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. 

Sunshine City

Harare, Southern Africa.

I live in a city in Southern Africa.  Harare in particular. The Sunshine City.

On a good day I get up before the sun rises, while it is still dark out- and sometimes dark inside when there is no electricity-just before the birds start singing.

My Grandparents would have been proud; they were the generation that believed that you begin work before the sun rises. My Grandfather had a particular song, “Vasikana vekwa Sengwe musafuge musoro, zuva rino buda muvete.” The Sengwe girls don’t cover your head when sleeping, the sun will rise while you are asleep. Basically chiding us to be early to rise.

Up I get, sleepily open up my eyes, get dressed and out the door.

A small battle with the dogs that want to play so early in the morning doubles up as a warm up, running up and down and stretching a bit.

Out the gate and I realise I’m not the only one awake.  There are many of us, those going to work, and school and the ones trying to get a good healthy start to the day. Some would choose to call it exercising, but it feels more like energising and getting a chance to talk to your Creator about all and anything.

If I am running late, the first people I usually meet are the two ladies, who seem like the best of friends- sometimes I wonder how they get their power walk and remember to breathe while deeply engrossed in what seems like the news from the day before- because I say good morning and its almost an afterthought that leads them to say “goodmorning” and they carry on their lengthy conversation.

By the time we say our fleeting hellos I've come round the corner. I meet the gentleman, we silently say hello through a nod and a smile- but I wonder if he has many of the same tee shirts or it’s just the one that always gets a good wash after the morning jog.

Then I pass by the security guard standing outside the gate of the property he looks after, ready to end his shift. If I’m lucky I can catch a glimpse of the well manicure lawns, and the landscaping. I think that’s one of my favourite things, I often pick a route with the palatial homes and well manicured lawns, those are a bit far so I have to jog further. But it is worth it. I get some great visuals of gardening ideas…what plants are in season and how to brighten up our family’s property.

I thank God for the beautiful creations and the change of seasons as I run along the purple carpet of Jacaranda flowers that line the streets for this short season. Note I run along, not on top, my fear of being stung by one of the buzzing bees leads to faster movement. I like bees and appreciate their hard work enough not to disrupt them and have them waste their precious time and sacrifice their life stinging me.

But I get confused so early in the cool mornings, before the sunrises, before I can blame the heat of the sun for my blurred vision.  Is there a lack of architects or designers in our country? I ask because here in Harare there seems to be palatial monstrosities popping up everywhere.  Why are they ever expanding palatial properties on tiny pieces of land? Why are we building on wetlands?  Why is there not enough affordable housing ? Why are these building projects being approved?

 So many questions. So few answers.

I carry on. There is the lady running, steady pace, following the rhythm blasting out of her earphones. I envy her, she has enough breath and energy for a vibrant ‘good morning’ and even a had wave.

Another gentleman, a senior citizen walking along as fast as his legs carry him-  I give him a special shout out as he is out again the same route at a much slower pace late afternoon pushing his grandchild through the neighbourhood on an afternoon stroll.

There are the primary school kids, uniform clad, shiny Vaseline-smeared face, who greet me with a smile, “Good Morning Mame”. I think to myself, I must be aging quicker than I imagined since I’m now Mame, no longer Sister. But their greeting is genuine, I don’t hold it against them and I reply as eagerly “Good Morning”. Off to school these leaders go. I silently pray that they learn something and that their teachers will impact their lives in a positive manner. And then I thank the Lord that that is not me, I mean it is 6am! And the child is half way to school already.  Then I think looking at their kind of uniform, they have quite a long commute before they get to school. These kids are not wearing the colours of the primary schools in the neighbourhood- so they probably  have a kombii journey or two before they get to school.

More confusion. Why do we not have more schools in the surrounding residential areas? And why not good schools as well? It breaks my heart when these small humans, get into a kombii alone headed to school. If it were up to me, there should be a school within a walking distance accessible to our primary school children. There are enough sad stories of these children being run over by our careless drivers on our terrible roads. And then the stories they don’t tell you of the evils that these young children are subject to on their way to school, to supposedly get a formal education.

What happened to our drive for education, good, high quality education for all?

So many questions. So few answers.

And then there is the one that really gets to me. Where is the water? One of the local churches opens  up its taps for the residents during the early mornings and late evenings. Drip, drop, drips of water into the containers. Containers into their cars, or wheelbarrows, or on top of their heads, the residents head off in their different directions. And this is in the low density, what more in the high density areas? Why is this acceptable as normal?

