the journey home

September Seventy Seven

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Fri, 25 Jan 2013 09:38:00 +0000

On a bright hopeful September morning

the message came.

Yihla Moja, Yihla Moja

This was the time.

No choices to make.

A cold recognition.

The struggle no longer mine.

Dream in your Mother Tongue

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 15:45:00 +0000

So much simpler to have been born here.
To feel clearly British.
To dream in your mother tongue.
To know where you belong.
Without question.
Body and soul joined in one place
And to call that place Home.

FUCK IT - AINT GOT NO TIME FOR DAT

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Tue, 15 Jan 2013 10:01:00 +0000

Ok so I'm worried that you think I'm some miserable navel-gazer.
And you're going to expect me to be all moody and arty and poetic.
All of the time.

Well when you meet me (and I really hope we do meet) you might be disappointed.
Sometimes I don't remember to put the bottle down. My jokes can be un-pc. I can be brutally honest.
My friends are loyal and long suffering. I have to be told to shut up and that it's not all about me.
Swearing is part of my vocabulary. Usually when I need attention. My sister and my daughters disapprove.
Favourite spiritual quote 'Oh.....Fuck It' from 'f**k it the ultimate spiritual way' by John C Parkin
Read it and then just write whatever you want to on your blog. Fuck it...

I am also worried (lying awake type worried) that you haven't seen this clip.
So here it is. My new guru -ess (move aside Susannah Conway) Sweet Brown.
Fucking brilliant. Check her eyebrows when she says pop. Watch it to the end!
Save it somewhere for those dark days.

I Thought You Would Always Be Here

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Sun, 13 Jan 2013 11:40:00 +0000

And then suddenly she was gone.
Leaving me to take apart the tenderly built nest.
With sadness and in silence.

Lightness of Being

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Sun, 06 Jan 2013 22:12:00 +0000

'Light' is my chosen word for 2013.

Light = shedding, simplicity, freedom.

Light is fewer responsibilties.

Light means less weight.

Light makes things clearer to see.

Light is free of burdens.

Light is letting go of the past.

Light - hearted
EnLightened

Bright, clear, glowing, radiant, sunny, ablaze, lustrous, phosphorescent, brilliant, incandescent.

Graham hates Butterbeans

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Sun, 06 Jan 2013 16:21:00 +0000

Jennie and Graham were coming to eat with us.
We hadn't known them long. They were uber cool. I needed to impress.
Meeting them at the door I casually asked if there was anything they didn't eat.
No nothing at all........... except butterbeans.
Said with deep feeling.
Graham has been a good friend for 30 years since that night.
He is not a vegan. He shoots and cooks rabbits.
I know he hates butterbeans.
He remembers sitting in front of a heap of cold butterbeans.
And hearing his friends in the playgound.
But that night I didn't know and I had made Butterbean and Miso stew.
The recipe was from an iconic seventies wholefood cookbook.
It had been simmering in the oven for hours.
Today I reminded him that he had two helpings.
He insists it was politeness.
The book has long since disintegrated.
But stuff is coming full circle now.
I need to make it again.

I Can See The Elephants

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Wed, 21 Nov 2012 16:10:00 +0000

And I miss you

The Way of the Kaftan

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Thu, 26 Jul 2012 17:04:00 +0000

My new blue linen kaftan arrived.
Cornflower Blue.
When I wear it I will be Talitha Getty on a Marrakech rooftop.
Or Kate Winslet in Hideous Kinky ( minus kids).
My obsession with kaftans has a long history.
I once made an orange kaftan from an old hessian curtain.
Wore it to a dark smoky party in the Seventies.
It was hot dusty and itchy and I had to leave early.
We buy clothes for the lifestyle we aspire to.
The woman we long to be. You know.
That's why they hang in the wardrobe, unworn.
While we pull on our jeans, scrape back our hair and get the kids to school.

Ode to Hairy Feta

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Thu, 26 Jul 2012 13:21:00 +0000

Someday I will go back to Amorgos, to a tiny mountain village .To eat a raw slab of proper goaty feta. With goat hairs embedded. In a puddle of thick dark oil and sprinkled with pungent leaves. Accompanied by a metal tumbler of rough piney retsina.

