Chapter 7. Paté and Peach Champagne

Looking across Montagu dam towards the farm at dawn

We always seemed to be hungry and dieting was something that we read about in magazines and that other people did. Food always tasted so good on the farm and I had a shelf that groaned under the weight of a variety of cook books. Food for every mood, every whim, every palate. We could wine and dine vegetarians, satisfy the carnivores, and occasionally treat the refined palate of the visiting French guests that occasionally graced our table. I even learned to conquer that great gastronomic feat, the croissant. Yes, we could sit on the stoep in the Sunday morning sunshine and drink real coffee and eat fresh croissants. Not bad for the back of the Free State.

It took many weeks and much reading and re-reading of the recipe, but slowly I learned that patience and cool conditions were the answer and eventually we were rewarded with crisp golden crescent shaped delicacies with air pockets a- plenty for the butter to drip through and for the strawberry jam to nestle in. Even John, who, being French was an expert on the perfect croissant which he always maintained were served at the Lyon Station restaurant, decreed that my croissants passed muster and all thoughts of baking and selling them for profit dwindled as we devoured batch after batch.

On one occasion, I was proudly presented with an entire pigs head.

‘Won't you make me some brawn’ was the parting shot as the giver of this somewhat unwanted gift left at a run. Back to the recipe books and the pig eyed me somewhat stonily from the kitchen table as I rummaged through my dog eared pages.

"Boil the head in a large saucepan having soaked it overnight in a salt solution."

Trying to keep images of John the Baptist at bay, I approached the malevolent looking object and gingerly lowered it into the biggest stew pan that I had. However, luck was not with me and both ears and snout stubbornly projected out over the sides like some latter day Kilroy. I placed my hand firmly on its hairy forehead and gave it a slight push, but was rewarded with a rush of air down the nostrils which sounded suspiciously as though it was arguing my best efforts to convert it into a much sought after delicacy.

There was nothing for it but to cut the head in two and at this point, I chickened out whilst John, my partner in gastronomic crime did sterling work with a pruning saw. For those of you who are of a delicate nature, I suggest you turn to the following page, but for those made of sterner stuff, believe me that the next few hours were a mixture of delicious smells, sticky fat, small bits of gristle and bone, and eyeballs that seemed to keep on turning up in the mixture. Finally however, the brawn was ready and we were rewarded the following day by two loaf tins filled to the brim with a firm shining delicious tasting Paté de Tête which sliced in the most obliging way and was accompanied by crisp freshly baked bread and home grown green salad. To my knowledge, no-one was confronted with those two glaring eyeballs, and despite being told otherwise, I firmly left the ears and the snout out and kept quiet about it. After all, a cook is allowed a few privileges of her own.

By now, people were starting to give me cook books for Christmas and birthday gifts, and I was determined to venture into unknown pastures. For years I had been spoiled by the services of an excellent if somewhat plain cook but now that we were going it alone, I was free to experiment to my hearts content. A holiday in Provence awakened my sense of purpose and wondrous cook books containing mouth watering pictures of both countryside and food covered the kitchen table. Tenderly I nurtured the small cocktail tomatoes, mange tout, tender new beans and mouth watering little courgettes that came from the vegetable garden. Thanks to John's ingenuity in maintaining both drip and spray irrigation, the little water that we could spare was used to great effect on our small patch and the rewards were tremendous.

On one occasion, we had a visit from an august assembly of Professors and men of books and learning, who had come to inspect not only the Bushman paintings and the strange outcrop of rock that gave the farm its name, but also to wonder at the extensive collection of West African artifacts that arrived at the farm when John had finally unpacked and settled for good. John’s museum had became one of the local places of interest to visit. He had spent many of his earlier years in Liberia, and during that time, he had begun a collection of masks and statues and ancient carvings.

