You could have just said "I'm not pregnant."

Souvenir from Africa

"But I'm NOT pregnant," says Extranjera to the Hubby after reading some of the comments left in response to her previous post.

"Nope. No sirree. Not at all," she continues, while the Hubby glances at her and pretends to listen, while he is actually playing some inane game on Facebook, and is probably thinking more about whether to recruit his new-to-social-media-and-thus-all-excited-and-baffled-by-it mother to his virtual vampire army, than anything even remotely close to producing offspring. Unless that offspring were undead. And on Facebook.  

"Uh huh... Hmm, vampire spawn?" he responds, and clicks with his mouse.

Extranjera is bewildered: "Not even a little bit pregnant, or in that movie-star way that Jennifer Lopez wasn't when she ended up having twins with that skinny guy, and that we all think Jessica Simpson might [not?] be, but then we remember that she isn't actually getting any bigger," she iterates, "And so, yes, I'm not pregnant like Jessica Simpson, which is to say that I like my burgers. With lots of mayo too. The ones made of beef of course, not of babies. Other than that, no link whatsoever."

"Eating babies. Uh huh. The Chinese? No, sorry, dogs," the Hubby compassionately pitches in.

"Yah. The Chinese. Google's fighting them too," Extranjera assures the inattentive Hubby, "But so no babies. No. Not in the uterus, or the stomach, or really even on the mind. And the bottom line is that the only way I'll even acquire a baby is if someone, somewhere in the world (crazier things have happened, and it turns out that regardless of my genes, I can hug after all and it doesn't even make me gag [I know, I'm just as surprised as everyone else]), gives me a baby to take care of," she goes on.

"Personally, I won't be popping them out. Ever," she adds with conviction.

"I know, hun. The Chinese should just give you a baby and stop eating them. That would be the humane thing to do," the Hubby says, "Do you think my mom will understand the word decapitate?" 

The loudspeaker above this dialogue crackles and the nasal voice of an oldish woman comes on.

"We break this interesting exchange to bring you a very important notice regarding the main character in this blog: She is most certainly not pregnant, just really busy, and currently on her way to the airport to pick up yet more guests, the second bunch, and won't be back online until the 25th, and then with fears of similar exchanges since the last, and third, installment of guests consists of her in-laws. Although she is too busy working and entertaining at the moment to be online, she should be back by then and be most certainly driven to drink. Again."

"We here at the crossroads of the Super Id, Guilt and Perfection thank you for your attention, wish you a lovely week, and hope to see you back on the 25th. Or thereabouts."

I'm already out the door

I blog best when nothing happens. I have come to realize that. I also wouldn't want to use this space as my diary, or as a place to organize my thoughts. I would rather write something you all some of you would enjoy reading.

But today I'm all about excuses and explanations, and very little of actual blogging.

So in short, too much is going on.

I'm having jobs, all of them actual photography gigs, thrown at me thanks to some incredibly serendipitous turns of events, and seeing as I know most of them are beyond my current abilities, there's quite a lot of stress, lenses, and general tripod-wreaked havoc going on. And plenty of me faking a capable photographer with chatter about portfolios, lighting, composition, and photoshop (by which I mean iPhoto, Elements, or Lightroom, since the actual Photoshop completely eludes me, but no one [apart from you, my lovely bleeps] needs to know that, and we are, after all, still more or less under the same-ish umbrella. No?).

There is also an incredibly cool project that Lynne of Wheatlands News is launching in the new year, I've managed to get myself involved in, and that I want to keep participating in to the best of my abilities. After all, the project enables me to do one of the few things I do, and have always done, extremely well - complain. In writing. For all the world to see. Thank you Lynne for this awesome opportunity to project my snark out there for all to enjoy read!

On top of that, new classes will start after Christmas, right when we are getting visitors. Three sets of them. Some of them my in-laws (there is a comment just aching to come out right here, but I have promised to Hubs to be respectful and nice[ish], so just insert your own baggage here please). Back to back. From three different countries. Who'll all be coming to South Africa for the first time. The first group of visitors arrives in little over two weeks, and the only thing I've done so far to prepare, is going out and getting 50 quality bottles of wine, and don't really see myself extending far beyond that either. Whilst they are here I'm confident I'll comfortably fake a hostess and a tour guide.

There is a clear connection between wine and the birthday boy after all, and if I can fake a photographer, I can surely fake a hostess/ tour guide. No sweat. This way, please. To enjoy the body of the man of the day, in largish quantities.

And it's summer. And the sun is shining, and the pool beckons with its turquoise water and the possibility of an afternoon spent reading a good book while sipping on some pale variation of the body of our savior. With ice.

I have excuses. Even religiously motivated ones. Surely I'm off the hook?

Ousting the ugly stepsister

"Oh Summer, where art thou?" she exclaimed into the frosty air, while wearing her winter coat indoors.  

