When you are invited to spend the weekend contemplating scenery like this, it is only proper that you devote a few days to thinking about food before the fact, so that nothing can get in the way of two days of carefully planned indolence (not to mention that there are no shops, so if you don’t have it with you, you aren’t going to eat it).

The brief: four (maybe five) adults, two children. No hunger.

How could I not fall down the brownie hole once again? We needed snacks. And I needed to try two recipes that my pathetic poor willpower could not resist. “Peanut butter brownies with chocolate chunks” (you see? Though we may argue about whether they are brownies or blondies, seeing as they came out, well, “blonde”):

And continuing with the healthy theme (I had to think of the children!), there was of course the King Arthur Flour recipe for “Tasting is Believing Whole-Grain Brownies”. These I imagined turning into an adult (=boozy) dessert by topping them generously with sticky-brandy-and-coffee-prunes and a dollop of brandied mascarpone. (I tested this latter idea on the hapless Philosophe the night before we left. It worked. So, apparently, does wholewheat flour in a brownie.)

Well, we never got to that dessert (a coconut pie got in the way, as well as a box of those evil Lindt chocolate balls), but we did manage to scarf most of the brownies, and the prunes and mascarpone have been churned to a delightful (=boozy) ice cream, awaiting the attack of Signe’s sweet tooth later this evening.

More importantly, a delightful weekend in the country was the perfect opportunity to get busy with Ottolenghi’s caramelized garlic tart. Three whole heads of garlic, and a lot of goat’s cheese. I was all over it.

That was a damn fine tart/quiche/lunch, and if you like garlic and goat’s cheese you should do yourself a favour and get Plenty and get cooking.

And if you like lobster and pasta and wondered how the twain should ever meet, consider Alfred Portale’s lobster bolognese. That was our (superb) dinner on the first night, and lunch for some two days later.

In fact, after days of eating (and drinking) magnificently, no meal was perhaps more so than our final one, even though to look at the table you may have struggled to see the narrative thread. It was lunch on the stoep in the sun. There was a delicious Asian-y salmon salad. Warm crusty bread and butter. Guacamole. Salami. A slab of White Rock with Cranberries from Fairview (a most delightful little cheese, tart and sweet and cheesy all at once. And so good for your urinary tract!). There was a slice of caramelised garlic tart which no one wanted to claim but still managed to disappear, crumb by crumb. There was a small bowl of lobster bolognese which went the same way.

We first washed it down with some De Trafford Chenin, and then we carried on washing it down with the Secateurs Chenin.

For dessert there were peanut butter “brownies”. Wholewheat brownies. Some coconut pie. Sticky koeksisters brought by our travelling friend the extra adult the day before. And there was of course also a selection of “sweet shop” goodies from nowhere less than The Fat Duck in Bray (Heston is a genius).

Needless to say we were happy and full when we packed up and got into our cars to roll back to the city. And doubtless already thinking about the next occasion for cornucopia. That’s just how we roll.

We are not unlucky people.

So after my recent bold declaration that this Doctor’s brownie adventures are officially over, I was naturally confronted with all sorts of Facebook banter offering yet more tips and tricks for that thing I had just renounced. The most evil of these was a recipe which calls for cocoa powder dissolved in hot water (rather than melting chocolate), along with the suggestion that the water be replaced by booze (Nina, you know who you are).

Talk of booze in food often takes the turn of trying to discover how best to keep it in there. If you dissolve cocoa in a cup of bourbon, won’t it all just evaporate during baking (for instance)? In other words, how does one maintain the integrity of a truly boozy brownie?

Well since brownies were out, and I had recently spotted a recipe for white-chocolate-raspberry blondies, things quickly spiralled downhill. In the fridge: raspberries, no; dried strawberries, yes. In the freezer: vodka, yes. The strawberries looked very pretty in their vodka bath, and the vodka looked very pretty when I removed the strawberries a few hours later (it was, in fact, bright red, which leads me to seriously doubt the naturalness of the dried strawberries. But hey, colourful vodka cocktail coming up soon).

Worse: the blondies were dry, and not boozy at all. Had they been presented at tea time as what old Danish aunties call “sandkage” (this one you can work out for yourself), they would have been a hit. But as blondies, they were dismal failures.

I’ve made blondies before, and they were yummy and chewy and more-ish, so I blame the recipe. But I should have known better – it came from a British magazine, and what do the Brits know about blondies? Like, who would actually follow a Jamie Oliver recipe for brownies? (Don’t bother, I already did.)

Speaking of which, I believe Mr. O is now doing his very own 30-minute meals. This is amazing. Because that is exactly what Rachael Ray has built an entire empire on. He was even on her show earlier this year. So it’s not like they don’t know each other. Couldn’t he have called it “29-minute Meals”? Or, “Dinner In A Jiffy”? Or, “Pukka Nosh in Half a Tick”? Really. Anything but “I’m Just Going To Take Someone Else’s Idea And Hope That No One Notices”.

