* With ovens that heat from below, biscuits easily get overbrowned bottoms. Lining baking trays with a double layer of baking paper usually prevents this.
Jumbo oat crisps
Big as small saucers, flat, crunchy and wholesome, these are best made in relays because they spread with such abandon.
125 g very soft butter
125 ml (½ cup) oil
250 ml (1 cup) granulated sugar
250 ml (1 cup) oats
250 ml (1 cup) wholewheat flour
125 ml (½ cup) cake flour
125 ml (½ cup) desiccated coconut
a pinch of salt
5 ml (1 tsp) bicarbonate of soda
15 ml (1 Tbsp) hot water
45–60 ml (3–4 Tbsp) currants
60 ml (4 Tbsp) sunflower seeds
5 ml (1 tsp) vanilla essence
Whisk together the butter, oil, sugar, oats, both flours, coconut and salt, combining well to make a soft dough. Dissolve the bicarbonate of soda in the hot water and add, mixing well, then mix in the currants, sunflower seeds and vanilla essence. Shape the mixture into a ball with your hands, then pinch off pieces and shape into flat patties by tossing between your palms. The dough is very sticky, and this is the best way to handle it. Place the patties on oiled, double-lined baking sheets, leaving plenty of room for spreading. Press down lightly with a fork, and bake at 180 °C for 15 minutes until they have grown into large, flat, golden-brown discs. As they will be very soft, leave on the trays to crisp for a few minutes, then use a spatula to remove to cooling racks. Makes 21 – or more, if you prefer to make smaller crisps.
Butter pecan snaps
A rich, crunchy picture-book cookie.
250 g soft butter
250 ml (1 cup) castor sugar
1 large free-range egg, beaten
5 ml (1 tsp) vanilla essence
750 ml (3 cups) flour – plain white, or cake, or half and half
5 ml (1 tsp) bicarbonate of soda
5 ml (1 tsp) ground cinnamon
2 ml (½ tsp) grated nutmeg
a pinch of sea salt
100 g pecan nuts, chopped
Cream the butter and castor sugar until light and pale. Beat in the egg and vanilla essence. Sift in, all together, the flour, bicarb, spices and salt, and whisk to make a soft dough. Add the pecans and, using your hands, work the mixture into a ball. Pinch off pieces and roll into fairly large marbles – the dough is very soft and it will be necessary to flour your hands now and then. Place well apart on baking sheets, first oiled and then lined with two layers of baking paper. Flatten lightly with a fork, and bake at 160 °C for 18–20 minutes until the cookies have spread into discs and are just beginning to brown round the edges. Use a spatula to transfer to a rack to cool. Makes 48.
OUMA’S ANISEED BUTTERMILK RUSKS
The favourite, old-fashioned, morning coffee dunk, neither too sweet nor buttery for so early in the day.
500 g self-raising flour
5 ml (1 tsp) salt
2 ml (½ tsp) baking powder
125 ml (½ cup) sugar
10 ml (2 tsp) aniseed, coarsely crushed with a rolling pin
125 g soft butter
1 XL free-range egg
200 ml (4/5 cup) buttermilk
Sift the flour, salt and baking powder into a large bowl, then mix in the sugar and aniseed. Rub in the butter until finely crumbled. Or melt the butter, which is quicker, and works just as well, and mix into the flour mixture before adding the remaining ingredients. Whisk the egg into the buttermilk, pour into the flour mixture, mix well and then start to knead. The more you knead, the better the rusks will rise. If the dough becomes sticky (which is unlikely), flour your hands as necessary; if too dry, add a drop more buttermilk, but be careful of making too soft a dough. Continue kneading until it forms a smooth, elastic ball and leaves the sides of the bowl clean. Break off eight equal pieces and work each one into a smooth, round ball. Place the balls up against each other in a medium-sized loaf tin (20 x 10 x 7 cm is just right) first brushed with oil and then lined, base and sides, with baking paper. Bake at 200 °C for 20 minutes, then at 180 °C for 30 minutes; test by poking a skewer into the centre. Leave to stand for 10 minutes before turning out onto a rack; remove paper, and leave until cool enough to handle. Break the balls apart, and then, with the help of a knife, nick and break open again – try not to cut right through, just here and there, and then break into rusk shapes. Place in a single layer on a baking sheet lined with several sheets of baking paper, and dry out in a very low oven, about 100 °C, turning once. Makes about 32, depending on size.