Just as I, and everyone else in our neck of the sticks of Jozi, finally thought that the summer had come to stay for the entire, well, summer, the big S decided to sneakily abscond overnight and leave us with her unkempt, rainy, cold, and not that nice stepsister, whom I like to call Notmer, in the spirit of that Paris Hilton flick, the Hottie and the Nottie (or something to equally stupid effect), which I will refuse to see until I see Hitler skiing down our driveway.

(HA! The joke's on AH and PH. Our driveway is uphill. HA! Although, it being a complicated wittiness neither of them might get it, in which case the joke is wasted on both Adolf and Paris. Oh well.)

And Notmer, like all ugly stepsisters in the history of fairy-tales, is up to no good. She clearly wants to punish all of us for something horrendous that we've done, and freeze our asses off. Which in theory sounds like an easy and quick way to lose weight, but in practice involves much suffering and a steep drop in the libido department, as no one wants to grab a cold butt cheek, a butt cheek that might come off in one's grasp at any moment, or worse yet, some cold air at where the backside used to be located, only to find the backside on the floor beside the bed, completely out of reach.

Or at least I don't.

So what is there to do to cheer up? To at least warm the brain, if the glutes (as my physiotherapist calls the derriere, and consistently fools me into wondering what that Indian butter-derivative was called again and whether there is any chance that instead of talking about some non-existent muscle on my body, she might have switched to talking about cooking instead, which then turns out to be pure wishful thinking when she stretches my gluteus in a way it wasn't ever meant to be stretched, and just creates despondency on my part and on the part of both of my glutes) are just beyond rescue in the warmth department?

A list. A random list

Of course. When in doubt, what could save the day like a random list of sunny things? Nothing, I tell you. Or maybe a cheeseburger, some wine, and some sun, but writing that would just be facetious. And that is something I just cannot be associated with. I might lose my credibility for good. A credibility I've worked so hard to build and hold onto with my cold fingers as hard as I can.

Ag, shame.

But the list of sunny sunniness:

• Google (An attempt at suck-up to see whether that does anything for the unfortunate weather. A sort of virtual prayer in disguise. Dear Google, do you really want to see me assless? I think not.)
• Coffee. Black. First thing in the morning.
• Brad Paisley. 
• Wine and drinking it in good company (preferably with Brad Paisley, but also the Hubby will do, unless his ass has already fallen off at that point). And especially if it happens to be a bottle of Kanonkop Cabernet Sauvignon 2004 which has got to be the best wine ever, and which I still hold 4 bottles of and will only enjoy in my own very good company.  
• Siri Hustvedt's What I Loved.  
• Simpsons, South Park, Family Guy, Futurama, American Dad, and all of those bottomless wells of inspiration for a dirty, twisted mind. 
• Loretta Lynn, the original Coal Miner's Daughter. 
• Coffee, especially filter coffee.
• Puppies
• Posters of puppies on someone else's wall providing an additional layer of warmth to the basic warmth of puppies, because you will be able to laugh at that person for having one of those weird posters of puppies on their wall, which is just plain old pathetic, if you ask me, and I know you didn't, but when has that stopped me from stepping on some toes, not ever, I tell you.
• Skype and people, like Ph.D. Mommy, willing to use it to listen to me say "I fokken hate working with people" in severel different languages.
• Coffee. And plenty of it. 
• Learning isiXhosa through tweets. 
• 3-minute eggs, unless they are organic, because that apparently means that they look like eggs but taste like fish gone bad with a twist of wet towel. #Brandfail Woolworth's (What? I'm not on Twitter? Since when?) 
• Golf
• Coffee, and especially lattes.  
• Blogging about nothing.
• Elephants. And one rhino.
• Not having to ever do any math anymore, yet having enough money not to be later pissed off about accidentally tipping someone 124%
• making pointless lists.
• The guy who always packs my groceries into my car and his funky hat.

The list is obviously not complete, but I need to pee and that involves removing several upon several layers of clothing and, well, there are no guarantees that I'll soon be back from that journey, so I'll just go ahead and publish, and hope that some of you will be kind enough to list your own sunny sunniness right here on my comments or maybe even on your own blog, or maybe on the phone to your mother, or even Twitter. Who knows? I won't, unless you tell me. And you should.

I'm totally confused now. See you on the other side of the toilet? I guess.

i rely love yuor bloog;

Today at the scrumptious hotel breakfast the manager of the hotel came and sat down with us for a while. The following took place:

Hotel Manager: (in a machine gun fashion while holding his breath) So have you been able to get around Lusaka at all? Well, there really isn't that much to see, is there? Are you getting bored already?

Me: Oh no, not at all. I'm just doing here exactly what I would be doing at home any...

Hotel Manager: (cutting me off) I can organize for my secretary to take you to this wonderful place where they sell gemstones. Garnets, amethysts. My wife loves the place.

Hubby lets out a very audible shriek and his eyes roll back into his head (No, this behavior does not embarrass me at all). 

Hotel Manager: (to hubby) No no, they are not expensive. I would in no way want to bankrupt you. (to me) I think you would enjoy it. I bought my daughter's birthday, christmas and graduation gifts from there. You see, they all match. Isn't it wonderful? For a hundred dollars you can get an amazing ring, or a pair of earrings?