I’m on my way home now, squinting as I focus on the road ahead and enjoy the sunrise over the eastern sky. The two supermarket cashiers, wearing their uniforms, perpetually running late as you see them always running to catch the beginning of their shift. 

You pass by that lady who’s lingering fragrance of the body lotion tells you that the day has begun and that I should be getting home to start the other tasks of the day. 

The kombis zoom past you and through the streets of the neighbourhood, picking up the people shouting a many variations of “are you coming to town?”- Town here?- Harare!- City!- Handei Town!  You wonder how long it will take for the kombi to fill up before it actually heads in the direction of town. That is probably the longest part of the journey as the kombis in general do not believe in waiting and sitting in traffic. Enough traffic violations are committed to get you to town in the quickest and not the safest manner. I’m sure they would explain it to you as being efficient. If only we had more truly efficient and effective modes of public transport.

Dai Dai dai   I rwiyo rwe benzi—if only, if only, if only, a song of a fool.

And as I approach my street, running quite fast  (well I think it’s fast and that’s all that matters) more cars are on the road, more people walking , going to their various destinations- trying to change their tomorrows for the better.

I’m home now. I have not solved anything, (…well maybe reducing my health care bills and nipping potential ailments in the bud). Gained some perspective. Seen some beauty and ready for the new day.

I have not solved the world’s problems. Just seen them and left me with more questions. Perhaps in the course of the day I’ll solve some small problems and make some sort of impact.

The sun is up, blazing hot already. Not a rain cloud in sight.

It has been a lengthy, hot, scorching, dry season. Perhaps it will rain, even though not a cloud is in sight. Those are the conversations are these days. There  is a glimmer of hope. The rain will cool us all down. Not solve all our problems but begin to be a solution.

Kunze kupisia ndinoziva Kuchanaya kucha tonhorera – Even though it gets so hot outside, I know it will rain, it will cool down -Alexio Kawara

Of Jam and Bread

“How can a nation be called great if its bread tastes like kleenex?” -Julia Child 

Missing aspects of my life in Northern Italy, I took an adventure through the suburbs of Harare to a local market named ‘Upmarket’ in an attempt to cure my nostalgia. The concept of the market is similar of the market in Bra, Italy although in a ginormously smaller scale in every way possible- less: space, people, vendors, produce. The element of surprize though is ubiquitous to both markets.

I arrived a little over an hour after the opening time of the market. The stalls laden with fresh produce, but more of prepared foods: from baked goods, jams, condiments and ready-made meals packed in individual portions for those in the neighbourhood of Belgravia stopping by to pick up a quick wholesome tasteful and possibly exotic (with Thai, Indian and even Lebanese foods on sale) lunch, or in my case a mid-morning snack.

Longing for the familiar; a taste, the complex aroma of the marriage of fresh and fermented artisanal bread, a crunchy crusty outside and a delicately soft and squishy interior I made a beeline to the bread stall, having been told that some of the tastiest sourdough bread can be found here. I have made sourdough bread before, it is a long and tedious process, but the results are worth the labour. So yippee artisanal bread has made itself public to Harare, courtesy of a new local business- The Bread Co.

For those of you who have never tasted sourdough bread, I urge you to do so. Although somewhat of a novelty for us in Harare, there is nothing new to it as sourdough bread dates back to ancient civilizations.

For a first timer, it is peculiar- almost off tasting. This is due to the lengthy period of fermentation and the naturally occurring yeasts. Lost? Some-what simply put: that means the bakers do not use the standard commercial baker’s yeast. They make, or rather grow their own yeast. They start with the simplest mixture of flour and water- called the ‘starter’ allowing that to ‘grow’ for a period. The natural yeasts in the form of various types of bacteria are the key components of the sour taste of the bread. Once it has grown to the proper volume, voila you have the home grown yeast that will not only flavour the bread but act as a leavening agent.

When you put the bread close to your nose it is yeast like, a fermentation of grains, at the same time creamy. Depending on the natural additives- usually spices and flavourings you might smell some rye, or fennel.

Back to the market- To my astonishment I found the vendors packing up, the dozens of loaves of bread had sold out within a short time of setting up the market stall. Once you embrace the flavour, aroma and texture you will understand why the bread does not last long at the stalls. 

The atmosphere of conviviality through the market and conversation with the bakers of the wonderful bread made up for its absence. The short conversation between myself and the gastronomes was interrupted several times by others seeking out this extraordinary bread. They were directed, as I was, to some of the outlets throughout Harare, where if you arrive early enough, and are quick enough you will get your daily bread.

