“Puh-lease!” I try to lighten the mood. “I’m doing it for myself! I’ve never been at a school without a tuck shop before. It’s sheer hell.”
Everyone laughs. Many a true word is spoken in jest, my Oupa Jack always says.
“Okay, dudes and dudettes, first things first. What names have you come up with? Remember, we’re looking for something that’s fun, that’ll roll off the tongue. The name needs to capture the character of our tuck shop. Shoot, I’ll take notes.” Shaun has his pen poised for action.
“Pit Stop!” Dineo shouts, setting the wheels in motion so to speak.
“The Filling Station,” says Dewald. “Or maybe The Fuel Station?”
“How about just ‘Fuel’?” I ask. That doesn’t go down well, but Shaun writes it down anyway.
“Dewald’s Diner” is Ilana’s contribution. She really should stick to drawing pictures.
“I don’t want my name on it,” Dewald says glumly.
“You sure? I kinda like it,” Shaun nods while scribbling feverishly to keep up with our creative flow.
“Grab and Go?” I venture.
“Hell no, that sounds too much like a hijacking,” says Dewald.
“Or a guy who cops a feel but doesn’t call the next day,” Dineo says. We all have a little giggle.
We’re on a roll. Hey, wait a minute ... My brain cells do a double-take.
“On a Roll,” I say. First softly, then louder. “On a Roll!”
“Yes, we are!” Shaun says, not even looking up. His pen moves across the page at a court stenographer’s pace.
“No man, I mean the name of our tuck truck! Why don’t we call it On a Roll? Our main menu can offer hero rolls with all kinds of fillings.” I let this sink in for a minute. We all look at each other. It’s a cool name and it looks like everyone agrees.
“Love it,” says Shaun.
“Me too.” Dineo’s cheeks dimple slowly as a twinkly smile reaches her eyes. “I love it very much.”
“And the coolest thing is that we’ll be selling hero rolls. Think about the possibilities!” Ilana is sketching in her exam pad. I can see an Amazon warrior woman with huge boobs and a nipped waist taking shape. Striking a Statue of Liberty pose, she holds a plate with a massive hero roll on it, lettuce curling wildly where the two halves of the bun meet.
Dineo looks up at Dewald. “So, what’s going to be on your menu?”
“I want to keep it simple. Maybe two types of hero rolls. Chicken and lamb. My mom’s famous frikkadels, which we can sell in packets of three with a little glass jar of chutney for dipping. The Grump said the food has to be healthy, filling and inexpensive. The Geyers from The Golden Oven bakery will supply us with fresh rolls daily if we can collect them ourselves. All they ask is that we give them some advertising space somewhere on the Kombi. I plan to make all the fillings over weekends and freeze them. For our sweet option, I was thinking of pancakes with caramel filling. I can make the pancakes and freeze them in advance too. Brownies and blondies also freeze well. I’m going to include a Banting option – for the The Grump, you know, and for the girls who want to fit into their matric farewell dresses. I’ll have to come in early every morning to get the stuff out to defrost. That’s no problem. On the farm, I’m awake before the chickens anyway. We open the Kombi during first break and heat the fillings as people place their orders. And we make the heroes as the orders come in. Everything fresh daily, and minimum wastage.” Dewald has clearly considered every detail.
For a while, we sit in complete silence. It’s a lot of information to digest.
“Flippit, bro, you’ve done some serious planning.” Dineo says what we’re all thinking.
“I watch enough Food Channel to know that logistics are ninety per cent of a fast-food business. It’s freaking hard work. But if systems are in place, this old Kombi of ours will be firing on all cylinders, metaphorically speaking.”
We all nod enthusiastically.
Dewald feels about food preparation the way other guys his age feel about rugby or computer games.
Ilana’s been drawing all this time and now holds up her exam pad for us to see.