Me: Thank you. Uhm... perhaps... yes... hmm...well. (finally resorting to flagging down a waiter and asking for more coffee).

I am now left wondering whether I really look that bored or that jewelry happy. I am majorly JH, but it's not supposed to show, and I feel I have been having a great time in Zambia. 

I have been busy drinking cheap wine, reading, getting quite a bit of writing done, not to mention hanging out in the blog-o-sphere, making new acquaintances, and reading up on the old ones, when the internet has been working that is. On a side note, if my novel is ever published I will have to thank this hotel for their crap internet connection, and for thus curbing my Facebook addiction, enabling me to write instead. Sad but true...

However, this hanging out on the internet combined with cheap wine has brought on a new issue. The real point of this post:

Commenting while intoxicated. 

I believe that the sad trend of either calling or texting your ex after having had much too much to drink has been well documented, but what about the newer trends of drunken (and stupid) facebook statuses, Twittering under the influence, wine-fueled hotmailing, googling old crushes after some beers and WikiWorldbook informing them of this, post bar-crawl blogging, and my personal downfall, the above mentioned commenting while intoxicated.

I have been told that there is some sort of site somewhere on the internet where you can go and answer some questions and after answering you will either be allowed access to your e-mail, facebook, blogger, etc accounts, or you will be classified as too drunk and told to try again the next day. If anyone knows the whereabouts of this miraculous invention, the information would be much appreciated.

As you can probably gather from this lament, no such site is in use when I'm out there cruising the highways of the world wide web. Nope. No sirree.

Yesterday, for some reason I quoted the bible in one of my comments. Me, the atheist. If you are the owner of that specific blog - sorry. You might be religious and not appreciate my grand idea of comparing the 'meek of the earth' to people who have no problem queuing for unspecified amounts of time. The thought seemed very logical at the time. 

A couple of days ago I also recommended 'cimifuga' to someone, only I couldn't remember how to spell it so it came out more like 'fumigator', which taken for PMS might be a bad idea. Again, my apologies.

Lastly, I greatly regret all of my spit-related (in or out of beverages) comments. I have been preoccupied with the thought for some days now and it might have spilled over to some of the comments. Mea culpa. I will lay off of the spit now.

I also apologize for the spelling, or the lack thereof, and any other weird things I might have written, such as things in languages you have no knowledge of, or referring to a post you certainly did not write (problem with multiple windows).

Thank Zeus most of you have no idea who I am, and those of you who do, probably see this as an improvement. 

At least I'm keeping in touch for once.  

Playing the hostess

Hurrah! Something different is on the horizon.

A guest is arriving tomorrow, all the way from the, apparently still freezing north. You may remember me mentioning a potential visit before, but as of couple of weeks ago the 'potential' part was discarded, and she is taking off as we speak, to spend a whopping 12 hour lay-over at a bigger European hub, but on her way nonetheless. 

I am seriously excited to show off this wonderful country. Be it my late lack of excitement (or the 'excitement' having been limited to a trim at the hairdressers and a breast ultrasound at the gynecologist's. Fun.), I am brimming with hostess-like grace (or as close to grace as I ever get), anxiously awaiting the maid who was supposed to be here between two hours ago and now (new service, more on it later) and is supposed to iron the guest sheets and wash the still lingering results of a pork rasher cooking extravaganza off of the surfaces. 

This just in: The company called with profuse apologies. The lady hadn't had her ID with her so the guards had not let her in... She must look threatening, since they didn't call me to come and pick her up. Hmph.

I am officially on my tippytoes out of sheer excitement.

What do we have planned then? Lots and lots of stuff, more than enough, all crammed in the two weekends she will be spending with us. From Monday to Thursday she will be living it up in the amazing Cape Town Waterfront per my instructions titled 'If I was a thirsty-for-South-African-wines single girl'. Through this part, I will live (and drink) vicariously.

Naturally we will be taking her on one of my preferred routes: From a Soweto shebeen to the fake skies of Montecasino. This route is a true personal favorite. It lets the guest see the two extremes of South African living, and also sample local beer and lots of other drink, which is always a bonus in my books. Drink will also be sampled on Hatfield square and in it's varying bars and clubs (new for us, but feeling the pressures of entertaining a single person with something besides our lovely faces), as well as in the wilderness of Groenkloof nature reserve. First we'll hike and hopefully spot some creatures, and then we'll open bottles over a nice traditional braai. Yum. Some of my favorite restaurants will also be on the visit list, and their wine lists will certainly be ogled.

For our visitor's second weekend here with us we have a special treat in store, for ourselves as well as for her. We'll be spending two nights in a five star lodge in a nearby big nature reserve, complete with a bath tub overlooking a watering hole, lions and elephants, 2 daily game drives in an open vehicle, delicious meals, and plenty of South African wine (in case this was not obvious already). As odd as it may seem coming from a woman who manages to do nothing all day long, I really need to get away, to have a little vacation and see something else besides the 'Mexican Sand'-colored walls of our house! Isn't it ironic? The flippin' color is actually officially called just that. 

