Several interest groups extol the virtues of recycling. It is supposed to be a good thing concerning the environment. To re-employ in man’s service the fruit from the earth which was so callously plundered. Not just fruit of course. Metals, minerals and indeed, fruits. In the food environment we used to call it leftovers. The flavour of your school sandwiches echoed the refrain of last night’s dinner (1) “Waste not, want not” used to be the dictum. These days the truth lies closer to “Wasted, not want.” I might be maligning the youth here, but am willing to take the chance. They can’t respond in full sentences anyhow.
I endorse the concept of recycling in most cases. Movies, television programs, music and history are some of the instances where I think recycling is overrated. And chocolates. I like chocolate. It has the distinction of being my only vice that I can control to a reasonable degree. A slab of high cocoa chocolate can lay unmolested in my cupboard for weeks. Not many foodstuffs can claim that.
The recycling of “A food made from roasted ground cacao beans, usually sweetened and eaten as dark brown solid confectionery” (2) has been going on for years. From the mists of time that now constitutes my early youth, there is an image of an advent’s calendar that had little chocolates behind each of the numbered windows leading up to 24th December. I do not recall the confectioneries themselves as they were long eaten by the time I can recall. But there was no way my mother was not going to reuse a perfectly sound advents calendar just because the chocolates were finished. So while the other calendars had pictures or verses this one had indentations in plastic
My mother could not have been alone in this practice and therefore it is fair to suppose that the next year there would be unsold calendars with chocolate in them that had to be stored for their once a year chance. They (no, I don’t know who THEY are. I value my life and will not even attempt to find out) then invented several second tier holidays to enable recycling. The Easter bunny and his unlikely chocolate eggs are several months away and those children are not going to stop climbing the trees to pick the cacao beans. And so Valentine’s Day was invented. Those too Christmassy chockies die in a swirl of heat to be reborn as overpriced heart shaped delights. The sale of these is depended on the current economic conditions. If things are looking up, then jewellery will sabotage the sales. If things are desperate then flowers will win (they can be procured from gardens and parks). In between it is chocolate’s market.
The reincarnation of hearts into Easter eggs are not widely published, for who wants to read “The Easter Bunny, unlucky in love, melted down Valentines hearts to bring this egg shaped air container lined with chocolate to you.” And the cycle continues into Mother’s Day. Only those eggs hidden too well to be discovered by roaming children survive to live on. Then a break of several months before the Christmas advertising starts in late September. Maybe the tree-climbing serfs do get a break.
This year you are to boycott all things chocolaty until Laurent Gbagbo of the Ivory Coast does a Mubarak. Most of that country’s income is from cocoa beans, so by eating chocolate you are supporting an illegitimate regime. I will not be buying chocolates this Valentine’s Day, nothing to do with West Africa. But because, just like mother’s day, there is no point.
(1) Several pompous sentences. I thought I lost the touch.
(2) Strange how a dictionary can make something seem unappetising. Go look up debauchery.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
My Bonnievale lies over the River
I guest blog over at A girl, a bicycle and mama Africa to help keep people on track with the progress of my adventurous friend travelling from Cairo to Cape Town. She left Egypt just before the unrest started. Could it be that she had such an impact on the country that they started rioting just because they missed her? Or did it start when her calming influence crossed into the Sudan? With her life so exciting I did not feel that sharing my boring one would be edifying for anyone. But here is a part of it anyway.
It was a weekend of firsts for me. I took a trip to Bonnievale, to visit with my cousins. Not all of them as they are quite numerous and just scheduling it would be Nobel Prize worthy. It was the first time I entered the town (village, if they close the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon, then it is a village) of Bonnievale. Some of my favourite wine farms are on the road to Bonnievale from Robertson. So the boot usually filled and the wallet emptied long before I reached even the outskirts of Bonnievale. I managed to stock up on wild yeast Chardonnay from both Major’s Hill and Springfield. Slightly sweeter from botrytis (1) and fermented in the barrel for the Major’s Hill. Definitely barrel fermented for the Springfield as well. What I did not know is that the interesting liquid, Timjan, is made near Bonnievale. I would have visited the factory to indulge in a spot of light masochism.
The cast of characters for the weekend: Me, The He-Architect, The She-Architect, The 2 year old architect, and the Serene baby Architect. The Philosopher, The French Author(2) and their 2 year old Mademoiselle. It was she who convinced me French is an easy language. If a two year old can master it...Come to think of it millions of toddlers can speak Mandarin. I must be stupid.
I was reminded again of the hard work that it is to raise children. The 2 year olds were busy. Extremely busy. So I saw in action again that parenting is a blend of bribery, cajoling, threatening and sudden topic shifts. As they start to cry their parents distract them with such a rapid direction change that I was left witless. Discussions where I could stay with the topic included schools, siblings, cousins, restoring old buildings and a reprise of a delightful conversation of about 9 years ago. The Philosopher and I were in Paris, at a fountain in the grounds of the Louvre. We took up the discussion of whether the recorder is an effeminate instrument. It remains one of the most memorable conversations in my life, but I guess you had to be there.
