air.

I’ll silently thank you Mrs_ for trusting me, with your dreams, deliver the cake, and exhale.

So cheers Mrs_ to a wonderful  future filled with hopes and dreams and joyful tears.

Love,Coco.

Of Engineering and the Rain

The rains finally fell down from the heavens. They have brought: flash floods- in city centres, hail, and all your household problems.

This rainy season has made me wish I learned a lot more while in high school. Not more theory, but more practical things that have to do with engineering and wood work.

For the first three years of high school I took a subject called Introductory Technology. A compulsory subject for the first three years of this particular institution of education; a subject that when you were learning it felt utterly pointless and was the bane of your existence. If you attended this school you will remember the first line you wrote in your baby blue exercise book, in somewhat illegible handwriting, dated somewhere in September of a particular year… “Technology is not a new thing in Nigeria”. On hindsight I think it was supposed to be an integrated subject of the wood work and engineering. I only remember doing the theory aspect of it, perhaps in the years that followed things changed and there were more practicals.

Would the practicals have helped me now? Yes I believe so. I think I would have a rough idea what to do when confronted with wood work and engineering challenges.  I remember learning about woodwork joints and hinges, but when two cupboard hinges fell off and I had no clue how to fix them.

I felt short-changed by my world class secondary education. The best I could do was identify that it was a hinge and purchase a new one in a hardware store. Then the new hinge sat for a while on the kitchen counter waiting for someone with practical knowledge of hinge changing to appear and fix it. When that eventually happened I stood close by and had my Intro Tech practical a decade too late.

Perhaps it is because I am a girl that it was never considered necessary to learn such things. Is it assumed that the girl child does not need to learn or know this, or that a boy will always be there to save the said damsel from the engineering problems? At high school number 3 that I attended, a prestigious girls’ school, I do not recall ever hearing anyone mention woodwork or the like. I will give the school the benefit of the doubt that I attended the school as a senior, where subjects were optional…. But there was no option for the technical subjects.

So does that mean because I am a girl I will have to ask someone to change light bulbs for me or anything else. No. But if you have not been afforded the opportunity by circumstance or curiosity to learn how to do these simple engineering things, chances are that you will have to ask someone to help you out.

I wish I had had a better idea of roofing; the heavy raindrops fell into our family living room. Plop, plop, plop. Had I known that all I needed to do was get a ladder, walk across the roof and place the roofing tiles back into their grooves our ceiling in the family living room would not have stains of blotches of rain. Circumstance will make me curious next time to walk across the roof.

The life giving rain makes everything green including the lawn. It transforms from a well manicured lawn to a meadow of grass and weeds almost instantaneously, given the right amount of rain and heat. So to keep up appearances with the other houses on our street, I took the lawn mower and cut the grass. Every so often, I had to check the lawn mower, as it was “sounding sick”. My limited knowledge allowed me to fix the minor problems, but I could not figure out what the sputtering sound was, until it decided not to wake up. So there I was, unintentionally growing a meadow, housing all sorts of insects and a dead machine that I could not fix. I parted, begrudgingly, wondering why I did not know how to change these parts by myself, with a significant amount of money to have parts replaced.

If only that was the end of my problems, but no. The rain kept, and keeps falling. There were the light fittings that got wet during a three day spell of rain, short circuiting the lights of the household. A problem I was able to identify due to circumstance and education- I must give due credit to my high school teachers who taught me about this. But alas I could identify it; however the fixing part was the dilemma.

Oh, and then did I mention that where I live, when there are heavy rainstorms and thunder storms our power supply is often cut off, conveniently disguised as load shedding. Incessant a power cuts damage electrical appliances. Everyone here knows that. So we do our best to guard our appliances, but our human capacity cannot always compete with the powers of our electricity supply companies.

Now imagine this: it is a few days before the holiday season begins, family has begun arriving form near and far. You have done the necessary grocery shopping and added the few extras that you would only buy during the holidays; but there is nowhere to store the perishable fresh food. The unwanted marriage between erratic power supply and poorly engineered appliances has birthed still born appliances. Now a miraculous resurrection has to happen, and this is not the first time. The engineering gurus arrive just in time. That fixed but as they leave we ponder “a working fridge does not mean that we will be able to cook the food on a half working stove in the evening with lights that do not work”. Having pity on us the engineers fix the light- a tiny little problem that the expensive education did not prepare me for. As for the stove, eating raw food is back in fashion.

Now that we can partially cook our fresh food under bright florescent light, we think all is well, until the raindrops start falling, the thunder bashed, lightning struck. But we have a plan, investing in a stand by generator. So in the event of the load shedding we have a plan. But I have spoken too soon. The groceries have been bought and holiday specials of meat have been purchased. The resurrected fridge is humming away happily and so is the deep freezer until the power goes. The generator refuses to switch on.

This one I cannot fix, especially in the dark of the night, with raindrops falling on my head. Day light comes and the power is still ‘on holiday’. I do a quick run through. Circumstance and curiosity have not prepared me to fix the problems caused by other people- highly trained and educated people in fact- who allow bad fuels to be sold to the unaware public, thus affecting my generator.

All my education allows me to do  in this circumstance is think fast: I realise that if I do not pick up the phone quickly and find the technicians their office will close for the holiday season and I  will be stuck. Stuck, with the holiday delicacies that will only be fit for vultures if the problem is not sorted, I feel like your household version of Olivia Pope, or Ray Donavan, or Frank Underwood or any of those dramatic fictional television characters who instantaneously “handle” or “fix” things.

Difference is that they have assistances and they possibly went to school like I did, but lucky enough they got better training than I did. Circumstance this weekend has taught me to jump start a car, clean corroded car battery terminals and fix in a new battery. My world class high school education and even the introduction to technology did not prepare me for this. My number 10 and 12 spanners and Google have done a better job than my technology classes. So as I type this long reflection I’m wondering about a lot of things:  why I never had more practical subjects at school; wondering what the current policy makers and educators are thinking that practical subjects in school are optional as opposed to compulsory-don’t get me started on that, our local high school curriculum praised as it might be has several gaping flaws; wondering why the girl child is not exposed to as much engineering- why do only boys get taught to do the ‘handy work in majority of households’; wondering why you do not learn how to fix a car when you learn to drive.

Perhaps my problem is that I do not want to part with money, having to call someone to fix something. That is not true. I will call them the gurus in their respective fields, but when I can I want them to respond, swiftly. I do not enjoy being held hostage waiting for the so called service professionals to arrive and fix my problems and then after making me wait for what feels like an eternity demand that I part with such a large sum of hard earned money. It is a cruel economy, so do not blame me if I want to do it myself and try to beat the system.

Because these television characters are so good at their jobs they are always given more to do. They never catch a break. And true to that in reality it is the same, not a glamourous, and the problems are not fixed as swiftly. I so sit here, (wondering when the world will read this since my Wi-Fi is down and I called the service professionals to come to fix the problem 6 days ago) typing this up as the rains are falling and I hear the thunder, I shudder and wonder what will happen next, knowing that my next unplanned engineering learning curve will be quite steep as I “handle” and “fix” things.

And now it is 3 weeks later and the service providers have fixed my Wi-Fi and I can post this up. I have expressed my rage. It has not changed much. So is it narcissistic to smile when I see that an acclaimed author, one that I admire, living on the other side of Africa, also suffers from the problem of poor service providers. Read about her troubles in a piece entitled, Lights out Nigeria.