   

I hope our visitor likes it all. 

I hope I like her... Oh man. I haven't seen her in six years and the last time I really talked to her was probably 15 years ago. I do remember liking her a lot when I was 10. Man, oh man. 

Facebook is a wondrous thing. 

 

Blue Bulls vs. Stormers

In case you are not totally into the South African sport-scene, we are talking rugby here. Yes, possibly the most important as well as popular, and at the same time the most controversial, sport in South Africa. In the least, rugby is one of the popular top four, alongside cricket, hockey, and soccer. 

Last Saturday the Blue Bulls from Pretoria beat the Stormers from Cape Town, and I and the hubby as well as a group of drunken people whom we like to call friends were there at Loftus Stadium to witness it. And I must say, as much as I knew I would be bothered by the extremely violent nature of the game, not to mention the racial issues surrounding this sport, in the end I'm glad that I decided to go. The game provided me with a rare glimpse into the Nation's soul.

So this is what went down: 

After my 10k race in the morning (bettered my time by 9 minutes, thank you very much!) I and the hubby headed out to finally pick up his car - a huge honkin' 4x4 gas guzzler that honestly makes me ashamed, but at the same time able to travel to places like Kruger National Park and Mozambique. Unfortunately, as you probably guessed, regardless of our deal to only drive the 4x4 if we really need to and otherwise make use of the 'practically runs on air' Daihatsu, the hubby decided to drive the new vehicle to our friends' house where we were meeting the rugby enthusiasts. I hope this does not become a trend.

After several minutes (possibly 30-40) spent ogling our new car (Where is the sensitive environmentalist I married?) we all packed into one, even more monstrous, SUV, and headed towards the stadium. This took place sometime before three in the afternoon and the game was set to start at five. I asked no questions, but decided to go with the flow (i.e. get a drink and yabber about irrelevant issues) and take in the experience.

As we got closer to the stadium, but were still at least 1,5 kilometers away we began to pass people in all shades of blue clothing sitting on camping chairs, drinking beer, and tending to something resembling a cast iron pan attached to a tank of gas. The latter turned out to be a skottel, which boils down to, once again, a form of braai. As you all must have understood by now meat is the perfect accessory to everything, and I do mean everything. 

Luckily, since we decided to arrive only some hours before the start of the game, one of our friends had scored himself a parking pass. We must have driven past hundreds of the impromptu sidewalk braais in more or less appropriate spots, as we drove all the way into the heart of the event. Thanks to the parking pass, we found a good spot not too far from the stadium and abracadabra, from the trunk of the car out came a skottel, some boerewors, beer, wine, sosaties, and rolls. We were set for our pre-rugby lunch - beer-fried boerie rolls enjoyed sitting on the fender of the car and drinking ice cold beer (or if you are me someone else's wine. Sorry W!).

The sun beat down, and I found myself wishing we had arrived in time to snag ourselves one of the prime spots underneath the trees. After all, I was wearing my nigh only piece of blue clothing - a cardigan. However, I was quickly informed that if I wanted shade I would have to have arrived not some hours before, but hours before. Apparently a rugby game can easily be made into an entire-day happening, starting at dawn and stretching all the way into the wee hours of the next morning. Never say South Africans don't know how to party.   

After the quick (in relative braai terms) bite, we were ready to head towards the stadium (at this time we were also equipped with energizer drinks secretly mixed with vodka, see my previous comment on partying). We found our seats, luckily on the shady side and began to soak in the atmosphere. The stadium was sold out and pretty much all in blue. Even the one Stormers fan in our bunch had not dared to wear his team colors. There was electricity (and beer fumes) in the air. 

After a short (thank Zeus) stripper act that officially went under the banner of cheerleading the game started. Now, I've never even pretended to understand rugby, and can honestly say I am now even more confused. The game wasn't nearly as physical as I had feared, and a lot more kicking of the ball (is it called that?) was involved than I had expected. The Blue Bulls won. How? I don't know. Something they call a try took place a couple of times and both teams accumulated points. What I do know is that the players wore nice uniforms, had good muscular legs, and both teams combined only two of the players were older than I am, which made me feel very old, and sip the berry flavored vodkaizer at an increasing pace. 

During the game, I also participated in the Mexican wave, which was a lot of fun, but not the booing chorus that erupted every time Stormers number 8 had the ball. Luke Watson is called 'Puke', and widely hated amongst South African rugby fans. This hatred is due to a comment he allegedly made regarding the emblem of the South African national team 'The Springboks'. On being picked for the national team he supposedly had said he had a hard time not vomiting on the jersey. Now, as harsh and unwarranted as this may seem, the comment should be decoded through the current debate raging around the symbol of the national team, as well as the past (and quietly also the present) of rugby as a 'whites-only' sport. 