When I first saw them, I was horrified at the gruesome countenance on some of the figures, but once I had begun to photograph and catalogue the pieces and do some in-depth research on them, I discovered a fascinating world of strange beliefs. Since our intentions to use the cool room for large numbers of slaughtered animals seemed to have fallen short of the mark, John decided to turn the room into a museum. I was banned from the site and I left him to create to his heart’s content, until a few weeks later he summoned me to inspect his work. It was already late in the evening and the light had all but gone. Approaching the cool room, I could hear the faint sound of African drums and as he opened the door, wisps of smoke escaped, curling around the lamp that was suspended above the door.

‘After you’ he offered, but there was no way that I was going in first.
‘No it’s OK, you lead the way’ I said, backing away from the half open door.

In we went, and the effect was tremendous. John had found all sorts of bits of wind-twisted wood, feathers, odd pieces of cloth and stones, and in amongst all this he had positioned the masks and the artefacts. Lighting produced the eerie effect that some of them were actually looking at us through reddened eyes, and all the while the insistent drumming wove its spell around the room. I had handled these pieces for a few months out in the cold clear light of day, but here they seemed to take on a power of their own and I could begin to understand something of the grip that they exerted over the people who believed in them.

We had a lot of visitors who came out to the farm to see the collection, some of whom had travelled considerable distances, and it was a privilege to be able to display so many pieces that would have been lost forever in the troubles that beset Liberia in later years. Many of the pieces now reside in museums in South Africa or in private collections, but I still have my beautiful miniature passport mask and the handsome antelope Chi wara horns. Tucked away safely is the Kissi stone that dates back thousands of years and our little Ibeji twins still act as wonderful conversation pieces.

Having allowed our guests to first have a good scramble over the rock accompanied by Bokkie and assorted dogs, and then to gaze in fascination at the collection of strange masks and statues, I brought them in out of the cold to gather round our large farmhouse kitchen table. A large tureen of home made vegetable soup and fresh bread started off the proceedings, followed by pates, brawn, home -cured ham, and minted lamb. For the vegetarians, there were quiche made from the great cep mushrooms which we found in fairy rings on the farm, and for everyone, there was a large dish of ratatouille and new potatoes covered with parsley, gleaming under a coating of melted butter. Home made cheese cakes and farm cream followed and we rounded out the meal with Roquefort cheese flown in from France accompanied by excellent vintage red wine. I did not envy them the two hour drive back to Bloemfontein, knowing that all the time they were on the road, we were gently snoring off the effects of lunch under a duck-down duvet. The washing up was tomorrows' problem and we could eat green beans and drink water for the ensuing week.

With the enthusiasm of baking, bottling and conserving everything that nature in its generosity gave us, I discovered by mistake that I could turn ordinary peaches into a very acceptable peach champagne. It seemed to go into the bottle in a very calm unexciting fashion, but by the time the corks were firmly in place and the bottle laid down to rest, a distinct fizz could be seen developing. One had to treat the bottles with great respect and caution before opening them but the contents were usually clear and sparkling if somewhat inclined to give the drinker a rather heavy head the following morning.

One day, we were sitting peacefully on the stoep enjoying the winter sunshine and congratulating ourselves that the recent and unpleasant security problems that had beset some of the farmers in the Northern areas of the country didn't seem to affect us, when we were jerked to our feet by sounds of gunfire. A loud report was followed by two further bangs. My first thoughts were ‘Where are the gunsafe keys and why don’t the dogs bark?’ The sound was coming from behind the kitchen and I thought we would still have time to run for cover behind the sheds. However, John proved to be made of sterner stuff and insisted on discovering the cause of the noise. The cool room door stood ajar and as he passed, my gallant protector came under immediate fire. A cork shot past him followed by a sticky spray of peach champagne and on closer inspection, he found the floor of the cool room was covered in broken glass, corks and sticky liquid. Gladly we realised that we were not to become statistics in the recent crime wave, but sadly bad farewell to the remains of the Peach Champagne.