I realize that this isn't possible, but I also realize that I'll have some time during my (f)unemployment (not math-speak for function -- straight up unemployment with possibility of some fun) to recap my time here. So this blog should continue for a bit after - don't stop reading after December 1st.
It's like I was just saying to one of my work friends, "I miss bacon."
How do you blog about bacon?
You can't devote an entire blog to food (that's a blatant lie) - but I want to tell you all the things I think, all the comparisons I've drawn, all the strange and lovely things. One thing I can't give you is scent, but you'd not understand anyway, so that I won't concern myself with.
But, back to bacon.
The bacon here is not real bacon. I lust for slices of thick-cut, maple-cured bacon.
I mean, it's pork product, maybe just cut differently, but it lacks the sexy taste and texture that "real" bacon has.
Today, we are going to the Spur (it's the American-Indian themed restaurant here - sort of Chili's meets Denny's meets the Southwest) for breakfast. We always get there too late - breakfast ends at 11:30 - and are forced instead to order quesadillas or do the two-for-one burger deal. But today we are going for breakfast. There's a sense of excitement in the air (or maybe it's just me). We have the Spur Family Card, the frequent eater card. And we will be using it.
I'll report back.
It's probably going to be exactly what I'm expecting and I'm going to call myself notorious for having low food expectations. But it's breakfast! Breakfast for lunch! Nothing is better than that.
On the same breakfast-for-lunch thought path, there aren't any bagels here. Seriously, none. I would give anything to see a magical oasis of a Dunkin' Donuts and order an everything bagel slapped with a huge amount of cream cheese. The crinkle of the wrapping, the seeds falling off, the excess cream cheese coming through the hole in the middle - that is heaven.
The weight report!
I thought I’d lose weight here. That was a sorely misguided assumption. Instead, the pounds have slowly gathered around my thighs and in my stomach, thickening my arms, and probably my face, softening my usually angular appearance. While I don’t quite yet resemble the typical African mama, I’m still not entirely happy with the way things have gone.
Mama P tells me that I can starve myself when I get home, and while I have no intentions of starving, I also have no intentions of living off of meat, meat, meat, custard, and other sugars. Did I mention meat? I sorely crave a chicken breast served with brown rice and vegetables – fresh vegetables, not flash frozen, over-boiled mixes. Margreet and I tried to convince her that potatoes and white rice are never served together, but she remains adamant that this is South African food.
It may not be entirely South African, but it is definitely cuisine enjoyed by the colored and black cultures. At the birthday party last weekend, I saw something stewing at the dessert table, and poked at it with the serving spoon. “It’s sweet potato stew,” said Mama P’s mother, a severe looking woman with blue eyes. She had changed from her heels into soft brown slippers, somehow making her appear shorter and more squat than she already is. “You must try it,” she said, spooning a heaping helping onto her own plate and then pouring the ever-present custard over it.
I did the same, minus the heaping helping part. “No,” she corrected me. “You must stir it around and dig deep into the pot.” So I did. I took it back to the table, sat down, and stared at it. Sweet potato stew? At least “stewing” was the right verb to describe the pot, I thought. I poked at it again, this time with my fork. I tasted it. It was delicious. Thinking Vitamin A and not fatty milk product, I proceeded to devour the entire dish.
It’s the devouring that’s the problem, but it simply can’t be helped. You have to eat it, you’re guilt-tripped if you don’t, and the prospect of facing the same dish for three days is hard to stomach. Margreet and I have taken to calling ourselves “The Big Two” after the Big Five: lions, cheetahs, hippos….and two others (us).
It’s not entirely safe to run around the neighborhood – I did it a bit in the beginning, but since the transfer north to Wynberg, I’m finding that I just don’t have the energy or the daylight to go and run around once I get home from work – and I’ve been unable to make the time to get anything done here, but with unemployment looming, I see the opportunity to try and make things work as far as exercise once I return home.
I can join a yoga studio, I can walk, and oh, I cannot wait to get back on a bicycle. Perhaps I’ll even let Mike drag me to 24 Hour Fitness so the fit, muscular, tan people can laugh me at. This winter I want to learn to ski, so hopefully that will be something I can get into. And spring and summer will bring long biking sessions – hopefully both in the mountains and in the city.
I’ll be back to normal in no time.
But I will not give up bacon. Never!
Today's train report : rainbows.
It rained last night. I'm so grateful that we don't have a tin roof like some of the families here. The rain just clatters and stomps across them in the night. But this morning dawned wet, water dripping from the roofs and the trees, puddles everywhere. The sky above the mountains was gray and gloomy, huge black clouds looming. I love that time though. When everything is either gray or green. It's the post-rain glory, everything looks brighter and more distinct. I was late for the train (always) and as I was walking, I looked down the road and saw a rainbow, hovering low. It was the lowest rainbow I'd ever seen and it appeared to be less than 200 meters away. So close!
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