The symbol of the South African national teams during the apartheid era was the springbok. Understandably enough, alongside the renaming of towns and streets and such to reflect the rainbow nation as opposed to retaining reminders of the horrors of apartheid, the symbol and the name of the teams were to be changed from the bok to a protea. In the case of rugby, due to massive resistance, especially from the Afrikaner population, this didn't quite work out at the time. Mandela put a lid on the discussion, but now the demand and the debate have resurfaced. 

This is just my two cents, but looking at the crowd, the players, and hearing the two Bulls fans two rows in front of us belt out the old national anthem (i.e. the apartheid nation's anthem) at the top of their voices does not ensure me I am looking at a good representation of the New South Africa. 

Still, I  did have fun and I enjoyed the experience, but like so many times before in South Africa, I was forced to realize that the nation is still in major transition, and old habits die hard. It is as if the nation is a fifteen year old moody teenager, who goes from being an angel to a complete devil in less than two seconds and even without no one completely realizing the change until it is too late, and the affected bystander is left with no other option than to thank Zeus for wine and being able to buy plenty of it. 

Growing up is hard to do.   

   

Good bye smelly rented furniture, hope to never see you again!

The smelly rented furniture and other items of that nature are finally on their way to being the sore spots of someone else's decor. No more India-inspired, gold and burgundy dining room chairs. No more couches that have more different colors on them than I care to count, and most importantly no more bed with a very likely bedbug infestation. Good bye to itchy bites. Yes, I will drink to that later today as I'm hanging out with the most awesomest, coolest South Africanos to date. 

Who would have thought that people would actually open their home to us bedless folks, while the pest guy attempts to rid us of the aforementioned bedbug-problem. Thank you from the bottom of our heart guys! You are the greatest. Virtual hug.   

Our own stuff is set to arrive on Monday. Happy to be expanding my wardrobe, yet fearful of what has been broken, and what has been stolen this time around...

Post-Party analysis

Q: What happens when you let one 13 year old, and one under-appreciated husband loose with a bunch of decorations in your house?

A: Cool stuff happens, I tell you. Very cool and inventive stuff, that results in all entrances to the garage being blocked and lots of tape on the walls, but no less an amazing effect. Thanks guys!

I'm very happy with how the party went. Not so loud that someone would contemplate calling the police, but just loud enough to annoy the most annoying of the annoying neighbors, whose children/dogs could function as our alarm clocks if we wanted to get up at 5AM every Sunday. There was more than plenty of food and drink (What is it with the locals? They always show up with food and drinks, even when asked not to). Everyone, and I mean everyone, came in a well thought out costume, and is undoubtedly regretting that decision now as the pictures have been uploaded onto Facebook.

Regardless of our stuff still sailing somewhere on the Atlantic (any day now...) the party was a success. Our friends showed up bright and early to help, and never slowed down for the whole day, even when the bad hostess half forgot to offer them lunch or coffee (the hostess also forgot to eat lunch herself, resulting in an emergency taco ingestion after two glasses of wine within the first 30 minutes of the party). The host ended up doing less cooking than expected (or feared) and was positively taken aback by the latent cooking abilities of the hostess... This could be bad, I must ruin a pot or a pan asap...

The punch - Long Island Ice tea - got everyone going early and wine and tequila were in the end enjoyed in the proper ways, or at least no proper tequila was wasted on the salt and lemon shots. For some reason, however, no one touched any of the white wine leaving me stocked for the next couple of months at least (the hubby seems to think I should be writing 'for the next year', but hey I prefer not to lie in writing).  

Again, we were both surprised by how willing the locals are to accept new people into their firmly established circles of friends, and how cool they are with discussing the many sides of their nation - the good as well as the bad, and how open they are with their opinions. Agreeing to disagree is the concept of the day, and luckily I'm no less included, even if I am always on the disagreeing end. Perhaps we shouldn't any longer be so surprised by the open arms and hearts hiding behind the high security gates, and accept South Africa as what it is - An absolutely awesome, hospitable country as long as you remember to look beyond the first impressions.  

Preparations

Somewhere in the midst of 2008 taking its last breaths, I quietly (but aided by a husband, two great friends, and two bottles of Veuve Clicquot Brut yellow label) turned 30. Practically no one was here in Joburg to celebrate. Now the party is on.

Well, in truth the preparations are on. Since I'm notoriously excellent at procrastinating (this used to only include school work and cleaning, but now seems to have meandered its way into my everyday life as well), I only came up with a 'menu' and a shopping list Saturday morning, a whole whopping week before 40 people in quirky costumes show up at our door, and demand drinks, food, and music. Today, I'm thinking perhaps I should get some decorations as well... Hmm. 

The only aspect of the party I seem to have a firm opinion on is the drinks. No guest should have to drink wine which Platter's gave less than two stars to. Hence the white wine selection will be Fish Hoek Sauvignon Blanc 2008 (3 stars in Platter's) and John B. Sauvignon Blanc-Colombard 2008 (2,5 stars), whereas the reds include Truter's Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon-Merlot 2004 (3,5 stars) and Kleine Zalze Merlot 2007 (untasted, but 05 3,5 stars, 08 2,5 stars). 

