Spekulaas en Sinter Klaas

As jy Nederlands is, en hierdie blog gevind het op een of ander manier….

Het is niet Nederlands.

Maar mijn voorouders is.

Hoekom so vroeg op ‘n Saterdag moet ek so hoog praat? Want ek het nou net Moreleta Park se Superspar gevind.

Dinsdag sluit ons die tragiese Nederlandse module vir my tweede jaar af. Wat anders kan ‘n handjievol taal studente doen as om ‘n vuurige koek en tee party te hê? Dus was daar besluit dat elk ‘n lekker Hollandse eet-dingetjie klas toe moet bring, verkieslik nie die Heineken bier nie, maar as dit al is wat jy in die hande kon kry, sal niemand kla nie.

My ma is ‘n baas-bakster en sal enige boere-vrou op Koekedoor wegbak met haar Franse koeke. Geïnspireer deur haar lieflike kombuis geure, was my eerste genetiese instink om Amsterdammertjies te bak.

“Amsterdammertjies?” vra die onopgevoede en ongekultuurde leser aan die geesdriftige student.

…Amsterdammertjies

Maar, die goedkoop pan wat ek gedink het ‘n absolute winskopie is, het begin roes. My stoof is ook die grote van ‘n mikrogolf.

Het zal niet werken!

Ek het ook nie ‘n resep nie. En as ek gehad het, sou dit nie die selfde as Edenvale se De Bakery s’n gewees het nie.

So pak ek toe die Superspar as laaste opsie aan. Voor my uiteengesit in netjies rye, was rakke en rakke vol ingevoerde produkte. Net daar op die eindpunt vind ek die eerste Nederlandse happies: drop.

“Drop?” sug jy alweer hopeloos.

Drop, liewe leser, is ‘n tipe liquorice wat deur een of ander siel met ekstra sout gemaak is. Die enigste konklusie wat ek kan indink oor die naam, is die aksie wat mens verrig wanneer jy dit die eerste keer… en tweede keer in jou mond plaas. (lees gerus die link vir verdere inligting oor die sadistiese produk)

Maar eet gerus ‘n een of twee happies. Jy sal baie vinnig jou Afrikaanse kultuur bo jou Nederlandse kultuur waardeer.

Buiten die drop, vind ek ‘n pakkie harde malva-lekkers wat in die vorm van Sinterklaas is. Sinterklaar is die inspirasie agter ons Santa Claus, en vervang kersfees in Nederland (soos wat ek kan aflei).

Sinterklaas en sy Zwarte Piet helpers (Maar ons is die land vol rasisme)

Ek het ook, interesant genoeg, ‘n pakkie spekulaas koekies ontdek. Nou as jy nie in Suid Afrika groot geword het nie, ‘n boere ouma gehad het nie, en helemal jou kultuur verlaat het:

Spekulaas.

Daar is geen verdere punt aan my verhaal nie. Geen morele les of lieflike prentjie wat ek vir jou kan skets nie. Behalwe die gedagte dat ek op Dinsdag my vet gaan vreet aan Hollandse kosse, moontlik dronk op kampus rondloop, en ‘n avontuurlustige Nederlandse dansie doen.

Tot Straks mijn lesers, tot straks.

Oh, hier is ook ‘n liedjie vir die lekker daarvan

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Poetics

I wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,"Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." Ralph Waldo Emerson

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,“Hello, sun in my face. Hello you who made the morning and spread it over the fields...Watch, now, how I start the day in happiness.”  ― Mary Oliver

In such a jocund company;

I gazed- and gazed- but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss in solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

What happened to the Hadida

The hadida, a bird fondly known for its sudden flight and screetch of fright before reaching a stable height, was subtly tip-toeing across a pathway towards a fresh patch of grass today.  I was sitting on a concrete bench, rather uncomfortably, pondering over the tree-top canopy shielding the city from me, when the black bird fell out of the air and clumsily landed on its feet.

The bird contrasted everything in the garden. Trees were surely rooted and instinctively throwing their leaves off with every gold rustle as the winter air creeped closer. Water trickled over rocks, dutifully plunging into pools.

And yet there, infront of me, a bird eyed me suspiciously, as if measuring my every intent from over its witch-like beak. It was an outcast, hunchbacked and in open daylight exposed to the judgmental elements.

I often imagine creatures formed in a toy filled workshop. Experiments are busily conducted while sounds are poured into the breath of each bird specie. Some sound like rubber ducks, squeeking through the air. Others are tiny tinkles of chains. What then, happened to the Hadida?

As I pondered the thought a belly-chuckle ran through the wind and filled the garden. A sunray slowly came to sit next to me, warming the shade. The Hadida peeped from behind a tree, searching the light for something. Finding it, the bird continued grazing, comforted that the sun brought no danger.

And there I had my answer. The Hadida is merely aware. The colossal bird, from its ability to graze on earth and fly in heaven, knew what seperated the one from the other. It doesn’t take an expert listener to hear the fear in its breath when taking flight- a warning of suspicion.

It was simple then, Earth had happened to the Hadida.

Stand by me

Ek hak vas by treur.

Want ek kan nie verstaan hoe ‘n kontinent wat voorheen so deel was van één familie, nou  mekaar kan verwurg met woorde, emosies en pangas nie.

‘n Oomlik van musiek hier op WordPress vra ek dan, vir ons familie wat na ons huis gevlug het opsoek na ‘n beter lewe, en nou, in ons sitkamer, nie gerus kan sit sonder kommer nie.

Viva Revolution

Tracy Chapman: Stand by me

Tracy Chapman: Talking bout a revolution

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