Then again, maybe it’s all the same anyway. As Michael Ruhlman put it not long ago,

‘Part of the problem is the magazine editors and television producers drumming us over the head with fast and easy meal solutions at home. It’s the wrong message to send. These editors and producers and publishers are backing the processed food industry, propelling their message. What I say to you magazine editors and producers, to you Rachael Ray and you Jamie Oliver and your 20 minutes meals: God bless you, but you are advertising and marketing on behalf of the processed food industry.’

Well, I don’t know about the God bless you part. And hey, I’m all for knocking things up in a hurry, and if the Ray and the Oliver can make that happen, then good for them. But when it panders to a public that (apparently) hasn’t got the attention span to realise that what Sir O. says is nothing new, then I’m off that bus.

Those people they create would probably even say my blondies were delicious.

PS. To clarify, when I first heard about the 30-minute meal venture, I tweeted the man himself to ask if RR hadn’t been doing the same thing for years. His response:

I guess we don’t all interpret “potential problem?” equally.

And this is not it. Not that this isn’t a damn fine brownie – if you like your brownies intensely fudgy, that is. Amazingly fudgy, actually. More fudgy than any brownie I’ve had before, and by now I’ve had a lot thanks to this obsessive quest for the perfect brownie recipe which has had me baking brownies like a madwoman for the last few years (and eating them faster than I can swim them off). This recipe comes from Ottolenghi – who appears to be my new obsession, what with all the publicity his pork belly has had on these pages – and it’s unlike any brownie recipe I’ve tried because it uses a LOT of flour (280g for 2 eggs?). I was sceptical, but I forged ahead, and judging from the after-dinner oohs and aahs (on two separate occasions), I believe they came out perfectly.

They also helped me to realise that my whole quest has been misguided from the start. I now understand that all I’ve really been trying to figure out is what kind of brownie I like, and this is not it. (No disrespect, Mr. O). I like them chewy, not fudgy. Mr. Keller’s come close, but as others have discovered, there are ways of getting chewy goodness that don’t involve almost half a kilo of butter and a barrel of sugar. And I like them dark and bittersweet (a bit of spice from cinnamon or ginger never hurts either). In other words, I don’t really like brownies. Which is why I have a recipe called “F**k the rest, these are the best (aka Signe’s brownies)” which are the kind of brownie you can eat two of without feeling nauseous, and also the kind Betty Crocker would probably consign to her fictional dustbin.

It’s been hard work, but it’s time to move on.

Speaking of which, I can also delete the recipe for 7-Up cake that I’ve had bookmarked for yonks. I finally got to make it for the occasion of my birthday, and since it was being preceded by a bit of a soul-food feast of ribs and brisket, I figured doing something which is apparently a southern tradition (using “soda” in cakes) would fit right in. I also liked the fact that it was suppose to improve with age, which meant I could make it a couple of days ahead.

Aware that it was supposed to be “dense”, I sliced it open so I could drizzle the two layers with a good shot of grappa (because I have a reputation for boozy desserts to uphold), then filled it with creme fraiche and berries, and finished off with a good smear of dark chocolate.

When those snaking candles were ablaze, the cake looked pretty impressive (less impressive was my attempt at blowing them out at once. The Philosophe, in particular, was not charmed – until I assured him that the 10 still-burning candles did not represent him plus 9 boyfriends in my life, but the fact that he has the amazing presence of ten men combined. I think he bought it).

Anyway, the cake was fine, but not great (too dense), so we can leave that one in the south where it belongs.

I believe that I, on the other hand, do improve with age. That’s hopefully thanks to some personal maturing on my part, but I’m pretty sure it has as much to do with the people I surround myself with. I’ve never been one to aspire to having 500 friends – either in real life or on Facebook. And I’m glad about that, because it means that on a day like yesterday, with just ten other people to share ribs and cake with, I was surrounded by most of my nearest and dearest. I’m thankful to them (that’s YOU, to some of my readers – you know who you are) for making it still cool to blow up balloons when you turn 25 35.

And for those who should have been there but couldn’t, I can only invoke an old and wise expletive from my mother (who was also missing): FLD = F**k Long Distance. Get here next time. The cake will be better.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a new Ottolenghi book to perve over.

For my (to die for) “caramelized brussel sprouts with pecan nuts and blue cheese”, for instance, I would tell you that the secret is to add the garlic at the last minute of pan-time. That way you get a kick of fresh garlic to temper the sweetness of the sugar and nuts, but without the harshness of actual fresh garlic. (Because don’t you also find that if you add garlic too early, it loses its oomph?) You want garlic. But you want it just right. This is how, trust me.

(Excuse the photograph. My stylist is away watching Argentina getting thrashed by Germany).

