A local cinema franchise once ran an ad campaign; people were pictured in frustrating situations that they ‘escape’ from by forming mental pictures of themselves at the movies whilst chanting ‘my happy place’.

I frequently have anxiety attacks, especially in the early hours of the morning, when things that are insignificant in the daylight hours appear to be insurmountable problems.  I learned years ago that to focus on my own ‘happy place’ would ease the anxiety within minutes. The last place I would choose is a movie house. With the help of a great therapist, I have learned that escapism is not only beneficial in coping with stress, it is essential. The idea is to visualise oneself in an environment where one has a sense of ‘oneness’ and is involved in pleasurable activity.

It could be taking a walk in a park; it is suggested by the Birkentock and oatmeal brigade that you chant the mantra ‘breathe in the green, breath out the red’, but I have never done this for fear of being thought a nutter by the passing Walk For Life housewives.

Another idea is to get a CD that has the sounds of wind and waves and woodchimes and stuff, and to visualise the heavens and the ocean. But I tried that once and it made me think of the spa I go to for massages. They have a CD like that and all I can think of is if there is a pimple on my bum or worry that I will relax to such an extent that I let off wind …

No, I come to my blog for my dose of an alternate reality. It is a place where goodness and wellbeing reign supreme; this is my happy place. A place where I am, quite literally, ‘in the pink’.

Where is yours?

French paradox
The term ‘French paradox’ refers to the observation that while both the French and Americans have a diet high in saturated fats, smoke cigarettes and exercise little – which are all risk factors for cardiovascular disease – the French have a significantly lower risk of cardio vascular disease than that of the Americans: 36% compared with 75%. The difference in risk has been attributed to the consumption of alcohol and, in particular, red wine. The French consume 60 L per capita of wine per year, while the Americans only consume 7.7 L per year. (Source: http://www.thewineschool.co.za )

Which explains why I am such an avid Francophile …

Sidey’s weekend theme (for which I am, once again, late) is The Hat.

I love hats and buy them indiscriminately. I wear them in the garden, when I go work, at weddings and even, sometimes, when I am home alone watching television.  You can, therefore, understand how upset I was when I discovered the adverse publicity my habit had been given by the acid-tongued Mr. P.J. O’ Rourke:

“A hat should be taken off when you greet a lady and left off for the rest of your life.  Nothing looks for stupid than a hat.  When you put on a hat you are surrendering to the same urge that makes children wear mouse ears at Disney World or drunks wear lampshades at parties.  Wearing a hat implies that you are bald if you are a man and that your hair is dirty if you are a woman.  Every style of hat is identified with some form of undesirable (derby = corrupt party worker; fedora = Italian gangster; top hat = rich bum’ pillbox = Kennedy wife. Et cetera).  Furthermore, the head is symbolically identified with the sexual organs, so that when you walk down the street wearing a hat, anyone who has the least knowledge of psychology will see you as having a beaver hanging off your penis or feathers protruding from your genitals.  A hat should only be worn if you are employed as a racehorse trainer or are hunting ducks in the rain.”

Very rude, Sir!  I shall wear this hat, feathers and all.

Of late, I am wearing my caterer’s hat. It happened slowly; first one then another of the stylists eyed my work lunch and asked if I would consider that they pay me and I bring them lunch too. And so it began, with a quiche or a salad …

And then the orders started streaming in … customers got wind of it and I was asked for a large lasagne for a dinner party. Someone wanted a special birthday cake …

As my good friend Charlie always says: “And so it goes … “

In the meantime, for those readers who asked about ‘kleftiko’ …
My kleftiko, made to pair with First Sighting Shiraz:

Greek cuisine (Greek: ελληνική κουζίνα) is a Mediterranean cuisine,[1] sharing characteristics with the cuisines of Italy, the Balkans, Turkey, and the Levant. Too much refinement is generally considered to be against the hearty spirit of the Greek cuisine, though recent trends among Greek culinary circles tend to favour a somewhat more refined approach.
Kleftiko: literally meaning “in the style of the Klephts”, this is lamb slow-baked on the bone, first marinated in garlic and lemon juice, originally cooked in a pit oven. It is said that the Klephts, bandits of the countryside who did not have flocks of their own, would steal lambs or goats and cook the meat in a sealed pit to avoid the smoke being seen. (Wikipedia)

My friend Browniegirl is far more erudite than I when it comes to writing recipes, I use lamb shanks for my kleftiko and she opted for lamb knuckles, but the cooking process is much the same, so go here if you want the recipe.

When I come to think about it, there really is little difference in the cooking styles for lamb across the globe. The French call it souris and the Moroccans use a tagine. Whatever the method, it always ends up being comfort food of the first order …

My birthday party on Sunday was riotous. With a bunch of dear friends, all witty and clever women, I lunched at Weltevreden Farm and was royally spoilt with gorgeous gifts, great food and sweet treats fit for a princess.

