mother.

The yellow painted tablecloth is filthy and is covered by grubby plastic sheeting. Newspapers ringed with coffee stains and curled rice are scattered across the tabletop. The radio hums pleasantly, and the dog barks at the onset of daytime.
She sits close to the table, idly flicking through an old newspaper. She spoons crunchy cereal into her mouth, eyes flicking downwards with wary attention. It is sultana bran (with extra added fibre), chosen for its consistency, flavour, and out of a life-long habit. The brown flakes are drowned in watery UHT milk. The black sultanas bob to the surface, and she chases them with her spoon.
It is morning, and her face is tired and gentle. The soft creases crowing by her eyes yawn slowly. Her skin is smooth with the idea of wrinkles slowly approaching. She is not too old, yet. Her hair would be grey but it is the auburn-brown of her childhood and her hair-dye. It is bushy and uncontained and her curls fling about in the air. Her eyes are small and dark, inherited from her mother, and passed down to me.

My mom grew up in Worcester, in the Karoo area of the Western Cape, in South Africa. It was a small town with a reptile park, tall trees, some sense of familiarity, and dust. On weekends, kids piled into bakkies of hay and drank homebrew. The youth were gap-toothed and lithe, and spoke quickly in makeshift Afrikaans.

She had two blonde brothers and a neat, straight-backed mother. Her father was the town doctor, and a respected and powerful man. He was a freemason with a moustache and utmost precision, and he delivered babies for payments in vegetables and gratitude. In the Summer, my mom and her brothers splashed in the cold water of the swimming pool outside and drank in the nectar of rotting cumquat and syringa.

Her brothers were Intellectual Types, involved in the Struggle, with aspirations of Bar exams and Democracy. While the landscape was rife with political fervor, she knew from an early age that she wanted to be an art teacher. Creativity and artistic notions nestled inside her, and she yearned for something more inspired than the quasi-intellect of her local Höerskool.

It was Thursday night, and CSI droned pleasantly in the background. Mom, Dad and eldest daughter played Scrabble in the lounge-room. The phone rang in the dullness and shattered our smooth reverie. It was Granny her mother with lucid clarity,


     The house is burning down.



          There is a fire.


The destruction was too complete; the house was gutted by the fire, and then by the reckless bravado of the firefighters. Smokey the Dog saved my grandparents, but couldn’t stop the blaze.
It was a shocking and sudden farewell to her Childhood Home: to the meandering house with sometimes-stained-glass windows and big oak doors and the flicking fireplace. To the Garden that was a jungle of apple trees and naartjies and cumquats and matted twisted vines. To me the house smelt agreeably like Old Person and gentle dust, but to my mom, it smelt like a whole lifetime.

Cross-country

DID YOU know I am an immigrant?

Perhaps or perhaps not.

Nevertheless, listen to my story here.

Rosh Hashanah HAPPY NEW YEAR

Tomorrow night is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year.
It is a joyous Jewish festival and a time to celebrate and eat.
Judaism often centres around eating, and this is most superb.
My mom is having aunts and uncles and cousins and removed cousins over this year and we shall eat lavishly and shall be unable to move after consumption.
We shall eat:
chicken soup and challah. And chicken, prepared say, two ways, and two roast legs of lamb. There shall be salads and rice. They will be enough food for everyone to have firsts and seconds and thirds. There will be enough food remaining in our house for the week following.
For dessert - because what meal is complete without dessert, there shall be home-made dairy-free ice-cream and perhaps a tart or cake or meringues. And of course we shall consume with fervour and gusto, because, although we are so full we possibly might burst, this is a celebratory occasion and one for splendid eating.

And then afterwards the adults might sip liqueur and laugh at childhood occurrences and reminisce, and we might say: NEXT year in Jerusalem, because this is tradition, and not because we so desire to be relocated there. And the kids, and I am still a child sometimes at these occasions, we might sit and chat and the younger ones might proclaim: "I'M BORED" and then we may play a raucous card game like TONGUE. And my younger cousin, Oliver, who is not so young anymore, he will lose, because he is not good at this game.

And my aunts shall bring presents, as is tradition, and they shall bring kosher little chocolates: some are nutty and some are milk and some are dark, because this is what they bring every year. And my mom will give them presents too, perhaps of honey, because honey is so sweet, and we desire of everyone to have a sweet new year.

When I was 5, in 1998, I learnt a song about Rosh Hashanah.
"Apples dipped in honey
for Rosh Hashanah.
A sweet new year,
a happy new year:
apples dipped in honey for Rosh Hashanah."

And this song is true, because apples dipped in honey is for starter, and this is always fun and yum, because who doesn't like honey? And who doesn't like apple?
And the challah, the bread, it has raisins in it, and sometimes icing glaze on top, and it is round, because you would want your upcoming year to be rounded and smooth.

And it is a most joyous and festive occasion and I love my family, and I shall go to bed tomorrow night full and content and bursting of pride and chicken.

Fam fam family

The best sort are always family.
They are present in house, to have brownie fights with and to flap around [with].
It is not necessary to wear a bra around your family.
Family like to play scrabble sometimes.
We eat food like hungry vultures.
My mom, to telemarketers: "Sorry my mom isn't home right now"
My dad plays the piano, but is not yet the grand pianist of his generation.
My sisters and I, we all share the crimper. Crimper - bridging generations.
This evening I got newspaper print on my face, especially nose.
I like to galavant with my family.

ohana means family