Circa 1975, it’s a balmy Saturday summer evening on a small holding in the rural outskirts of Johannesburg. My parents were academics so were not rich, and the area was not quite as smart an area as the ‘mink and manure set’ areas, but we (me, my Boetie and the local kids) had personal safety and freedom – we had space to play – and this is The Great South African Childhood, childhood memories we cherish.
Squirming (I can never sit still) on the riempie seat of the Voortrekker dining room chair, which only allowed my head to just reach above the solid, gleaming Yellow-wood table top where our dinner was laid out, I eyed the brussels sprouts on my plate askance, trying to make up excuses as to why I could not eat them, and thinking instead of the steaming Rhubarb Crumble waiting in the pantry to be brought out after dinner.
The pink rhubarb cooked with lemon juice (all from my mother’s prolific vegetable garden near the old Mulberry Tree), makes a tart contrast to the crunchy crumble topping of brown sugar, flour and butter (which we made from our cow’s cream). I helped to make the butter by standing in the pantry, turning the handle of our old glass and wood butter churn to slap, clap away, separating the whey from the butter. ‘
Along with the Rhubarb Crumble, my mother brought a jug of thick, Jersey cream to pour over it; ‘A dollop of cream?’ she would enquire. ‘Yes please,’ I would answer, as did everyone else sitting down to eat at this generous dinner table.
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