My crown soon slipped, no small blame on the wine, I am sure…

Emboldened, I decided to ignore my fear of heights and clambered up onto an old wagon to feed the chickens.

Thanks to My Pal Sal, who lifted me down safely.

Monday’s affair was very tranquil by contrast. My MIL took me to lunch at a nearby Greek restaurant, Plaka.

It was perfect; the décor is serene, the staff attentive and the food is consistently good.

We both opted for the kleftiko and thoroughly enjoyed our afternoon.

My thanks go to all these women in my life, I am blessed.

Yes, I am reading a book about knives and forks. A tome really, 288 pages about the stuff we toss willy-nilly into the soapy water and grumble about having to wash. The family silver, if you will.

I’ve loved flatware since I fed my first dolly pretend-ice cream and have been known to slap a hand that reaches for my favourite spoon. But I don’t love it nearly as much as a woman I met many years ago. I was working a vacation job in a posh hotel owned by the woman’s family. It was the grand heyday of the five-course meal and this hotel was famous for its silver service. Turns out our lass was a kleptomaniac and was pinching these tools of appetite from the dining room every day. Quite odd, I still think, when she had the run of the place and could dash down to the kitchen anytime she wanted a bowl of custard or a midnight Welsh Rarebit.

As testament to my appreciation of silverware, I had a chandelier made for my kitchen by a customer at the salon. It is constructed from enamel bowls, from which dangle crystals and miniature knives, forks and spoons.

That’s about all the news from my kitchen this month; my family are away and I am reveling in slothful self-indulgence. The heatwave we’re having is unbelievable and it’s all I can do to muster up the energy to pop a champagne cork at the end of the day.

Happy New Year to all my friends, I wish you love, light and laughter throughout 2012.

Hey diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon,
The little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the fork ran away with the Spoon …

 For more contributions and peeks into kitchens around the world, visit Celia at Fig Jam & Lime Cordial.

“Parkview is a suburb of Johannesburg, South Africa. It borders the suburb of Greenside and overlooks Zoo Lake, a park which lies on the opposite side of Jan Smuts Avenue from the Johannesburg Zoo. All of its streets are named after Irish counties.”

The ancient homes here wear stone masonry characteristic to this residential node; they have iron pressed ceilings (which probably contain an unhealthy lead content) and floorboards hand crafted from Oregon Pines. These houses are often inhabited by third-generation families. In fact, properties here come quite rarely onto the market.

Our own crumbling pile is one of the ‘new’ houses in Parkview, having been built as recently as 1942.

Locals vehemently oppose modernization and applications from people wanting business rights on their land are unanimously vetoed. Modern convenience stores are verboten and support of the ‘high street’ shops is a proudly upheld tradition. The quirky population live a ‘village life’ and have included many famous names throughout the history ofJohannesburg; writers, artists and the finest legal minds.

The architecture in the high street is testament to the cheap labour that was available early in the 20^th century; shop windows expertly carved, thick beveled glass, intricate staircases…

It’s a fairly insular community and newcomers aren’t exactly welcomed with open arms. But, occasionally, a ‘foreigner’ will worm his way in; a building may come on the market as a result of a deceased estate, some little old lady with no grandchildren waiting in the wings.

This happened in 2011. One of the most historic of the buildings was bought by a nouveau riche cowboy who believes that a bit of a makeover is needed ‘to bring in some light and make the shops pump with action and bring in big bucks’. Your man gutted the building, demolishing an oak staircase older than a century. He brought in neon lights and ersatz travertine marble flooring.

It all happened so fast, we were too late to lodge an objection with the authorities to try and protect the building and our little patch of history. The bugger must have a heart of galvanized steel, concrete running through his veins.

It’s sad, really sad.

This is my (late) contribution to Sidey’s latest theme.

The book was an early Christmas gift from my husband. I read it in the early morning, in the garden while the rest of the house was asleep. Do you know the smell of Nivea body lotion? That is the scent that came in waves from the moonflowers I planted two years ago, cuttings from Sidey’s garden.

I laughed out loud at one passage; this book makes fun of our quest to be politically correct. There truly is no nation like us anywhere else in the world:
White chicks, like Black chicks, love to dance (although White chicks don’t dance in the streets when they’re disgruntled). Most Friday nights, groups of White chicks get dressed in skimpy outfits and doll themselves up to look more beautiful than they actually are. Then they go to nightclubs and throw their bags and jackets in a little pile on the floor and huddle in groups and do their dancing with their backs turned to everyone else. It’s somewhat insular if you ask me.
There’s just one problem. White chicks can’t dance. Black chicks get their bums and hips to move to the music as if they have a mind of their own but White chicks can’t manage to do this – they have to think about their dance moves and practice them so their dancing always appears a tad forced. That’s why if you see a White dancing next to a Black, the White looks like she has rigor mortis while the Black moves like she’s made of grape-flavoured jelly.
Because they are so useless at modern dancing, White chicks will employ other forms of dancing. The most common alternative is called “The Twist”. The Twist is a really simple dance Whites’ parents invented back in the 1960s because they couldn’t dance either. All you do is bend your knees, lean slightly forward and then kick your heels from side to side while making a running motion with your arms. This dance is so easy that it gives the impression that White chicks can actually dance.

