Yesterday was one of those days… the mind was willing but the body not so. Yes, weekends have become for me what they have been for others for a long time; a few desperate hours of rest! Not many years ago I could work two weeks solid, often… duty. Now, I’m afraid, the duty has turned slightly more inward. I think the half brick has splattered onto my cranium… eventually. If one doesn’t have rest then duty becomes torture.
Yesterdays… they are what we’re all about… aren’t they? Yesterday I spent all day at home. Doing what you may ask? Reliving other distant yesterdays… and getting such a refreshing kick from the restful peace it wasn’t even funny! I think I must have spent about 10 minutes outside before the rain drove me back indoors. The result? I decided walking the canal to the cricket ground wasn’t going to happen.
Rusks anyone? Back to our yesterdays. A few weeks ago Senior Son asked if I remembered Granny’s rusks. Granny being my mother. I think he may only ever have tasted my mother’s rusks once in his life… many years ago. Yet, SS remembered. Why… I asked? Because they were lovely… because I can remember Granny’s rusks.
I could also remember my mother’s rusks. Buttermilk rusks! There could be no better. Yesterday I baked buttermilk rusks. Where did I find a recipe? In the cookbook of all SA cookbooks. My good lady owns the ultimate old South African cookery tome. The “Cook and Enjoy It” first saw the light in 1961. By the third revision metric measures were introduce.
The English version of the book appeared a decade after the original Afrikaans publication. I know my mother inherited my Granny’s Afrikaans copy… so, could I have used the very same recipe my mother and granny used? I’ll never know. What I do know is that the rest of the family went off shopping and to the cricket club… hopefully to see a bit of action between the showers. That left me all to myself; in the kitchen with memories to be rekindled.
Before the GLW set off on the week’s shopping spree she’d lent a hand getting everything together… so, the baking was really a joint effort even though I was left to do all the fun bits. Yesterdays. Buttermilk? Yep, the GLW had found a supply in one of the local shops. More yesterdays. I’ve always professed that half a liter of the stuff sorts out the results of too much anything from the night before! Pronto!
OK… back to the mixing. Music was needed… proper music. Moody Blues, S&G… Supertramp… Sir Dylan… the Floyd. Yesterdays! Yes, we’re made up of a collection of our yesterdays!
Memories of my granny baking rusks? For me it was waiting to lick the bowl, even though the grand dame insisted that raw dough knotted little boy’s intestines. Then… the anticipation of those hot loaves coming out of the oven. Yes, as they were separated into individual rusks for drying, I would steal a few soft, moist tit-bits. I’m sure the breakages were deliberate. I’m convinced my granny knew full well that this was my delight. Well, yesterday’s results took me back to my childhood.
(A quick editor’s note, just in case you wonder why one moment it’s my mother’s rusks and the next granny’s, I remember my granny baking when I was a tot… my mother only took up the endeavour long after I’d stepped into the big wide adult world…)
Yesterdays. Are our yesterdays the reminders of the future to be? I’m wondering if my grand kids will one day ask their parents to bake rusks like oupa used to bake?
Anyway… yesterday also reminded that it’s been two week’s again since I posted an end of workweek ditty… so, just to keep in the spirit of keeping in the spirit… here’s this week’s rendition!
The End off WW 19
Yes, I’ll confess, I’ve missed last week’s ditty again
I really do hope you didn’t come searching in vain
Then realised your effort showed no reward or gain
My indiscretion causing little ire or ideas of disdain
No… I’m not suffering writer’s block or mental pain
Although, at times the ideas seem naturally to wane
As if the wordsmith by the evil trolls has been slain
Alas, life places quite a heavy load on creative vein
Life marches on, no pause to listen as we complain
Weekend brings us a break, chances to stay sane
But summer’s rolled around, bringing back the rain
So what, rather we live, pour a drop of champagne?
Sorry, I can’t offer sonnets or Shakespearean refrain
Alas, WW 19 has reminded of pressures on the brain
All our efforts disappear down Father Time’s drain
It matters not, we’ll keep having fun again and again!