Food for the Soul
My ode to mainly potatoes
For me, food has always been more than sustenance, it’s the thread that weaves together memories, family, & the simple joys that nourish the soul, but also heals it. Growing up on a potato farm under my dad’s watchful eye, those humble tubers became my first love, my ultimate comfort. From an early age, potatoes were the anchor of my meals & life, versatile & forgiving. We grew BP1, Van der Plank & Pimpernel variants. Baked whole until their skins crisped & their insides turned fluffy, or simmered into hearty soups that warmed the bones on chilly evenings, I adored them all. But Sundays were sacred: the potato roast, where we’d slice them thin, layer them in a Pyrex dish, drench them in fresh Jersey cream & cheddar cheese, & bake them in the Defy oven until golden & bubbling. That dish, with its creamy richness & caramelized edges, is what I imagine Heaven tastes like, pure, unadulterated bliss.
Then there’s my unexpected affair with Earl Grey tea. For some reason, it became my favorite, perhaps a nod to my days at Grey College, where the name echoed in the halls. Its bergamot-infused aroma & distinct, floral bite? That’s love in a cup, a soothing ritual that grounds me amid chaos.
Now the tea at Grey was definitely not Earl Grey. They served us tea in big metal urns that was made with bulk tea leaves of an unknown brand, often with some pieces of the leaves still floating on top. We would still rush during breaks in school to have a cup as something is better than nothing.
Steak, oh steak, the rugged star of our braais. A good rump, seasoned simply with salt & pepper, seared over glowing charcoal until medium-rare. We’d cut it straight on the board into juicy slices & devour it with our hands, no forks needed. My mom called it the German way, but to us, it was hors d’oeuvres in a farmer-cowboy style: primal, messy, & utterly satisfying.
Family recipes carry the weight of generations, like Stegen’s stew from my grandma Bertha, she of the Stegen lineage with its undertones of cult fame. It’s a resourceful marvel, born from thrift: gather all your leftover doggie-bag meats, toss in a bounty of vegetables, carrots, onions, celery, whatever’s at hand, & simmer it low & slow until the flavors meld into something magical. Similar to an Irish stew, but with our twist, & potatoes are non-negotiable, cubed & added to thicken & hearten the pot.
Now the stew at Grey was not that grand. As one Greybrak said, it was kameelperd and we referred to it as submarines as you would need to dive bomb the pot to find a piece of meat. It made me appreciate mom’s cooking. It became a memorable toast at supper to have a toast to the memory of the kameelperd who gave up his life for our supper. It was lead by the indomitable Burgermeester of Smithfield, Hansie.
Grandma Bertha’s influence shines brightest in desserts. Her Butterkuchen is the pinnacle of cakes for me, a memory wrapped in sweetness & pleasure. This German yeast cake starts with a soft, enriched dough base, spread thin in a pan, then dotted generously with butter, sprinkled with brown sugar (often infused with vanilla essence), & sometimes almonds for crunch. Baked until the top caramelizes into a golden, buttery crust, it’s simple yet divine, best enjoyed warm, when the butter melts into every bite.
Her German cookies evoke the holidays, though I’d savor them year-round. Syrupkuchen, a lesser-known treat perhaps akin to a syrup-infused butter cake or cookie, involves a yeast dough enriched with butter & sugar, baked & then brushed or soaked in Illovo golden syrup for a glossy, moist finish, sweet & subtly sticky, like a hug from the past. Lebkuchen, those spiced gingerbread delights, are made from a dough of honey, flour, nuts, & warm spices like cinnamon, cloves, & ginger; shaped into rounds or hearts, baked soft or crisp, & often glazed or chocolate-dipped for Christmas cheer. Pfeffernusse, or peppernuts, are tiny, dense spice cookies rolled from a molasses-based dough packed with black pepper, anise, cardamom, & other aromatics; baked hard, then softened over time in a tin, delivering a peppery-sweet bite that’s addictive.
Now when it comes to pastry then my goto is the chocolate croissants available from Fournos in Dunkeld West. Sitting down and enjoying a warm and fresh one with the chocolate dripping down your lips is indeed a treat. Washed down with a flat white.
At Grey we would have doughnuts & a coke from the Tuckshop still standing from the Anglo-boer war. It was far from any fancy pants pastry, but heck beggars cannot be choosers!