I rest my case; we celebrated my boss’s birthday on Friday night. That photographs were taken is unfortunate, but I guess that’s what friends are for?

I opened my presents with the family when they finally awoke. My polka dot tunic was new and I had to smile when I opened Tandy’s gift and saw that her Mr. P bathplug matched.

It’s a colour I don’t usually wear, so you can imagine my surprise when Nzwa emerged from my guest bedroom with her gift to me; the perfect accessories for my outfit.

Peace, love & rockandroll.
Absolutely!

All too soon Nzwa’s lunch hosts arrive to fetch her. I stalled them with champagne cocktails and we had a lovely visit with lots of laughter. Nzwa was hilarious; she told us this is her first ‘White Christmas’.
My cup runneth over, it really does.

Thirty-two and forty-seven. Those were the birthdays my husband forgot. Thirty-two was understandable; we had a new baby, were moving into a new house and his older daughter was being taken to Canada by her mother. He had a lot on his plate. We got married on my fortieth birthday, so forgetting forty-seven was rather vexing. I sulked a bit. Forty-eight is looming, but he will be away and so, with us being childless over the past weekend, we celebrated my birthday and our wedding anniversary in advance.
I was eager to introduce him to Weltevreden Farm, after discovering it on Friday. We enjoyed a leisurely lunch; I had a chicken-pancake-stack and he loved his chicken-pot-pie.

For dessert he had cheesecake and I the frozen lemon meringue pie.

The farm has a few interesting shops, antiques and the like. One of the stores stocks clothing that caused our youngest stylist to proclaim “Cindy, I have found your wardrobe!” She was spot-on, each and every item could well have been made especially for me. After lunch I took my husband to see and he spoilt me with a generous budget. I chose a few outfits and accessories, some of which he confiscated to wrap; they will be hidden and he will phone me on the 8th of January to reveal the hiding place …

Until then, I have more than enough (thanks Paula!) and can only count my blessings.

In an aside; I tried to find a link to BelliButton on Google and failed. What I did find was this:
www.yourwildlife.org/bellybutton-biodiversity/
Sampling the nation for Belly Button Bacteria.

Folks are odd, hey? Gotta love this world…

A euphemism is the substitution of a mild, inoffensive, relatively uncontroversial phrase for another more frank expression that might offend or otherwise suggest something unpleasant to the audience. Some euphemisms are intended to amuse, while others are created to mislead or at least put a positive spin on events. Euphemisms can also be used in the place of words considered profane.

It’s hardly a secret that I have had what may be, euphemistically, an Annus horribilis. After two glasses of wine I’d be less wary of profanity and label 2011 as the most dreadful of my life, with some very salty adjectives thrown in. My team (yes, there is a team) of physicians agreed strongly that the antidote to my burnout from working too hard was – paradoxically – to ‘get a job’. A menial job which would bring me into contact with people, as my life was too populated with solitary pursuits.

Enter my old friend, Debby; hair salon owner and now my boss. A woman with an innate understanding of the human psyche, she asked few questions before taking me into her fold. Her staff welcomed me with open arms and now, just a month after starting the job, people ask me if I have had a facelift.

We celebrated Debby’s birthday yesterday, with a tea party at the appropriately-enough-named Weltevreden Farm.

‘Weltevreden’ is a Dutch word meaning ‘well satisfied’ or ‘content’. It is a much-guarded secret jewel and a surprisingly tranquil venue right in the middle of hectic suburbia.

Tables are tucked in amongst trees and roosters sit about on antique farm implements, preening while their hens tend their offspring.

Baby Guineafowl nestle on the shoulders of the waiting staff as food is brought to the table.

The menu options are myriad and offer sweet treats, light lunches or more robust meals. The smell of slow-roasted lamb from an adjoining table was very tempting.

It’s a place that is the geographical metaphor for Debby’s character; an oasis.

Happy birthday, Debby.
And thank you.

THIS IS NOT SPAM, IT IS 100% PIG *WINK*
If Tilly came to visit me, I’d treat her to a traditional South African braai, with lots of meat and not a single one of her much-loathed enemy; the Brussels sprout. Steak and ribs, with a luscious, chunky mushroom sauce.

Perhaps that’s too predictable and I should do something a bit fancier for Tilly? Pork rib and mushroom wontons …

Or pork ravioli in a paprika sauce?

I’m sure we’d enjoy the occasion, whatever the dish. And I know we’d enjoy a glass of pink wine under a pink African sky … and a giggle about our spam.

And dessert? Oh, it’s not hard to solve that one …

But this is not Tilly’s cake, it’s for the shampoo girls at work. Tilly’s cake would have Maltesers …