Although I have never actually tasted the aforementioned breads, I eagerly anticipate the time when I will savour the complex flavours. The bakers assured me that it will be well worth the wait.

I decided to get something to accompany this mysterious bread, for when I eventually find it, thinking that I best be prepared. I headed on to the stall with the honey lady, wanting a sweet treat with a distinctive flavour.

Again, I met a vendor informing me that their product had sold out. A persuasive business woman though, she had no intention of letting me leave the stall empty handed. I was offered a taster of a beautifully fragranced creamy coloured preserve on a minuscule slice of bread. I politely declined the creamy fruit curd, informing  the lady that my refusal was not for lack of a quality product but rather not wanting my immune system to overwork itself rejecting this beautiful yet  deadly (only to my immune system ) fruit preserve.

Not dismayed by my immune system she encouraged me to take a look at the other preserves. A brilliant red caught my eye and a wonderful surprize, tamarillos jam. Commonly known as tree tomato jam. Score. My mother recently acquired two tree tomato plants (or is it a tree? ) after my coaxing.  I have never eaten the fruit before but a little research  convinced me that this somewhat exotic (at least to our family orchard) was well worth growing.

One of the tree tomato plants in the family orchard 

Back to the honey lady, she did not need to persuade me into purchasing the little jar of brilliant coloured jam. A quick exchange of bills and I was off- without the bread but with some mystery jam.

I got home in time for lunch as opposed to the mid-morning snack I had aimed for. Nonetheless, I was not about to wait till I happened to find the bread. I toasted a slice of not so special, commercial, generic tasting brown bread. While I waited for it to pop up I dug a teaspoon in the jar, stirred through and felt the consistency, how else do I describe it but jam like, gooey thick but still able to go through it. Spoon in my mouth, a slight ting, tart, acidic. The a swift change to sweet, not a heavy sweetness that you associate with rich foods. But a light refreshing sweetness almost like a granadilla. The jam way a wonderful fusion of the traditional ripe tomato flavour and that of something sweet like a strawberry. Savoury-sweet or even sweet-savoury. A great middle ground to please us all.

So now I have a jar of tamarillo jam keeping cool in the fridge waiting patiently to accompany the bread and perhaps I am pushing it too far to think that I might get a surprise and come across so flavourful semi hard cheese (that would be a great pairing with the new found jam) or should I just appreciate the availability of sourdough bread.

For now I wait. Hopefully another good surprize will find me soon…I am sure by then I would have found that bread. 

Karibu Nairobi

I told you I would return to Kenya. I did, a few weeks ago. In my usual travelling style, my safari to get there was eventful, but that’s another story, luckily though I made it in time for the family wedding.

This time round I was in the East African metropolis of Nairobi. Those of us in Harare complain about traffic, we have nothing to complain about as compared to other capital cities. Nairobi is a huge, bustling city, characterized by traffic of all sorts, matatus, pikipikis/borda-bordas, and most importantly people. You find the same thing in Harare, but there is a different flare in Nairobi (with a population over three million).

The language

In Nairobi just about everyone speaks kiSwahili. By everyone I mean everyone, all the market vendors, (people of different ethnic backgrounds. Not like in Zimbabwe, with our 16 official languages (courtesy of the new constitution) most people speak either Shona or Ndebele or English, not often do you find us speaking all three let alone the 16 which many remain unintelligible. But a real linguae franca- a trade language does not exist. Perhaps I am wrong, consulting socio-linguists about this one may be necessary.

A huge smile plastered on my face, in an attempt to apologize for my lack of language I would answer the Kenyans, in English desperately wanting to throw in my few Swahili words and a few words of sheng (the local slang-that I have learnt from my Kenyan friends and family) or better yet answering back in the similar sounding Shona that I know, Hopefully, by the time I return to East Africa I will be more conversant in this trade language that intersects Arabic and Bantu languages.

The people of Nairobi represent a multitude of ethnic and social backgrounds from across the globe. While walking through a large supermarket with my Kenyan sisters, I tried to heed to my mother’s council of not prying into conversations. It was impossible to not to ignore the English spoken with accents from around the globe, the KiSwahili and not surprisingly Shona conversations.

KiSwahilii, allows the people of the nation from over 40 language groups to understand each other. It is the language of choice during  a marriage ceremony joining up two people from different ethnic groups, building relationships and growing families.

The traffic

The traffic of Nairobi is something that everyone who has been to this East African metropolis will attest to is nothing more than irritating. You spend a considerable amount of time in a jam, no matter how hard you try to outsmart it, something will make the journey longer than you anticipated, perhaps it is the road works, or the traffic police who might be chatting with one of the drivers in a stationary car instead of directing traffic. The road infrastructure, even with the many roundabouts, does not match with the sea of cars, the majority being high clearance ones that are able to navigate through the pot holes.