Furthermore, naturally we will be serving 2 excellent tequilas, one available in the country, and one clandestinely smuggled into SA all the way from mi querido México. 

The tequila available here in SA is one of Mexico's leading tequilas, Don Julio . DJ is not one of my favorites, but still miles ahead of what generally passes for tequila in the bottle stores (liquor stores) of South Africa, Olmeca (no Mexican I know seems to have heard of it), Cactus jack (I crinkle my nose so hard it almost falls off), or Good ole Spring Break favorite, Jose Cuervo. Of course, these tequilas in their unmatured (or matured for that matter) state are suited for shooters (shots) to be ingested with the 'made famous by American party animals': salt and lime. However, I thoroughly snub this tradition, and dare I say it, find it a tad 'White Trash' (what else is new). 

My favorite tequila on earth, which I now own three whole bottles of thanks to the smuggling hubby, is none other than 1800. This tequila in its añejo (very matured) state rivals the always talked about and praised aged whiskies, and will only be consumed with salt and lime OMDB (over my dead body, and No, I'm not coming as a dead body) at my party. A tiny glass of this precious liquid should be enjoyed with a tiny glass of sangrita, A tomato based juice mix that complements the aftertaste of tequila beautifully, never ever shot down, without savoring the taste. How can I start a petition to bring 1800 to SA, and to stop people from drinking shots of bad tequila? Important issues.

Drinks under control, all the other preparations seem a little less so. The almost-thieving aside, the maid can stay at least until Monday.

Adopted at 30

For the past weekend I was in fact the third child of a possibly slightly loopy (otherwise why would they adopt me), but thoroughly lovely South African couple. Since my husband was away (and still isn't back yet), and everyone seems to be in on the 'she seriously cannot or will not cook, or drive for that matter' trait in my sparkling personality, I was taken in by this pair of Jozi-based (potentially out of their minds) Capetonians. 

My being adopted luckily did not involve anything boring or horrific such as chores or Sunday service. Instead, on Friday, I enjoyed a lovely dinner with the family, while watching the boys build me and the hubby a magnificent mansion on Sims, only for it to be destroyed an hour later in a fire, as my character just sat around upstairs reading a book. Even the game knows me too well... Several bottles of the always nice Durbanville Hills Sauvignon Blanc were also consumed, but not until we had suffered through a bottle of Dalla Cia Sauvignon Blanc 2007, that had supposedly gotten four stars in Platter's. I think the wine must have turned, because delightful it was not.  

On Saturday I was asked to make a green salad for the braai I and my adoptive family had, in our Friday night vinoed-out state, invited ourselves to (a South African custom I have been told, since apparently you only get one invitation and the rest is up to you, for all eternity. Good to know). Making the salad was a rather daunting task, but I eventually managed, and no one has been sick yet. So I think I'm home free. I also brought with me a bottle of Durbanville Hills Cabernet Sauvignon, which goes with anything and is a great 'getting sloshed slowly but steadily' beverage. And my coup de grâce I delivered with two bottles of the Chilean Casillero del Diablo Cabernet Sauvignon, one of my favorites from Mexico, which I had managed to find in Makro (a real task, since foreign wines are throughly snubbed here). Everyone seemed to enjoy it. I know I did. Felt a little home sick for Mexico and envious of my better half, who is currently cavorting away in the city of 25 million people, hanging out with my BFF. Triple sigh.

As the discussion undulated from movies and books to racial issues and politics I truly enjoyed myself, and was unable to keep my controversial (in the South African sense that is) views entirely to myself. No one came to blows, or even spat at me (even though my adoptive brothers have recently been grounded for doing just that at each other), so I consider the night a raving success. I'm hoping after our two years in SA I'll have turned a few potential liberals to my brand of ultra-super-duper-and-then-some liberalism. Who knows what will happen. All I know is that I'm done keeping quiet.

On Sunday more kitchen miracles were required of me for yet another braai. This time with family. I managed to come up with a beet casserole, that tasted much better than the greyish mess it looked. Again I was very positively surprised by how included I felt and how cool and fun the day turned out to be. Not that I was expecting not to have fun, but it always amazes me how hospitable South Africans are towards someone they barely know. Judging by the razor wire fencing so abundant here, one would never guess. 

As I had already quaffed my fair share of different wines throughout the weekend I decided to keep it simple and only sampled a bottle of Lanzerac Merlot. As I paced it with plenty of mineral water I greatly enjoyed it, and eventually it made a wonderful companion to the Portuguese espetadas - special rump prepared on a sword-resembling skewers over a braai. Yum! 

As the day neared its end, regardless of my new sisterly status I was not, as opposed to my not as fortunate bros, forced to get a hair cut to ready myself for school starting on Wednesday. Regardless of the financial side of things - the haircuts at this kitchen 'establishment' are free of charge - I'm still opting for my fancy salon, and the relaxing scalp massage. Furthermore, luckily I'm on permanent vacation, and can sport a shaggy look whenever I feel like it (more often than not). On a side note, I sincerely hope the beginning of the new school year signifies the disappearance of the dirty mess on my wall. The neighborhood nuisances (from next door) keep scaling our garden wall and leaving their business cards in the form of several different sized black and brown foot prints. Go to school already.