EASY WHOLEWHEAT BREAD WITH SEEDS AND RAISINS
An undisputed favourite, an any time nibbly bread that delights and fills up children and adults alike. It’s quick to make, and goes with everything any time of the day, but raisins may be left out if serving with a savoury dish.
4 x 250 ml (4 cups) wholewheat flour
250 ml (1 cup) white bread flour
1 x 10 g sachet instant dried yeast
7 ml (1½ tsp) salt
90 ml (6 Tbsp) sunflower seeds
30 ml (2 Tbsp) sesame seeds
125 ml (½ cup) seedless raisins (optional)
30 ml (2 Tbsp) oil
15 ml (1 Tbsp) each molasses and honey, or all honey, or all molasses*
about 500 ml (2 cups) very warm, but not hot water**
sunflower seeds, sesame seeds and poppy seeds for topping
In a large bowl, mix both the flours, the yeast, salt, seeds and raisins. Stir together the oil and molasses and/or honey, and mix in well. Mix in 250 ml (1 cup) of the warm water. Slowly add the remaining water, or just enough to make a soft and sticky batter – not sloppy, nor stiff. Oil the base and sides of a 26 x 9 x 7 cm loaf tin, then line with baking paper, base and sides. Spoon in the bread mixture, using a dampened wooden spoon to press in firmly and evenly and smooth the top. Sprinkle with the seeds in diagonal stripes, for a professional look, and leave in a warm place to rise until just over the top of the tin. In winter this could take as long as 1 hour. Bake at 200 °C for 30 minutes, then at 180 °C for 20 minutes. Stand a few minutes, then turn out, remove paper and knock on the bottom – if it sounds hollow, it’s done. Now cool on a rack or, if you want to crisp the sides, return to the switched-off oven, out of the tin and upside down, for about 10 minutes.
* Molasses adds colour, flavour, iron and minerals; give it a try.
** The only pitfall in making this bread lies in using water that is either too cold or too hot – in either case the yeast won’t rise. The water should be hotter than lukewarm but definitely not hot enough to make coffee. Practice will soon make perfect.
AMATILDA
‘I saw it with my own eyes. But don’t ask me what,’ she said, licking her third finger and pointing it heavenward, as though testing the wind, ‘because as true’s my name’s Sophia, I can never tell you. Not you, Anna, or anyone. Not until my dying day.’
Anna said nothing, she just stood at Sophia’s front gate, waiting patiently, knowing that sooner or later it would all come out.
‘Just now somebody hears me and then what?’ Sophia’s eyes darted this way and that. The street was deserted, but she nevertheless cupped her hand over her mouth. ‘If somebody hears me,’ she whispered, ‘you might as well bury me, finish klaar, right here in the ground among my flowers.’
Anna waited.
‘The trouble is,’ Sophia lowered her head, leaning closer, ‘the trouble is, a secret is like a fly in a bottle. It won’t lie down, and it won’t go away. It just buzzes there all the time, round and round and round, until in the end you can’t think of anything else. You know how it is.’
Anna nodded.
‘But what I always say is “A Secret Shared is A Secret Halved”, so I’ll just tell you quickly and get it over with. But remember …’
Sophia drew her finger across her tightly pursed lips.
Anna waited. ‘It’s Servaas.’
‘M
aria’s Servaas?’
‘Maria’s Servaas. Him and Amatilda.’
‘Oh my hat, Maria. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear it.’
‘You don’t want to hear it? Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Go on.’
Sophia took a deep breath. ‘He … he …’ She started to sweat.