While the traffic is irritating, there is so much to see, roadside markets and vendors selling tourist curios. The vendors selling everything from fresh cut flowers to adorable puppies. If it all gets to be  too much, there are road side restaurants, and popular eating spots all dotted around the city specializing in local delicacies, offering  meals and snacks at cheap prices. If that doesn't entice you there are fast food chains all over.

And then there are the matatus or mats- minibus taxis, which in all the African cities I have been to, are the same. I might even add the Roman taxi cab drivers also share such a reputation. Their names may be different, from a taxi, a Kombi, Candongera, to Molue the drivers and their conductors exercise their entitlement bestowed on them by apparently us; the paying public who desire to get to our destination in the shortest time possible. In an attempt to please us, the drivers have an unusual disregard for the law, weaving in and out of traffic, committing numerous road traffic violations that constantly go unnoticed and not reprimanded.

The upside to these mats is that you have your standard fare and you have no worry about parking. Parking your car is a costly expense when venturing to the numerous shopping complexes, which surprisingly for me from Southern Africa were full of busy shoppers. And off street parking, if you find it, may not be the safest option. The little I saw of the city center of Nairobi along Moi and Kenyatta Avenues, I think it’s a wise option to be a pedestrian. Not to mention that with the mats you can go to the less attractive areas, the real hidden gems where you really see that Nairobi is a sprawling economic epicenter of East Africa.

The sights and sounds

My sisters and I, weary of being stuck in the weekday traffic headed out of the house in the suburbs at the crack of dawn. Jumped into the mat just outside the gate of the housing complex and began our sleepy journey to Gikomba Market. One of the larger markets in Nairobi, where, if you are a self-proclaimed fashionista on a budget, will consider this market as a bargainer’s  mekka. According to my sister, it is the market where all the nearly-new clothes from abroad come into. Walking through the market you find people like me and my bargain savvy sisters, backpacks in hand, market vendors trying to pick out the better quality garments to buy then clean up and resell for exorbitant prices in other less markets of Nairobi. All this is done while trying to hold on to your backpack stuffed with found treasures and men shouting out to move out of the way as they try to move through the haphazardly ordered aisles, carrying sealed sacksful of clothes.

Exhausted from our bargains, we exited the market, a large one, nothing quite like I've seen in Zimbabwe but the hustle and bustle reminded me of the markets in West Africa. Back onto the matatu, we dropped of in the center of Nairobi and stopped for a much deserved early lunch in a popular take away in Nairobi center. Along the street there were several of them with very familiar menus (things you might find at other take always across the globe), chicken rotisserie style, or fried, hamburgers, hot dogs, and deep fried potato chips- what I was after.

I’m not the biggest fan of deep fried potatoes, but my sister had convinced me that I had to try bhajas, before leaving Kenya, having visited Zimbabwe before they assured me that I wouldn't find anything quite like them in my Southern African home. True to their word, the bhajas were nothing short of delicious, the exact carbohydrate fix that was needed after shopping.

The deep fried potato disks that have been coated in herbs and spices, and the ubiquitous fresh coriander leaves sprinkled on top. The flavours of this street food (and I believe many others that I did not have an opportunity to try) are reflective of the intersection of the people and cultural backgrounds in East Africa. Incorporating flavours from the Indian subcontinent, Near, Middle and Far East, subtly alerting you that the nation is a colourful melange of people, histories and stories.

So there you go, a very quick, and very short story of Nairobi, hardly doing it justice. Perhaps the next celebration in my adopted Kalenjin family will give me another opportunity for a safari through Kenya. If you get there, before me, embrace it all, the language, the people and the traffic. For now, I say asante sana Kenya. 

Restaurant Week

As a gastronome I am always on the search for some interesting food festivals, promotions and all things gastronomic. When Eatout Zimbabwe started their marketing campaign for the 17- 25 May ZOL Restaurant Week  I was sold. A chance to sample 2-3 course meals from a range of US$ 15-25, at reputable upmarket restaurants in Harare- local residents will agree with me that is a steal.

I coerced two gastronomes in the making to join me. We analysed the set menus of the 18 available restaurants made our choice of two of the 18. Due to time constraints we had to settle for one restaurant to visit.