The cartoon superwoman she sketched earlier now sports a traditional floral apron. She’s not wearing it the usual way, tied around her waist. It’s tied from behind, around her neck, and floats out behind her like a superhero’s cape. She stretches out a hand and offers us a plate containing three round meatballs and a tub of dipping sauce. The food is much larger than the heroine. The caption says: Alma's Awesome Frikkadels with Mrs Ball's chutney.
The speech bubble popping from the heroine’s mouth says:
“Bingo!” Shaun yells. “I love it!”
“Ilana, it’s perfect!” I high-five her.
We’re all rolling around on the floor at the clever twist about balls. Let’s hope The Grump has the balls to accept it.
“We can think of cool names for all the menu items. Our daily special board can say something like, Today’s superheroes are on a roll! Hunger is the enemy. It must be destroyed!” There’s no stopping Illana now.
Something magical is happening in the shipping crate. Somehow, a creative hotspot has formed and it’s bringing out the best in all of us. For the first time in my life, I’m part of a group that accepts me just as I am. No, because of who I am. I can hardly believe my luck. Somewhere inside me, a pessimistic Hungry Noldy voice pipes up and tells me it won’t last long, but I ignore it.
We break for hot chocolate and Dewald’s granadilla cupcakes, but we’re eager to get back to planning.
We’re all fired up.
At five o’clock, when Edwin and Oom Simon come to tell us they’re locking the workshop for the day, we’re disappointed, but at least we now have a clear idea of what’s to be done, and by when.
It’s the end of the first Monday of the best winter holiday of my life.
Blondes have more fun
When can you test my recipes? I need feedback. Date, time, place? I’ll bring the food in Tupperware.
The text is from Dewald. I read it again and again, clasping my cellphone to my heart as I try to suppress my sheepish grin. He trusts my judgement. My opinion of his food counts more than that of the others.
I think carefully before I reply.
We can’t exactly sit and eat our own food at The Dairy Devil.
Come to our place. My mom will be here, but she’s cool. You can use her as a taster too. She can be brutally honest.
I add three wide-eyed emojis.
Brutally honest is what I want. Tomorrow afternoon?
Dewald Fourie is coming to visit me. Me, Arnelia van Zyl! What shall I wear? Where will we sit? I wonder if it’s possible to lose three kilos in one morning? Probably only if I had an arm amputated. And a leg.
I look at the chaos in our cramped lounge and realise I haven’t thought this through properly. I should have arranged our meeting on neutral ground. Now I’m going to stress about our stupid flat and all its faults. The other night everything looked okay in the dim candlelight. Now Dewald’s coming to visit me in the unforgiving light of day. Me!
I immediately start tidying up.
The upholstery of our sofa is threadbare and Mom has thrown an old hippie bedspread over it to hide the holes. Mom’s CDs and old magazines are scattered everywhere. I try to stack them into neat piles. Saturday night’s candles are burnt right down and I throw the waxy stubs away.
Mom is in her workroom and I knock softly at the door.
“Yes, thank you, honey! I’d love a cup of tea!” she says optimistically.
“May I bother you for a minute?” I ask. My mother’s space is off limits when she’s working and deep in thought.
“Bother me by all means, please, so I can stop bothering myself. I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with this soul-destroying academic nonsense I have t
o translate. How on earth do lecturers expect students to understand this highfalutin language?”
“Mom, Dewald’s coming here tomorrow afternoon. He wants us to – well, me – he wants me to help him decide on his menu. It’s for the ... for our ... pop-up shop.” I use one of her pink sticky-note words to put her in a good mood.
“Can you hear how I’m using innovative words when I talk, Ma?” I add. Innovative was the Word of the Week just a little while ago.
She plays along: “You make me very happy, Noldy.”
She clicks ‘Save’ on her keyboard and swivels around in her office chair to face me.
“Well, the menu idea sounds great. You definitely know what good food should taste like. Why do you look so worried?”
“Ma, please don’t be weird tomorrow,” I plead.