Not all family fare appealed, mind you. My dad & brother relished kop en pootjies with afval—those offal stews of sheep’s head & trotters, but I’d steer clear every time. No judgment; it just wasn’t for me. They said Ouma Joey made it the best. Ja, well, no, fine.
But every time Ouma Joey, her full name was Johanna Maria Magdalena, would visit us on Oakvilla farm, she would cook breakfast of stywe pap & wors drowned in gravy. This was the breakfast of champions & forever etched in my mind and triggered as a memory whenever I have a boerewors. As the more conventional alternatives go I like the Irish ones with bacon & eggs paired with black & white pudding. Preferably eaten next to a peat fire in an white-washed old cottage on the Burren.
For watching rugby or embarking on a road trip, nothing beats biltong. That dried, cured meat, spiced & air-dried to chewy perfection, encapsulates being South African, salty, savory, & endlessly snackable. Find one with some yellow fat attached & klopdisselboom.
Then, Mrs. Ball’s Chutney chicken, a staple that turns ordinary into extraordinary. Mrs. Ball’s Chutney, a beloved South African icon since the 19th century, is a tangy-sweet peach chutney born from Amelia Ball’s recipe, blending fruits, vinegar, sugar, & spices into a versatile condiment that’s now a pantry essential worldwide. For the chicken: Place bone-in thighs in a roasting dish, liberally coat & smother them in the chutney until fully covered, then bake in a moderate oven, basting occasionally, until the meat is tender & the sauce caramelizes into a sticky glaze. Served with rice or, naturally, potatoes, soul-soothing simplicity. Kathleen (Kath) would make this often.
A couple of times a week, we’d indulge in penne pasta tossed with a robust sauce of tomatoes, onions, garlic, & slices of chorizo sausage, simmered until the flavours deepened & the pasta absorbed every bit. I like to think it was Julius Caesar’s favorite, after all, what emperor wouldn’t conquer for such a dish?
At Maties I would cycle out to the Strand but halfway there was the Mooiberge strawberry farm. I’d stop to pick up a 1kg pallet, whose price I have since come to realize was as cheap as chips, & shove the box under my riding shirt for the ride back to my digs near the Stellenbosch station. That would be my supper. Just strawberries. Bliksem.
After obtaining my degree & become a sailor stationed in Simonstown, I would still cycle. My favorite route would take me via Scarborough where the ocean spray would soak me via the infamous Cape winds to Hout Bay Harbour. There I’d pop my bike against the wall at Snoekies & walk in for a fish & slaptjips. It was an experience. That became the benchmark for a good fish & slaptjips. The batter was crisp, the fish white & flaky & a decent portion of slaptjips that was soaked in paper. It was moerse because slaptjips=potatoes!
Now undeniably I’m a sucker for a Peppermint Crisp. You can literally bribe me to do anything by offering me one. I’d kill the bull.
One of the best meals is always a braai. Not only the eating but the fire process and the cooking on charcoal. That is therapeutic. I enjoy lamb chops on the braai and that is what Duncan and me would have each time he popped around for a braai. During Covid Duncan passed on via his own hand as he was suffering from mental health issues but he was a good mate. I still have lamb chops on the braai and think about how they still taste just as good and how that friendship still lingers.
Now every Friday we have a traditional pizza takeaway. Who cannot love a piazza and yes, pineapples are fine on pizza. At Grey we would often sneak away for takeways and have a Dagwood at Angelos. For the price of the pizza we could buy 20 Dagwoods as well as Cokes.
At Grey we ate in Hamilton Hall in a mass gathering of the hostels of Murray, Brill & Leith Houses. It was a syssitia, that ancient Greek communal meal that reinforced social bonds, discipline, and loyalty to the our alma mater. The syssita was found at more than just Grey but in many other gatherings centered around food. The syssita has been assimilated by the Christian faith which adopted and found inspiration in many Greek habits and ceremonies. The communion is based on the syssita. Another common one is the Oktoberfest with its long tables and swaying bodies. And, damn, do I love a good Oktoberfest with good helpings of pork like any German. The syssitia is as complex as its controlling and has assimilated into our lifestyles as breaking bread. One day I’ll open a restaurant chain, named SYSSITIA. Long communal tables and potatoes treated like a deity.
These foods aren’t just meals; they’re portals to the past, reminders of love, laughter, & experiences that shaped me. In them, I find nourishment for the body &, more importantly, the soul. Sometimes food is better than talking heads.
