Carol’s Column

Renaissance Man puts on an apron

My paternal grandparents lived on a farm in Stellenbosch and produced eight offspring. A domestic activist, my grandmother kneaded bread, milked a cow, curdled her cream and cheese, and plucked the chickens on their demise. She could change a tractor wheel and cut down a tree single-handedly. She was also the first and only Jewish belly dancer in South Africa.

Her culinary abilities were legendary. Her sauces were described as so delectable, they would make a sultan swoon; her cakes so light they could float to America; her pickled cucumbers so crunchy that you might be deafened by a bite.

My mother was considered a superb cook by those who savoured her cuisine.

Her fame lay in her mouth-watering potato fritters created with three potatoes to one onion, coarsely grated; her chicken stuffed with 37 cloves of garlic, and an apple strudel with pastry so thin it was invisible.

I grew up with the beat of the rolling pin in my soul. Fortunately, my growth coincided with the blossoming of the frozen pre-cooked, heat-and-eat dinner and today I would describe myself as a free spirit of the microwave.

Last week, my husband, who's attending a course of evening cookery classes for the Renaissance Man, arrived home ecstatic.

"I can make a cheesecake to die for," he said. "Let's entertain."

"Great," I replied.

On Saturday afternoon, the following scenario unfolded.

"What are you doing in the kitchen?" asked my spouse.

"I thought I'd rustle up a little something," I snapped.

"You're going to cook?" he exclaimed and twitched his ears, a sign of stress.

I reminded him of my culinary heritage and we each took our place, girded our elbows and began. My starter - a delicate fish soup tinged with limes and chillies - would be followed by a main course of spicy chicken simmered in coconut milk accompanied by wild rice. After which, the Renaissance Man would present his cheesecake disguised as une mousse aux pomme gratin. Our friends duly arrived and, to stimulate their taste buds, we sipped numerous glasses of wine, then sat down to the feast.

The soup looked festive, its chilli-red colour contrasting with the green of the watercress garnish.

Within seconds our guests were choking, except for Errol who has the constitution of a lion.

"This is fiery," he said, smoke pouring from his nostrils. "I love spicy food."

On my right, Stanley was silent, overcome by the fumes.

I was about to serve the main course, when I observed the chicken had vanished.

"The chicken's disappeared," I hissed to my husband.

"It's melted," he hissed back.

It was true, the foul fowl had simmered away.

When you think things can't get worse, they do. The wild rice, black as coal, tasted like grit. I realised things were not as they should be when I noticed Len and Laureen eating the table mats and Ruth and Jeanette not eating at all.

Then came the cheesecake swimming in its bowl with the texture of lumpy milk.

You know your dinner has been less than a success when at the end of a meal the plates are as full as they were at the start. When the only things consumed are a loaf of bread (bought) and the contents of the salt cellar.

You know dinner's a disaster when the dogs reject the left-overs, and, when you discard them on the compost heap, it catches fire; and when your guests rush off clutching their throats.

"I failed," wept the Renaissance Man.

"Nah," I responded. "Remember that well-known African saying 'life's too short to whip an ostrich egg'."

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