Droplets came out on her forehead like late-morning dew, ran down her pleated face, fell on her neck and disappeared into the poly-printed blouse. ‘Servaas walked into the Coffee Shop and …’ she paused to watch a dog crossing the road. ‘Well, he walked into the shop, made straight for Amatilda and slapped her on her – you know what – he slapped her under her apron … but behind. Which isn’t so bad as otherwise … But I saw, and I said to him ‘Servaas, I saw you, and after you’ve been married all these years to one of the finest ladies in Corriebush. Ag, no Servaas!’
And he said, ‘I just wanted a cup of coffee, and I wanted it quickly, so what’s wrong with that? A slap for a coffee?’
‘Slap for a coffee my foot. Why can’t you just order at the counter like other people?’
Sophia would have been even more shocked had she known that Servaas, with his slap, had slipped a pound note into Amatilda’s belt, whispering, ‘For last week’s balls.’
From the day Amatilda had arrived in Corriebush in her yellow Beetle, the women had been uneasy about her presence.
‘She comes here just like that, no connections in the district, a woman on her own. Just pops into town and quick as a wink buys Johnny’s Club for cash. Now what does a person make of that?’
Purchasing The Club was not, however, the only reason for their ruffled feathers. Amatilda was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She had huge violet eyes, and chestnut hair that fell to her shoulders in a flurry of curls. She always wore lipstick and earrings, and sometimes a hat and pearls when she went shopping, tripping down the street in a soft halo of perfume.
‘Breath of the city,’ one remarked.
‘Breath of no good if you ask me,’ said another, and for a long time none of them would set foot in the Coffee Shop even though they peered inquisitively through the windows when they passed.
‘Must say it looks nice and clean,’ they agreed.
‘All those little tables with pink cloths and napkins to match. Flowers in the middle. Calendars on the walls. They say she’s in there early in the mornings, dusting and polishing.’
‘I hear she makes very good scones.’
‘And cinnamon pancakes.’
‘I wonder what she’s done with the old snooker table?’
‘At least THAT’S not a problem anymore.’
A few years before Amatilda’s arrival, a farmer by the name of Johnny Smit decided to retire to town. Johnny had been a widower for many years and was beginning to find life on the farm altogether too much.
‘All on my own there, and I’m not getting any younger you know, so it seems the sensible thing to do.’
And when Number Three came up for sale, he bought it and moved in. But in no time Johnny was bored.
‘No windmills to fix, no sheep to dip, no lucerne to bale, I really need to get my teeth into something.’
And so he moved the rooms around a bit, knocked out one wall, bought some new furniture and opened The Club in Number Three, operating from five in the afternoons until eight at night every day except Sundays, and no women allowed.
The notice he put in the window read: Attention! Attention! This Club is an invitation to all the men of Corriebush who would like to roll up their sleeves, light a cigar, and have a little innocent fun at the end of the day. See the other window for opening times, and no wives. (signed) J. T. Smit, owner and proprietor.
Johnny laid on snooker and poker and darts, and a small pub in one corner, and in no time the place was buzzing. Some of the men went a couple of times a week. Some went every afternoon. It was a new experience, this, sitting down with their friends, having a round together, playing games, telling jokes. Johnny’s Club was always noisy, loud with laughter and thick with smoke. The men loved it, and their wives rose up like a flock of angry buzzards.
‘What’s wrong with sitting at home drinking coffee on their own stoeps?’ they asked each other angrily.
‘Who knows what they might get up to, drinking into the night?’
‘Playing cards for money?’
‘Telling rude stories?’
‘You know what they’re like when they get together.’
They needed to take action and so they worked out a plan, simple as pie. Their men could go to Johnny’s Club if that’s what they wanted, but when they got home the supper table would have been cleared, and their wives asleep in bed. No food, and no foxtrot. Day after day, week after week. It worked like a dream.
‘You know, James,’ said Servaas, plucking his dart from the board. ‘I’ve got a problem at home, and even hitting the bull’s eye doesn’t make me feel good anymore.’
‘If it’s what I think it is, then I have it too,’ said James.
Asking around, they found that every Club member was having the same trouble.
‘Cold food, cold women. Time to hands up, boys.’
