birthday one
password: purple
For the magnificent annual celebration
of one Magdalyn Elizabeth, our benevolent queen Carina, via creative
powers previously unseen in this universe, planned a superb
three-course supper for Monday-birthday evening composed almost
entirely of... da-dada-da!
Cupcakes! Menu
to follow
a
light salad
thinly
sliced cucumber slices, quartered
cocktail
tomatoes, quartered
red
onion, grated
tossed
in balsamic vinegar
salt
and pepper to taste
primary
cupcake course
cornbread
muffin base
with
sundried tomatoes, sliced
cheddar
cheese, shredded
with
ricotta-pesto “frosting”
secondary
cupcake course
pumpkin
cupcake base
with
butternut squash
and
buttermilk
topped
with hand-whipped
purple
whipped cream
and
sprinkles
tertiary
cupcake course
miniature
meringues filled with
dark
chocolate ganache
Not
only was this an entirely cupcake meal, this was also a gluten-free
extravaganza, meaning that Maggie's Baba [Ben] could fully
participate! Woot!
In
addition to this family dinner, we had a cordial Sunday afternoon
celebration, consisting of vanilla ice cream, lemonade, homemade
chocolate sauce, and hour upon hour of running through the sprinkler
along the grass. It was one of the warmest days here: humid, close
to 40 degrees Celsius (100 degrees Fahrenheit), with a slight zephyr.
Presents and smiles abounded, even in cyberspace (her grandparents
made their guest appearances via skype). Full of cartwheels,
sunburns, and chocolate, the pre-birthday bash easily surpassed
others in my memory... Admittedly, there are not so
many pre-birthday parties for comparison; yet, this insignificant
detail does not mar the day's beauty in the least.
birthday twenty
password: crème bruleé
WARNING:
SEMI-ADULT CONTENT TO FOLLOW. PLEASE SKIP THIS SECTION IF YOU ARE
UNDERAGE OR STILL HAVE THE PERCEPTIONS OF SOMEONE UNDERAGE. MANY
THANKS.
The
morning of my seven thousandth-three hundredth-and fourth day on
earth skipped to a start as many of the others recently have: waking
up, finding the quickest route of clothing to a cuppa tea, and
figuring it out from there. All that morning, I was lulled into that
feeling only adults can find themselves subject to: the feeling that
nothing special is going to happen on your birthday and, no matter
how old you are, you feel that little self-pitying internal whine
crying “boo-hoo” within. But, this was a short-lived sentiment,
for no sooner had I settled into my lack of extraordinary
expectations for the day than I received my first present!
Impressively, the newly crowned three-year-old in residence was able
to keep this gift a secret for three
whole days.
Talk about an accomplishment! From the family here, I unearthed,
from a brightly colored little parcel, a bounteous glass jar of lemon
curd wrapped in an adorable sun dress with olive lace.
There
was also an adorable, handmade card which I have since kept at my
bedside as a reminder of my newfound responsibilities of adulthood
/grimaces/
Later
that evening, I scrambled into a car with my friend Lyndle who, as
aforementioned, is the au pair for Naomi, a little girl who takes
swim lessons with Maggie. Her and a group of friends had declared
they “simply must” take me out on the [local] town for my
birthday and, as a helpless-hapless foreigner, I was in no position
to complain! The night kicked off at an outdoor [not-really] Italian
restaurant in the Hillcrest area called “Pappo Giovanni's.” Hillcrest is another suburb of Durban nearby. I consumed a sizable
portion of penne with salmon served in a creamy garlic and white wine
sauce—a solid four-star dish. On the table, a small saucer laden
with freshly grated parmesean cheese, creamed garlic, olive oil, and
pesto rested—a common practice at Italian restaurants, especially
when they serve bread of some kind. So, about halfway through my
meal, I decided I needed to switch something up and add some
pesto—not too risky of a venture, I should think. However, in
retrospect (approximately, the retrospective period immediately
following putting the fork in my mouth), I changed my mind: hot, hot
HOT! explosion across my tongue, eyes slightly watering thereafter
and then a quick draught of water. A minute later, more collected, I
calmly asked the girl beside me, “By the way, what is that green
sauce?” while pointing. “Oh, that's a really hot chili oil
sauce! The natal region is actually quite famous for their curries”
...deep sigh... Chili oil? At an “Italian” place? You're
kidding me, right? On the upside, the oil actually improved the dish
in an unanticipated way, after the initial shock of course.
Once
dinner had wrapped up, we headed to the next venue, and my first
“real” clubbing experience. Now, to clarify, I have been to bars
in the States, but really only for swing or ballroom dance events
that are held there. And, generally, I avoided places that marketed
themselves as clubs when I was in Spain because, essentially, every
café was also a bar and the clubs had exorbitant cover fees that
totally weren't worth it, at least in my opinion. So, this really
was my first experience at a bar where I was legally able to consume
alcohol (the drinking and
driving age here is eighteen) and not going there for any other
reason.
“Franki's”
is a sweet joint in the Heritage Market complex where Lyndle worked
for awhile as a waitress and the gang seemed pretty familiar with it.
Though it seemed fairly safe and is located in a very safe part of
town, the girls told me that you're lucky if you don't see at least
one fist-fight during the night; I suppose my birthday lent the
evening some luck? Anyways, Lyndle introduced me to “Sausage Bob,”
the club's DJ. Don't worry, his title is emblazoned behind his booth
in blue neon lights, just in case you forget. We also chatted with
the bouncers for awhile, both of whom are Congolese and insanely
tall: over two meters, that's for sure.