You will always find feta in my fridge. Some people hate it. You know who you are and you can never be my friends.Seek the company of Olive Refusers. Supermarket feta is vacuum-packed, sterile, smooth textured. It bears little resemblance to the feta of my memories.

Ouma's Rusks

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Sun, 06 May 2012 16:31:00 +0000

No self-respecting Voortrekker family heads off into the Bush without an adequate supply of rusks. Preferably Ouma's, preferably buttermilk, possibly muesli. Living in exile, I have pined for them, demanded them for Christmas, nagged my mom to post me some at huge expense, poured the crumbs from the bottom of the box onto my tongue. South African rusks (erase the Farleys image from your mind) have a bread-like texture and come in different flavours such as condensed milk, aniseed, buttermilk and muesli. They are baked hard by being dried for hours in a low oven and can be stored for weeks or maybe even months. They are never around long enough for me to put this to the test. Hide them. Rooinekke look at them disdainfully, but having sampled one, there'll be no holding them back. Best not get them started.
Rusks are part of the South African cultural identity and were invented as away of preserving bread while travelling long distances by ox wagon in a hot, dry climate.

My Ouma with her trophies for being a domestic goddess. If she doesn't look quite as cheery as the Ouma on the Rusks packet, its because she was married to my Oupa who could never be described as easy-going.
Of course the best rusks are homemade and there are numerous recipes available. I am going to share the recipe my Mom gave me but I think it only fair to warn you that she did nearly burn the house down attempting to make mosbolletjies.But thats another story and not one she likes to talk about.

8 cups flour
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 tsp salt
1 Tbsp cream of tartar
1 Tbsp aniseed
or 1/4 tsp nutmeg
250g butter
2 cups buttermilk [500ml]
2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
1 beaten egg
Preheat oven to 180C.
Grease 3 loaf tins 20x10cms or equivalent sized baking dish.
Sift flour, cream of tartar and salt into mixing bowl.
Cut butter into small pieces and rub into flour mixture.
In separate bowl mix together buttermilk, egg, sugar and bicarb.
Stir liquid into dry ingredients and mix together.
Knead into a firm dough.
Mould into balls (golfball size) and squeeze next to each other into tins.
Bake for approx. 1hr.
Turn out onto rack and leave to cool.
Break into separate rusks and lay out on wire rack.
Bake in low oven 50-100C with door slightly ajar for 4-6hrs until completely dry.
Store in airtight container.
Rusks are traditionally eaten by being dunked in a mug of strong coffee and are the only way to start (or end) the day. Rusk dunking is a national pastime but if you are a new convert you will need to practise. Timing is crucial - hold the rusk in the coffee for too long and it will get too soggy and break off. Experts recommend two dips of 3 seconds each, but you might like to experiment. Every journey should include an abundant supply of rusks and a flask of decent coffee - the ultimate breakfast padkos.

Die Taal

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Sat, 28 Apr 2012 22:22:00 +0000

Oupa was an Afrikaner. Didn't trust the Rooinekke. My father, from Stoke-on-Trent, went to the farm many times to ask for my mother's hand.

Oupa pretended not to understand.

When I was little I loved hearing my mother speak her language. My father tried to learn. The guttural sounds stuck in his throat. We laughed at him.
At University I was careful to hide my background. I was ashamed of being an Afrikaner. Rebellion resulted in my eventual exile. In exile I learnt a new way of speaking to avoid painful questions. To avoid having to defend and deny. Now, when I go home, my nephew mocks my Afrikaans. I sound too English. Why do I want to speak it anyway?
But my sister gave me a book called 'Koekemakranke' in Afrikaans. And when my grandson and I are alone I speak Afrikaans to him.
Yesterday I was stopped in my tracks by my daughter singing in her bedroom. She was singing a song by The Parlotones. Fluently. In Afrikaans.

Autumn layers

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 19:13:00 +0000

The night air is cooling and the time has come to layer your bed with soft quilts and blankets. Making a comforting nest to burrow into. A place of sanctuary from the demands of the day.

Home Farm

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 17:24:00 +0000

In the seventies I came to England and lived in a Devon farmhouse called Home Farm.
The house was shared by four of us - Molly, Ronnie, Robert and me.
We were hippies and wanted to grow our own food and live off the land.
This is the Aga we huddled around that freezing winter.
There was ice on the inside of the bedroom windows.
Molly was upset because I needed to bath more than once a week.
And I bought blackberries from the supermarket.
I didn't realize they grew on hedges along lanes.
I had only just come here from Africa.