The Wine of the Year

I finally (or perhaps already now would be more correct) decided to open a bottle of the wine that Platter's South African Wines 2009 classifies as their Wine of the Year, Kanonkop Cabernet Sauvignon 2004. As promised previously I will now attempt to report on the experience. Keep in mind, that I'm no wine connoisseur, and have never been quite able to understand how words such as 'asphalt', 'openhearted' or 'busty' can be used to describe wine. I also indiscriminately drink all kinds of wines from box to age-old without that much thought to what is going down my throat. I am now attempting to change this, and instead of shameless drunkenness I'm intending to portray my shady pastime as a legit hobby. We'll see if anyone will actually buy it.

According to Platter's South African Wines 2009 the five-star Kanonkop Cabernet Sauvignon 2004 "...delivers resplendently complex cedar/cassis aromas & ripe blackcurrant [sic] flavours, with defining savoury, herbal edge."(p. 331)

I am sorely unable to get much out of this definition. I know what cedars smell like, how black currants taste, the essential definition of 'savoury', and what possibly could be conceived as 'herbal'. I will have to google 'cassis' now.

Cassis is a French liquor, which I obviously have never tasted.

Smelling the wine last night, unfortunately after having a few glasses of Lanzerac Cabernet Sauvignon (I know I'm a wine heretic), I have to say I was thoroughly unable to smell the pine. And I should know, my country is 'resplendent' with them. To me most wines have a black currant flavor, since to me that is the flavor of concentrated grapes. So, check the black currants. I can say the wine was not particularly sweet, so I guess that is a check for savoury as well. I'll have to think about the herbal a little more when I consume the last remaining bottles.

I get the feeling my reporting is not going very well.

All I can say is that the wine ranks right up there with the best tasting wines I've ever had. It smelled good, tasted nice and smooth, and the four of us, I and three friends, happily shared two bottles of it. I will attempt to find more of it, and yes, I think it is definitely worth it at R224 per bottle at Makro. 

Thank you for bearing with me. I will do better in the future.    

Egoli vs. Cape Town

For Christmas we felt the need to abandon the super duper secure compound we call home and flee to the city we had heard so many good things about. Not a bad choice either, Cape Town is amazing and for a short while had me hoping that's where we were making our lives happen instead of the financial and industrial capital of South Africa, Johannesburg.

We had chosen to stay at the Waterfront, the revamped harbor area, at a hotel built into one of the old harbor buildings, and all I have to say is that boutique hotels are totally my thing, regardless of country. Still the Waterfront, the hotel, the awesome restaurants and cafes, those all pale in comparison to how we spent our Christmas in Cape Town.

After hearing about our vacation plans, our friends in Joburg, who originally come from Cape Town (we are yet to meet any people who were actually born in Jozi), immediately planned our four days for us. And on top of that they were in the mother city at the same time with us. This is where our European - and we both come from reaally small and in many ways reaally closed European societies - psyches came into play, and were truly taken by surprise. 

On our arrival we were picked up at the airport and whisked away, via a scenic route and one Table-Mountain-from-the-back photo op stop, to a family Christmas eve lunch at a cozy family restaurant, where our friends had three tables reserved for all of the relatives (and us). Many plates of awesome seafood and multiple glasses of Durbanville Hills Sauvignon Blanc (a lovely quaffer, I'm sure Platter's would say), not to mention a drinking game, later we were finally delivered at our hotel to check in. In our 'Christmassed out' state (in a very good way) all we could do that night was to visit the recommended Waterfront restaurant, Belthazar. Glad we did, they boast 178 different wines by the glass. All of them pretty amazing, and naturally South African. 

Next morning, after having breakfast looking out over the water at Table Mountain, we had a little time to tour the exciting waterfront (and get a wheat grass shot for the slight hang over - I had to try more than one wine at Belthazar) before we were again picked up by our lovely and extremely hospitable friends for the official Christmas Lunch. I never knew having Christmas by the pool drinking local sparkling wine (everyone here calls it champagne, but being European I have to respect the rules), while kids are jumping in and out of the pool, could be so much fun. We are glad to have witnessed something real instead of having to settle only for the touristy thing. This was also the first time ever I tasted gammon (and still don't know exactly what it is) and flaming Christmas pudding with custard. Good times.

As much fun as Christmas eve and day were more was still to come. Early next morning we started on our real mission - the wine route. If this blog was entirely about wines this post would have been miles long. Our first stop was Delheim, where we took the tour of the vineyard, tasted about nine glasses of manna (except for the icky sweet rosé), and ended up with three boxes of wine in the trunk of the car. Amazingly these bottles are still uncorked and will be going on my (so far only planned, not executed) wine rack/ aging thingy once I get it standing. I can recommend the Delheim Grand Reserve and their Vera Cruz range shiraz and remind everyone that if you plan on tasting nine glasses of wine, and are unable as me and my friends are, to spit out this precious liquid, you should get the undoubtedly tasty Delheim cheese platter to avoid getting thoroughly sloshed at your first stop. This is, of course me telling you this after the fact and you can imagine what really happened...