My mother has a special facial expression for situations like these. I don’t know how she does it, but her face turns into something between Have you forgotten that I was in labour for thirty-two hours when you were born? And: You are the centre of my universe and deserve only the very best. This deadly combination can make one feel like a dog. A very naughty dog that’s just gnawed its owner’s favourite Persian carpet to shreds.
“Of course, Arnelia.” She uses my real name, which means she’s a little hurt. “I’ll file my weirdness under ‘W’ until the young man has left. Promise. Or perhaps I’ll just try to not be outlandish or peculiar. See, there are perfect alternatives for the word ‘weird’. ”
Mom never believes me when I tell her that Mr Crawford thinks my English language skills are excellent. Thanks to her sustained attempts to turn me into a mini version of herself, I speak the purest English in my school. True story. It’s only here at home that I’m constantly being called out. What’s that saying again? About the king who isn’t honoured in his own country? Here I am, hauling out all Mom’s old adages, even in my thoughts.
“Aw, Ma, you know what I mean. It’s not every day that a guy visits me. Could you just stay in the background and not try to join our conversation, or to be cool or ask personal questions?” My begging session has now turned into a full-scale plea and my voice sounds high and whiny. The few times in my life I’ve dared to invite friends over to our home, my mother has seriously embarrassed me. She just tries too hard. “I want him to think we’re a normal family – one without drama. He’s got enough stuff to deal with at the moment.”
“Very well,” she says. “But first give me alternatives for ‘stuff’ and ‘deal’, and then make me a cup of tea.”
“He has enough challenges to cope with, Ma.” I turn and walk to the kitchen.
There isn’t a more ardent campaigner for language than Lente van Zyl. And yes, ardent is one of her stickynote words.
I’m busy trying on my seventh outfit when the doorbell rings. Mom has strict instructions not to answer. Opening the door is my job. Quick as lightning, I jump into the very first outfit I tried. Yep, you’ve guessed it: boyfriend jeans and black hoodie. I don’t have time to pull on my shoes and so open the door barefooted and breathless.
Dewald has a cooler box with him.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he says as he saunters in.
“I was born hungry,” I say, knowing it is no exaggeration. Mom always tells whoever wants to hear how greedy I was when she breastfed me.
“Shall we sit in the kitchen?” I ask and steer him swiftly past the ragged old sofa and our ancient TV.
“Sure.”
I pour orange juice into two of my That ’70s Show glasses that Mom bought on eBay, and take out a stack of little pudding bowls for the tasting portions.
Dewald lifts his glass. “No way! That ’70s Show! I thought I was the only person in this town who knows about this sitcom.”
I’m as surprised as he is.
“Who’s your favourite character?” I ask.
“Hyde. He’s so chill, man!”
I laugh, because he sounds just like Hyde would have sounded if Hyde had grown up in Potchefstroom, South Africa.
“Well, mine is—”
He interrupts me before I can finish. “Fez?”
Apparently, I’m that predictable.
“Do you know what Fez’s name stands for?” I ask.
“Of course. It’s short for Foreign Exchange Student.”
It’s a sign, I think. We could be soulmates.
Dewald heats the first batch of filling in the microwave. It’s a light lamb curry that he plans to use in hollowed-out buns, like miniature bunny chows. There are two variations.
“Taste this one first and tell me what you think,” he says, handing me the first little bowl.
I take a bite of the flavourful lamb curry. It’s tangy, but sweetish and turmeric yellow, with lots of gravy. Ouma Dina would call that kind of gravy a lang sous: gravy that goes a long way. I can see and taste potato, star anise and peas. It’s really good.
“I like the sweetness in this curry. What did you put in it? Apricot jam?”
“Hey! You’re good!” He’s surprised.
“Potatoes are my favourite vegetable,” I say.
When I was little, my mom would make mashed potatoes for me when I was sad. Mash with knobs of butter and a dash of cream. Nothing comforts like potatoes.
“I like the way the turmeric has turned the potatoes all golden in this curry.”
“In food, as in life, everything is influenced by the things they come into contact with,” he says philosophically.