On the restoring of old buildings I learned a lot. Such as why you lime wash the walls and don’t paint them. How do you decide which parts of the building you are going to restore? If the original building dates from 1805 and someone added a bit in 1890 and again 1950, which do you leave and which to you remove? I don’t know enough about the topic to add value to it, but I will make this observation. None of the people involved were hard core enough to have the toilet outside. They argued that for a building to be preserved, it had to be useful, thus lived in. And who would today put up with going outside to the loo if the modern alternative is available. This echoes the issue of toilets in Makhaza in Cape Town.
And to everybody at the braai where I left early, once again my apologies. I just had to get back. Taking a wrong turn did not help with that either. I was never lost, because I knew where I was all the time. It just was not where I wanted to be. A bit like my life.
List of firsts:
1. Visited Bonnievale
2. Met the serene baby after 4 months of life
3. Touched a quince on a tree
4. Ate a fig off the tree (different tree)
5. Saw a grave desecrated. It was an accident. And if the nappy worked properly it would have not have been worth mentioning.
6. Ate tomato salad with about 4 different types of tomatoes
7. Visited a lived in, restored house of about 150 years
8. Visit Major’s Hill
9. Took a wrong turn and drove a gravel road from Gouda to Mooreesburg.
(1) A fungus concentrating the juice in the grapes by drinking the water in it.
(2) I once asked her what the French call French kissing. Just kissing apparently.
It was a weekend of firsts for me. I took a trip to Bonnievale, to visit with my cousins. Not all of them as they are quite numerous and just scheduling it would be Nobel Prize worthy. It was the first time I entered the town (village, if they close the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon, then it is a village) of Bonnievale. Some of my favourite wine farms are on the road to Bonnievale from Robertson. So the boot usually filled and the wallet emptied long before I reached even the outskirts of Bonnievale. I managed to stock up on wild yeast Chardonnay from both Major’s Hill and Springfield. Slightly sweeter from botrytis (1) and fermented in the barrel for the Major’s Hill. Definitely barrel fermented for the Springfield as well. What I did not know is that the interesting liquid, Timjan, is made near Bonnievale. I would have visited the factory to indulge in a spot of light masochism.
The cast of characters for the weekend: Me, The He-Architect, The She-Architect, The 2 year old architect, and the Serene baby Architect. The Philosopher, The French Author(2) and their 2 year old Mademoiselle. It was she who convinced me French is an easy language. If a two year old can master it...Come to think of it millions of toddlers can speak Mandarin. I must be stupid.
I was reminded again of the hard work that it is to raise children. The 2 year olds were busy. Extremely busy. So I saw in action again that parenting is a blend of bribery, cajoling, threatening and sudden topic shifts. As they start to cry their parents distract them with such a rapid direction change that I was left witless. Discussions where I could stay with the topic included schools, siblings, cousins, restoring old buildings and a reprise of a delightful conversation of about 9 years ago. The Philosopher and I were in Paris, at a fountain in the grounds of the Louvre. We took up the discussion of whether the recorder is an effeminate instrument. It remains one of the most memorable conversations in my life, but I guess you had to be there.
On the restoring of old buildings I learned a lot. Such as why you lime wash the walls and don’t paint them. How do you decide which parts of the building you are going to restore? If the original building dates from 1805 and someone added a bit in 1890 and again 1950, which do you leave and which to you remove? I don’t know enough about the topic to add value to it, but I will make this observation. None of the people involved were hard core enough to have the toilet outside. They argued that for a building to be preserved, it had to be useful, thus lived in. And who would today put up with going outside to the loo if the modern alternative is available. This echoes the issue of toilets in Makhaza in Cape Town.
And to everybody at the braai where I left early, once again my apologies. I just had to get back. Taking a wrong turn did not help with that either. I was never lost, because I knew where I was all the time. It just was not where I wanted to be. A bit like my life.
List of firsts:
1. Visited Bonnievale
2. Met the serene baby after 4 months of life
3. Touched a quince on a tree
4. Ate a fig off the tree (different tree)
5. Saw a grave desecrated. It was an accident. And if the nappy worked properly it would have not have been worth mentioning.
6. Ate tomato salad with about 4 different types of tomatoes
7. Visited a lived in, restored house of about 150 years
8. Visit Major’s Hill
9. Took a wrong turn and drove a gravel road from Gouda to Mooreesburg.
(1) A fungus concentrating the juice in the grapes by drinking the water in it.
(2) I once asked her what the French call French kissing. Just kissing apparently.
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