If I were Jamie Oliver, I would tell you that this goes fantastically with small, crumbed pork cutlets (and a nice dollop of horseradish on the side), and then tell you how easy crumbed pork is to throw together. (Like this: bish bash bosh).

If I were Rachael Ray, I would tell you not to bother with the bish bash bosh, because I don’t have the time, and you don’t have the time or money to hop on your scooter, head down to your friendly (organic) butcher, have a chat about the missus, get some beautiful hand-reared, grass-fed, acupuncture-tenderised local pork, and neither do you have half a loaf of day-old sourdough lying around waiting to be whizzed into crumbs in the KitchenAid (which you don’t have either).

What you do have is Woolworths, and Woolworths will sell you a packet of (SIX) crumbed pork steaklets for R19.95:

Just throw those babies on a pan with a little EVOO, two minutes per side – in under 30 minutes, and for under R50, you have an amazing, delicious, nutritious meal! (Cue audience applause)

Or if I were Anthony Bourdain pretending to be Rachael Ray, I would say “See how cheap and easy it is? Even your dumb, lazy ass can cook this!”.

I could get into this being rich and famous business.

Especially since it took no thought at all. The brussel sprouts met pecan nuts and blue cheese because those were the only of its friends I could find in the fridge. And as for the brilliant garlic move – that was because I forgot to put it in in the beginning.

I suppose everyone who cooks knows that some of the best things we come up with are just delicious mistakes. Best to keep the rest of the world in the dark. (And it’s probably not really a good strategy to let on how much of the work Woolies does. I doubt there’s room for many more celebrity “chefs” who are basically showing people how to shop. Unless I get a job for Woolies…)

OK, it is a film about a Dane living outside of Denmark perhaps. (An extra-Dane?). Or about a “Dane” cooking a “Danish” meal in a kitchen in Cape Town. Whatever. We’ll let them do the analysis. But it did give me a chance to devise a funky menu, spend most of a day cooking (if we start counting at 9am when I put a 5kg leg of pork in the oven), and to be on camera.

For the record, it’s pretty weird being on camera. I’m not sure I like it. Or maybe I do, but I’m not sure I’m any good at it. And filming 6 people putting away almost 5 kg of pork and perhaps as much wine  probably doesn’t make for very charming television. But more importantly perhaps, I got to – for the first time – make my dinner guests both eat and try to say rødgrød med fløde, that most iconic Danish dish-phrase. It’s basically not-quite-jam: you cook up some berries with a bit of sugar, thicken with a little cornstarch (or arrowroot if you’re authentic, but we know I’m not), and serve it cold with a splash of (unwhipped) cream.

It’s actually pretty delicious, especially after a large meal. We started with three kinds of smushi – beetroot-horseradish-salmon-pickled ginger; egg-wasabi mayo-shrimp; herring-red onion-caper – along with obligatory snaps (and Skål!). Then there was that hunk of pork which my mother never made for us at home. How the wolves attacked that crackling! And red cabbage, caramelised potatoes, pickled cucumber: basically Christmas.

The other good thing about not-quite-jam with cream for dessert is that it’s so *light and fresh* that you can still be a bit decadent and manage a couple of, say, “rum”balls made with leftover brandy pudding. (Genius, by the way).

I may not be Nigella (and I may not even be Danish), but at least I can say rødgrød med fløde. 

Resigned to the fact that there would be little parking, we carefully selected a good halfway house where we could rest on our long walk to the stadium. So we set off at 12.30pm, and a few moments later we were establishing ourselves at Caveau, getting ready for the big haul. Two bloody marys, a few beers (plus obligatory shots of gees tequila), a burger, skinny fries, a crispy spring roll (with sweet chilli sauce), plenty of biltong, and mild deafness from the fucken vuvus, we were ready to go.

Along with a good portion of the 64 100 people who were eventually at the stadium with us, we walked the fan walk. We talked the fan talk. Some of us might even have boogied to Shakira on the way. It wasn’t always pretty.

But it was fun. I didn’t even mind having to drink Budweiser when we were there – though R30 for a bottle is a rip-off of note.

On our return, walking the walk and talking the talk after the game (which was less exciting than everything else), the gees fatigue drove us to chomping hotdogs on the street. The hotdog was supposedly bespoke – except it wasn’t (at all). But it didn’t need to be. It was a bland, slightly soggy, but hot and piggy, hotdog just before midnight after the second match of the World Cup. Delicious.

Along with vuvuzela, gees is one of the words of the moment down here in the south, where players, fans, hooligans et al converge for the big football party (yawn). I haven’t been able to find a phonetic spelling for it, but just imagine the opening consonant like the gg in “dagga”: more of a soft, epiglottal hiss than a hard g. Gees means spirit, and the idea is that we should all be in its possession by now.