He’s looking at my mouth. Oh, man, he’s looking at my mouth. I wonder if I have a curry moustache. I dab my lips with a paper serviette. It comes away clean.
“Now taste this one,” he says, dishing a spoonful of reddish meat into a clean bowl.
“Mmmm, this one is stronger,” I declare.
“It sure is,” Dewald confirms. He looks at me as if his life depends on what I’m about to say next.
“Less flavour, more bite. I prefer the yellow one. The strong curry is going to scare off the conservative palates in the school. And, hey, yellow matches our bus.”
Dewald laughs. “You have a point, Arnie.”
Arnie! He called me ‘Arnie’! My very own, bespoke nickname, just for me, conjured up by Dewald Fourie! He must really like me.
I have to stop myself from floating right out the window on my little cloud.
We spend the entire afternoon at the old kitchen table. At intervals, Dewald dishes one of his experiments into a bowl and writes down everything I say about it. He makes me feel like some kind of food connoisseur.
We talk about food, sometimes about other things too. About what excites us. What scares us. I’ve never had this kind of conversation before. Not with anyone. Least of all a guy.
“When did you realise cooking is your thing?” I ask.
“I think it’s my mother’s influence. She wasn’t someone to talk much. She showed us her love through the food she made for us. If Nina or I had a bad day at school, she’d pick up on it and bake us a cake out of the blue. On a weekday, for no special reason. It was her way of saying: I see you, and I care.”
“Wow.” I realise I must be staring at him dreamily. I make an effort to sit up straight.
“Yep, she was amazing. She made me realise that food is a language all on its own.”
“And that’s what you want to do with your life? Speak the language of food?”
Dewald smiles his crooked smile, as if he’s just realised the same thing. “I think so, yes.”
Well, it’s your lucky day, Dewald Fourie, I think to myself. Because I understand food just as well as you speak it!
“It’s weird,” I say as the sun is setting, “how a person’s taste develops. I mean, for so many years of my life potatoes were everything. They were my first food favourite and my safety blanket. Potatoes in any form – mashe
d, roasted, but also fries and potato salad. Then I woke up one day and realised that’s all over. Now I can’t remember when last I had potatoes, and it doesn’t matter, because last night I had roasted sweet potatoes with chilli and it was to die for. And maybe I’ll have couscous tomorrow, because that’s delicious too. Does it work that way for you?”
“Absolutely,” Dewald nods. “Many of my childhood favourites were bland compared to the spicier flavours I prefer now. My favourites keep evolving; my cooking changes all the time. The same goes for other things in life. I mean, when you’re a kid, you want to be just like your friends. You seek out chommies who are like mash – people who don’t expect too much of you, who slot nicely into your comfort zone. As you get older, people who are a little different from you begin to interest you.” Dewald looks into my eyes for a few seconds longer than necessary, before cutting one of the blondie squares into quarters.
“Have a taste of this blonde bomb. I call her Marilyn.” He hands me the plate.
“Wait! I have the perfect background music for this. Food is a multisensory experience, isn’t it?” I look up Blondie on Mom’s iPod that’s sitting in its docking station on the kitchen counter. The song I want to play is ‘Call Me’. Krrrr, the iPod’s dial grumbles as I turn it.
“Old school,” Dewald says, amused when he sees the old iPod. “Who teaches you words like ...” – he tries to remember the big word – “… multisensorious?”
I chuckle. “My mom. She’s a total language freak. And it’s multisensory, meaning more than one of your senses are stimulated.”
“I dig the way you talk,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “It’s ... weird, but cool.”
The kitchen fills with the sound of Debbie Harry’s unique voice: Cover me with kisses, baby, cover me with love ... That’s one thing about living alone with Mom, my music taste is definitely not confined to Taylor Swift or Billie Eilish.
We each take a bite of the traditional brownie’s caramel-coloured sister, the blondie.
“Oh. My. Word,” I say, as the fudgy piece of heaven dissolves on my tongue. “Another winner, Chef Fourie.”
Confessions of a Ginger Pudding Page 7