The Maker

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 19:23:00 +0000

My patchwork cover feels special to me, like a family heirloom.
It came from a charity shop and its origins are unknown.
Each patch is like a miniature work of art.
I study them closely, but can't decide which is my favourite.
One of them has the initials of the maker embroidered on it.
I am grateful to her.

PJs

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 15:15:00 +0000

Brand new pjs waiting for me on my pillow make me feel so so happy.
Duck egg blue with creamy dots in a light cotton fabric.
On a good day I will stay in pjs all day changing into a fresh pair in the evening.
The recent trend of wearing pjs in public excites me enormously.
Not sure I could actually do it though...

Home is where I want to be....mostly.

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 18:48:00 +0000

This has been my home for nearly thirty years.
The home where I have raised my family.
A place of refuge in a sometimes alien land.
Mostly, somewhere I feel safe, grounded and myself.

Just sometimes I long to walk out of the front door.
With a small bag on my back and no-one to say goodbye to.

Karoo Moon

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 13:59:00 +0000

Karoo evening, chilly crisp air after rain falls. Full moon rising

Cycling early in the morning, I've become aware of how the open sky lifts my mood.
Most of the time my focus is limited. I forget to lift my eyes to the heavens.
I came across this breathtaking image by Lisa Key of www.africanrelish.com

And my heart was filled with longing.

One Bowl Living

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 14:22:00 +0000

Every morning I eat porridge with a little honey from this bowl with this spoon.
The round-bottomed bowl carefully chosen so that it fits my cupped hand. I curl up in my favourite chair and eat slowly and with awareness. Then I wash my bowl and spoon by hand, completing the ritual, starting the day.
The bowl is a perfect irregular shape, rough textured and gently hued. I found it in a South African pottery in the town where my mother lives. www.wonkiware.co.za

Road Trip Dreaming

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 10:42:00 +0000

Valerie and I are desperate to get away.
Summer will soon be over.

Brakdakkie Running Through My Mind

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 14:07:00 +0000

I am obsessed with this place. Its name beats through my head in a rhythm.When I first saw these photos I was enchanted.
One day I will be there under a starlit Karoo sky. www.princealbert.org.za/brakdakkie

A Rainy Summer's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 11:48:00 +0000

Could this be my beach shack ?
Images from Pinterest

Mint Havaianas

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 20:27:00 +0000

New mint havaianas - sang to me from the shop doorway.
A song of endless summer freedom.
Brazilian beach shacks.
Turquoise waves.
A rusty campervan.
Watermelon.
I want to live somewhere I can wear them all the time.

Food is Love

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 17:21:00 +0000

In a clinic waiting room in South Africa, I read an article which contained the line "Only eat food cooked by someone who loves you". So simple, so powerful,it has stayed with me. Preparing and serving food has been the way I have expressed my love for my family. Eating in a restaurant feels so alien to me.... to eat food cooked by someone who has no relationship to me, doesn't know me or care about me, can't even see what I look like. Some religious devotees are very careful about who prepares their food. The mood of the person preparing the meal can affect the person eating it. When we eat we experience the food before us and the intention behind the preparation and serving of the food.

Le Creuset Lust

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Sat, 04 Dec 2010 14:13:00 +0000

Currently top of my Lust List. According to Mumsnet this makes me an "chav with aspirations". I used to own the entire range in Volcanic Orange but gave it away because it didn't match my cream kitchen. That's how shallow I am. Which is why the Le Creuset 30cm Shallow Casserole and I are destined for each other. And yes, that cream kitchen is Farrow and Ball bruv.

Queen of Pies

noreply@blogger.com (Noelle Peacock) — Sat, 27 Nov 2010 16:29:00 +0000

This is the Pie That Chloe Made. Break through the gold crispy sugary shell to the custardy appley filling. Why have I never thought of this before - custard beneath the pastry. So simple and perfect. Pure comfort.
For the recipe see the Legendary Nigel Slater's recipe for Apple Custard Tart in Tender Vol 2.
We love you Nige. Let us give thanks for The Piemakers.