And so the Corriebush men admitted defeat and went back to their pipes and sundowner coffees on their own stoeps. Johnny Smit’s married daughter felt sorry for him and persuaded him to come and live with her in Port Elizabeth. And so Number Three stood empty. Until Amatilda burst into town, bought Number Three, and turned it into the Coffee Shop, which immediately became the women’s new threat.
‘You watch. The men will be there all day, like bees round a honey pot. Never mind that at home they can have tea and cake without having to pay for it.’
‘It’s her looks you have to watch out for. My mother always said no man can resist a pretty face, and she knew what she was talking about because my father ran away with one.’
‘If it’s not one thing, it’s another. If it’s not Johnny and his brandy, it’s Amatilda and her cups of coffee.’
And yet – one had to hand it to the women of Corriebush – their hearts were warm and not unfair, and as the months passed they gradually softened. Amatilda was undeniably charming.
‘She’s so cheerful and friendly a person can’t just look the other way. Even if you’re on the other side of the street she waves and calls hello.’
‘I hear she gives pensioners tea for nothing if they order cake.’
‘And I must say the pot plants she puts on the pavement do look very pretty.’
‘And she does keep to herself after hours.’
‘You shouldn’t judge a bird by its feathers, I always say.’
And after a few weeks they were all dropping in for morning coffee or afternoon tea.
It was a slow beginning, but everything was going surprisingly well until Amatilda started Friday Evening Circle.
Suddenly one day there were little printed cards tucked under the sugar bowls on each table. They read: Starting next week, 7 pm sharp. Men only. Lots of fun and surprises. Only six at a time, so booking is essential. See you! Love, Amatilda.
The women passed the cards round. From table to table and then from house to house. They were scandalized.
‘Coffee and tea, fine. But this?’
The clucking and fretting went on for a while, and then they decided that only by taking a really firm stand would they stop their men.
‘We’ll tell them that if they go it’s finish klaar.’
‘We’ll lock them out on Friday nights.’
‘Shut them in on Friday nights.’
‘Tell the dominee.’
Their men simply ignored them. Every Friday evening, six husbands would walk out of their front doors and straight to Number Three. After the last man had entered, the lights would be dimmed, and the curtains drawn.
The women – Lily and Maria, Anna and Sophia, Nellie and Amelia – were confounded.
‘It’s terrible to think that all our husbands are taking part,�
� said Lily.
‘Terrible,’ agreed Maria. ‘And Servaas always wears his Sunday shirt!’
‘When James creeps in at ten, I can smell her perfume on him.’
‘Last week Charlie took a whole handful of food money out of the tin in the pantry with him. I saw him.’
‘One woman, six men? Every week? It’s a disgrace, if what I think it is is what it is.’
‘Well, if it isn’t what it is, then what is it?’
‘If only I knew exactly what they were doing.’
‘Come now Sophia, you weren’t born yesterday.’
For a while they hoped that there might be a decent explanation, but when none was forth-coming, the fight simply went out of them and a dull resignation and sadness took its place. Until the Friday night that Bronnie Evans entered Number Three – and exposed them all.
Bronnie was the local librarian, a studious, serious woman who had never married and lived with her old mother in a cottage behind the library. On this particular Friday evening, Bronnie had arranged for the children taking part in the annual nativity play to come to a rehearsal in the Reading Room. They had just started, and were busy draping a blanket over one of the benches to look like a sheep, when the lights went out. Bronnie rushed to her cottage for candles, which helped a little, but she could not see well enough to read her notes and the children were showing signs of nerves, so she locked them in and went in search of Daniel, the town’s engineer.
‘Oh dear, Bronnie, he’s at … at … Amatilda’s, I’m afraid. You know how it is.’ Amelia looked weepy. ‘I can’t fetch him, but perhaps you can? You’ll find him there all right, Bronnie. Just tell him it’s urgent.’
At last Amelia saw a glimmer of hope.
Bronnie did not have to be let in. She found the door unlocked so she gently pushed it open, her heart fluttering all over the place because she had heard that certain men were up to no good on Friday nights in there. But she wouldn’t turn back now. There were the children waiting in the dark library, and poor Amelia weeping. So she quietly edged down the two steps and into the shop. It was empty.
Fig Jam and Foxtrot Page 17