Occasionally, in the dead of night, a clinking sound would emanate from our kitchen. The rhythmic sound of a metal spoon hitting the sides of a glass jug while stirring broke the silence of the darkness. The first child to hear that tell-tale sound had to wake the others. We’d all dash to the kitchen.
My Dad would be sitting in his pyjamas at the head of the kitchen table, slowly stirring his cultured buttermilk — suurmelk — in a big thick glass jug. A tin of my Mom’s famous brown rusks — Boerebeskuit — stood open on the table. We’d all grab a coffee mug and a teaspoon from the cupboard, pull up a chair and huddle around my Dad. After ensuring the ice-cold buttermilk is well blended, he’d pour half a cup into each mug. Then, one by one, using one hand, he’d grab a rusk from the tin and crush it so that the crumbs fill each cup! These are the working hands of a male, farming-stock, Afrikaner. They are renowned for having hands that could pass for bunches of bananas.
In your mug, you’d blend the rusk crumbs into the buttermilk. The resulting “porridge” is then savoured by the spoonful! There’s no doubt this ‘meal’ is not for everyone — some might call it peasant food. For us sitting around that kitchen table late at night, it was like a glorious royal treat. To us, sharing this ritual with our Dad was precious.
Looking back, I am struck that my Dad never sent us back to bed because it was late at night. He never once got upset when we woke up for “Suurmelk and Boerebeskuit” — even on a school night. I remember my Dad being happy while sharing his treasured fare. He’d have this look of pleasure as we marvelled at him crushing the rusks with his bare hands. He was delighted his children could share in one of his simple pleasures.
Similar little rituals were shared with us kids while growing up. Cutting thin slices with his razor-sharp pocketknife, my Dad would hand out sliced chunks of biltong and dry wors to each child patiently waiting their turn. My Dad always had a roll of mints in his pocket. His favourite was Wilsons XXX Mints. He would tear back the paper to reveal one sweet at a time. Sharing a mint with someone, even a stranger, gave my Dad as much joy as holding a door open for them. He enjoyed being able to make someone’s day better.
His cooking prowess in the kitchen and around a braai was legendary. As much as he loved preparing food, he loved consuming it. Anyone that has sat and had a meal with my Dad will know how he savoured each bite and took delight in eating his food. He used to tuck a napkin or serviette under his chin into the front of his shirt, to catch stray bits of food. After a hearty meal, his shiny mouth, chin, and hands and a few stripped bones in his empty plate are all that’s left. My Dad used to say not even a dog wants one of his bones after he has picked it clean with his pocketknife.
Today marks 20 years since my Dad passed away after 124 days of battling cancer. This coming November, he would have celebrated his 100th birthday. What I would give to share a meal with him again. How great it would be to hear his loud guffaw after he’s told one of his jokes. How I wish I could hear that familiar sound as the stirring metal spoon clinks against the glass jug. How I long to feel the love around that kitchen table, late at night, enjoying “suurmelk and Boerebeskuit.”
Have an awesome weekend and please remember to be generous! 😄
As always, thanks for reading 🙏
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