Now
of course, everybody wants to know about the drinks. Well, to be
perfectly honest, I'm not much for the typical image that may come to
mind when thinking about America + college + stupidty. My nights in
that do include
drinking look more like this
But...
now was not the time to become bull-headed and stick to my old ways;
it was time to experiment and celebrate! All in all, I tried three
different drink: a vodka drink currently being promoted here called
“vawter” served with lemon, a sickly, saccharine crème bruleé
shooter, and a shot of tequila. The shooter was, as I said, far too
sweet for my taste and very strange. The tequila was the most comic
drink of the night by far though. It was sold to me like this by
Earl, Lyndle's boyfriend: “Oh, there's this one shot that's kind of
a thing here—a big South African tradition! I don't know if you've
heard of it... it's called tequila.” I then spent the next five
minutes explaining to him how tequila is actually
from my good neighbor in the States, Mexico. Duh. Hahahaha...
Good
news! The festivies didn't end there! After I got home, I slept in
til seven-thirty—a luxury these days, what with small people and
puppydom ruling my waking schedule—only to feel like I was still in
a dream: fresh pastries for breakfast!
Then,
we had sushi for lunch: how I've missed my fishy friends in their
little bundles of seaweed and grain! And, you guessed it, more
pastries
for dessert, this time from a swanky place Carina and I have had our
beady eyes on for some time heralded as “Chateaux Gateaux.” I
must have some kind of affinity with cat-titled places, i.e. “Cuatro
Gatos” in Spain as my coveted late night spot with my amigas.
Anyways, we're already planning a return trip ('specially since I
forgot my camera at home >.< so sorry y'all!) because if the
charm dripping off each little doily and ritzy jazz song playing
hadn't won us over—which they did—the chocolate walnut* cake
knocked us over like dominoes in a tropical storm.
Speaking
of storms, we just finished getting pelted with non-stop rain, a
result of the tropical storm Irene that was blustering around
offshore in the area. It literally rained for over twenty-four hours
straight. We checked the rain gauge afterwards: just over 100 millimeters or,
for you American weirdos, 4 inches of rainfall. Yeah. Needless to
say, it was a very wet
weekend, much to the displeasure of Lander (our yorkshire terrier who
has decided to be absolutely prissy and dislikes peeing in the rain;
also, people don't say “pee” here—it's “wee” instead.
Strange, eh?). He's also just gotten his “adult ears” which
stick straight up, giving him the combined appearances of a bat, a
bearded old man, and rat. Despite all this, he's still annoyingly
cute and cuddly. Harumph?!
I
think in my next life—or really just when I get an apartment that
allows pets and
I
can afford to feed one—I'll own a Welsh Springer Spaniel, of the
short-haired variety. If you don't know about these dogs, all you
gotta know is they're cute. Period. Like, freaking adorable and
yet, not totally idiotic IQ-wise. They're also a nice size, for me
personally.
*if
I haven't mentioned this before, for whatever reason, walnuts are
pretty much impossible to get a hold of here, which is hugely
depressing if you're a walnut addict like me. I should really see
someone about that...
the
rescue
password:
date night
Saturday
night, following our walnut cake dessert coma, Ben and Carina headed
out for a leisurely time in town. How cruel sweet Fate seems! For
it was to be nothing of the sort... On their way into Hillcrest,
they missed the turn off and had to turn around in a nearby alleyway
between some commercial buildings. As they were headed back toward
the main road, a young woman stuck her head out of a window and
screamed for help with all her strength.
Carina
and Ben parked the car on the street and went into the bar next door,
asking for help; some brawny men answered the call, along with the
bar owner, a fierce blonde lady that stood at least two meters tall.
The band rushed into the alleyway, up the stairs, and this is what
they saw: a large male kneeling above the young woman who had
screamed earlier, punching her repeatedly, again and again, without
mercy. The bar owner decked the man and the rest of the crew subdued
him in a corner while others led the girl outside. They later
learned that the girl was a waitress at the bar and that she had been
walking to her car to drive home when she was accosted by the man and
taken upstairs and beaten. As Ben and Carina started to drive away,
the bar owner bustled out and thanked them profusely, assuring them
that they did the right thing.
Thereafter,
the two made their way to Makaranga and Ben had a drink or
two—essential really—to calm his nerves. Other than the rescue
mission, the night was unextraordinary and peaceful. Thank god they
stopped. Thank god they did the right thing.
the
lighter side
In
other news, what seems like an entire weaver colony has taken up
residence in the available
dead tree in our
backyard, across from the veranda.
Maybe
it's just me, but it definitely made me think of that line from When
Harry Met Sally
when Harry says “But,
really, whats so hard about
finding an apartment? What you do is look in the obituary section.
You see who died, find out where they lived, and tip the doorman.
What they could do to make it easier is combine the two. You know,
Mr. Kline died yesterday, leaving behind a wife, two children, and a
spacious three bedroom apartment with a wood burning fireplace.”
Forgive me for my dark side.
Mystery
101: there is a perfectly round wound on the tip of my elbow of
unknown origin. Did I mention it hurts like the dickens? I always
wonder, when using that phrase, how Charles would feel about his
surname being befouled in such a fashion. Alack-a-day!
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