When I saw Chicken Tortellini, Gnocchi Piedmontaise and Panna Cotta on the Emmanuel's menu I was excited. I was hoping that this Northern Italian inspired menu- one which was filled with nostalgia for me- would provide my dining buddies a taste of Northern Italy. My dietary restrictions did not allow me to have this specific menu so I had to rely on my friends’ description of the dishes and their experience against my description from my memories of living in Piedmont.

Friday evening we found ourselves at the said restaurant. After a long week, the only thing we anticipated was a wonderful evening together at this fine dining establishment. I have learned not to presume too much about restaurants in Harare as I have had some disappointments to my palette and endured some poor service, so making sure you have good company allows you to overlook some of these undesirable shortcomings.

We were pleasantly surprised when we were cheerfully greeted at the entrance and promptly seated at our reserved table. A welcoming ambiance of well laid tables, dimmed lights was accentuated by infectious laughter coming from the several tables filled with what looked like groups of friends enjoying an evening out together. With such merriment, the barely audible, guitar playing musician, was eventually heard once the patrons were temporally silenced by their food.

Drinks ordered, we were ready to begin our meal. Our smartly dressed waiter came round and offered us a single piece of bread. That confused me since my experience of dining in Italy is the ubiquitous bounty of bread and wine, more so, our little table for three had a dish full of creamy petite butter balls waiting to be spread on several pieces of bread. I chose the not- so-focaccia like-rosemary topped focaccia. My slender piece was void of the olive oil, salt and other herbs that I guessed would be there.  To appease us, perhaps for the lack of bread, we were given a complimentary chicken roulande- a thick piece of cooked chicken breast fillet, compressed into a roll and stuffed with minutely shredded vegetables. 

Complimentary plates over, we began our three course meal.

My knowledge of tortellini is: minute pasta parcels, made from an egg- rich dough, stuffed with rich ingredients that take a painstakingly long time to make, hence reserved for special occasions and often served as a handful in a rich broth. Two large flat plates came with an entrée of three large tortellini stuffed with chicken garnished with crayfish tails. The stated broth of pea and mint appeared more like a sauce. Nonetheless, my dining companions cleared their plates. As the menu had read, my grand bowl of butternut soup had a chilly kick to it although I struggled to find the advertised croutons in the bowl of soup. I guess they were hidden in the layers of rich flavour that characterised the soup.

Our empty plates were swiftly taken away replaced by appropriate cutlery. My fish knife to my right I was ready for my sea bass. Yes, ordering fish in a landlocked country is not the smartest idea as you know that the fish would have traveled a long distance before it gets to your plate. However, against better judgment I still ordered it. It was pleasant, light, flavourful and complemented by a leek puree and sweet sun dried tomatoes. 

With slight hesitation, my curious gastronome friend ordered duck. Having never eaten this type of poultry before, she had a welcome surprise. The duck leg and breast were well cooked, and had a rich umami taste which she described as a cross between chicken and pork. I had a smidgeon of hers; it was, dare I say delicious.

The Gnocchi Piedmontese was possibly inspired by the Northern Italian region. I will give the chefs a leeway and say that they had artistic liberty to interpret this simple Italian dish as they pleased and transform it into fine dining, heavily laden with garnishes and aesthetic interpretations. The gnocchi around the plate looked as if they could have been served in a deep bowl that would allow the potato dumplings to soak up a rich sauce.

Dessert did not disappoint. Three types of dessert served on a large white plate. Panna Cotta, literally cooked cream is a rich northern Italian dolce- dessert. Rich fresh cream is simmered together with milk and sugar sometimes infused with some vanilla and left to set. Often served with a coulis, or sauce of some sort to compliment and lessen the heaviness of the rich cream. Our panna cotta was well set, with a slight little wiggle to it but topped with an out of season strawberry. In line with seasonal cooking I would have expected some winter citrus flavours. But I wont hold that against them, since I enjoyed the panna cotta. The large white plate had a square of sticky date pudding that complimented the panna cotta. To finish off; a refreshing passion fruit sorbet to compliment the richness of the other components.

Although we were beyond satiated, we found room for a cup of espresso to aid digestion. It was necessary lest it would have been almost impossible to drive home. The last gulp down and then the meal was finally over.

The panna cotta temporarily cured my nostalgia for Italy. I might be a certified gastronome but my education has not come to an end. The Italian inspired dishes opened my eyes to artistic interpretations and creativity. The chefs embraced their artistic licence: veering away from the traditional interpretations and creating dishes in a manner that some might frown upon, and question but somehow still appreciate.

My compliments to Emmanuel’s as it was an evening of laughter, excellent service- the best I've had in Harare so far.