Our next stop was Kanonkop. According to Platter's Wines of South Africa, this winery is the winery of the year and also produced the wine of the year, Kanonkop Cabernet Sauvignon 2004. Needless to say their (slightly pathetic and very overpriced) cheese platter came too late for us, but we still tasted four more or less amazing reds. The wine of the year was sold out (I have since managed to get hold of four bottles, still uncorked, will report later), but we tasted the 2005 equivalent. Fruity, yet personally I wasn't that excited.

In our search for something more to eat (and naturally also to drink) we drove down to Spier. I have to admit their wines have generally been good, but, man, what a circus that place is. We parked the car, walked to the restaurant, saw the queues and the masses, ran right back to the car, and sped away. Too touristy is just too touristy. I have later learned that Spier is the most visited tourist attraction in South Africa. I sure do believe that.

At three in the afternoon, after having consumed 13 glasses of wine (except for our poor, water- drinking, designated driver, my husband) we had still found nothing more to eat than the cheese at Kanonkop. We saw signs by the roadside (never a good thing) and decided to visit Asara. What a surprise! Their restaurant was amazing, the setting incredible and the view left me at a loss for words. Their wines weren't that exciting, but next time I'm in Cape Town this is the place I want to stay at. I'm sure the price is not the most affordable, but based on our visit I'm pretty sure it would be worth it. 

I never imagined being this interested in wines, apart from how much alcohol was in them, and how much they cost me, but South Africa might just make a wine aficionado of me yet. As lovely as Cape Town was, with its Waterfront, Camps bay, Hout Bay, Muizenberg, Table Mountain, District Six and so much more, my best memories are of our deeply South African Christmas with our cool friends, as well as touring the wine route with them. I'm happy our friends are here in Jozi on the same estate as us, but I can't help wondering whether vines really can't survive around Joburg. All I'm asking is for a couple of vinyards in Egoli, not even for that many. 

Braaivleis

"What is a braai, is it painful?" asked one of my American friends on my facebook wall recently. I had apparently been gushing about all of the braais we had been invited to and which we had gladly attended. I had also always commented on the seriousness of my hang over the day following the event. I counted the mentions of a braai, and wine drinking in my facebook status updates and the tally might just signify borderline alcoholism and the beginnings of a serious meatitis. And I'm not even going to think about scurvy. 

What exactly is a braai? I guess, you could just say it is a barbeque, but to me (and possibly most South Africans) that definition just comes up short. Braai is about so much more than cooking. Yes, it is about meat, some more meat, and on top of all that meat, more meat still, and washing down all the meat with wine, beer, cider or a 'tizer. In our circle of friends, the drink of choice is cheap white wine with lots of ice in it. Hold on, before you gasp at my heretic ways, add the heat into the mixture and understand the value of a cool, refreshing beverage. However, the braai would only be a barbeque if it wasn't for the spending time with your friends and family under the lovely South African sun, children running around barefoot, everyone relaxing, while amicably debating the pros and cons of wood, charcoal, and gas (apparently the two latter are widely considered cheating). Braai is a South African institution even celebrated yearly on 24th September on Heritage day. A day, which in reality goes by the name of 'National Braai day'.

Some months ago, when we were looking for a house for our two year stint in Joburg, my husband decided he would not look at any houses sans a built in braai on the patio. This request, which I first thought would annoy the poor real estate agents to no end, earned us the goodwill of every single agent and landlord we came across on our house hunting adventures. General feeling seemed to be that no credit checks were needed since we understood the importance of the braai. My husband also garnered some admiration by insisting on a traditional, as opposed to a gas, braai. He had never before made a fire in his life, but we decided to leave that detail out. We have since hosted three braais for our friends, and have had an incredible amount of private ones, with just me and my husband in attendance. Most of the friendships my husband has formed have come through engaging in deep discussions about the braai, both physical and abstract. 

As per custom, I never touch the braai. I make the salad, while I'm opening a bottle of wine (which means that most times there is no salad, also a traditional option). The braai is for men to fuss over their meat and their fire, and to talk rugby after the wood-charcoal-gas topic has been exhausted. During the rugby off season camping out in the bushveld is also an acceptable subject. While the men fuss and stand around tending to the fire and then to the aged (sometimes this means green and moldy) rump steaks, and the boerewors-sausage, the women sit around drinking and eating biltong and droëwors, tasty versions of jerky. In a way the braai is a nice way of making life more equal for South African men and women, as men are taking over the 'kitchen' for a change (for us this is normal, since I don't cook anyway).

Indeed, the braai is all about meat (not Nokia) connecting people, and we can definitely say that the tradition of the braai is one of the big parts of our crush with Joburg and South Africa. We are falling in love and looking forward to many more braais yet.