Well I’m sorry. All those vuvuzelas and all those people with all that gees scare the sh*t out of me. Not that I think any harm will come to me. I’m just not a crowd kinda gal. I like to kick things down a notch.

But wishing it away isn’t going to make it go away, so I will get with the program and invite the gees into my life. I will let myself be saved, and on Friday evening when I march to the stadium with all those thousands of people to watch France vs. Uruguay (so I can say “I was there“) no-one will suspect for a second that I am not having the time of my life.

I might have to work a bit to get the gees to notice me so that it may possess me. So from now on I think I will only eat foods that are very obviously connected to the scared game. Let’s see…

Chocolate soccer balls

Chocolate boot and shirt

Jelly beans in a South African boot

Anyone care to bake me a soccer cake??

Ooh, or if I could get my hands on

254lbs (that 115kg to you) of pure chocolate. Oh, and I take it Lionel Messi, who this is supposed to replicate, is a bit of a hotshot in Spain.

Great. Lots of chocolate, cake and jelly beans (how apt for such a manly sport). And I guess beer is the only respectable beverage to wash it all down. Come Sunday 11th July, I’ll be looking like a football myself. But such is the gees. You have been warned.

In the area of Peru where this little girl was born, there is a lake which is said to have mystical properties. Mermaids live in the lake. And if you go near the lake when the moon is full, perhaps have a bit of a lie down by the lake, then chances are that one of the mermaids will come out and curse you.

(But aren’t mermaids, like, all sweet and tragic?)

Anyway, so when this little girl was born, the attending doctor – I repeat, doctor – takes a look at the child and gravely asks the new mother, “Have you been to the lake recently?”

I only know this because I find myself in one of the rare moments that I watch terrestrial television, and here is a documentary on a girl who doctors think is a mermaid, and who a plastic surgeon (pictured above) makes the eminently excellent marketing decision to devote himself to curing. On television.

To which I must go back. These terrestrials are truly fascinating.

It’s…duck confit with a pistachio crust, something else, and sultana leather. Pretty delicious, even if it thwarted my second attempt at scoring some good old fashioned confit (a hot leg with crispy skin). At Rust en Vrede the night before, I went for a “sole and duck confit” which turned out to be a roll too, with sole on the outside, duck in the middle. Also good, but I think I remain a traditionalist when it comes to confit. (Time to get me some duck legs, methinks.)

It’s…oyster mushrooms with a crispy soft-boiled egg. We came up with several theories about how to get the soft egg inside the crisp shell, but I’m not convinced we solved the mystery. Novel-icious.

It’s…lacquered pork belly with various fruity bits, and beetroot.

It’s…an optical illusion. But we were there, and it was a delightful way to round up 24 hours of gastro-indulgence that featured truffle, foie, at least one oyster, at least one snail, several amuse-bouches, a touch of jus, some foam, various purees, a rocking hazelnut sauce (with artichoke tortellini: big hit), copious wine, and a curious “brulee” which substituted the caramelized top with halved blueberries – much to the consternation of its eater, who found the concept of halving blueberries rather silly, not to mention a poor substitute for burnt sugar.

But happily the hits far outweighed the misses, and the real wonder is that we were able to come home and eat pizza for supper. The stomach is a hardy beast.

Last weekend we jetted off to the kingdom of Swaziland for a wedding that featured bottomless pink bubbly and some of the most fantastic beef fillet I have ever eaten. OK, it is an imperfect memory, since my tastebuds were probably already bubbly-wobbly. But the meat is seriously good in Swaziland. ORGANIC! GRASS FED! (You listening, Michael Pollan? We living the good life down here in Ah-frica.)

After the meal I wobbled very enthusiastically (and mostly successfully) on the dance floor until we were all wobbled out and got in a wobbly taxi to take us “home”.

Back on the road the next day for a 3 4 hour trip to Jo-hannes-burg, for which we were rewarded with yet another fantastic meal and some rather fine wine.

(Puff pastry with caramelised figs and gorgonzola: a “snack”)

(Lovely lamb stew, cooked by a man who calls himself Jamie in the kitchen)

(Me, not yet wobbling)

The next day we wobbled back to Cape Town, which, as it turned out, was the best place to be in the country on that “Freedom” Tuesday, given that most of Jo-hannes-burg was suffering a power cut (from about half an hour after WE left, mwahahahaaaa).

And then the short week wobbled along, including an evening at a surprisingly charming restaurant in a town where the Philosophe went to give a talk to a bunch of mostly Ch-ermans about the rational life without God – they found him Ch-arming (but mistakenly referred to him as the Doctor. He politely corrected them but he didn’t ask the real Doctor to stand up). We finished the evening with an Irish coffee. So rare these days. And a little wobbly.

But nothing’s over till it’s over, and yesterday was Saturday so we donned our fabuloso gear and headed into the night, which was Myoga, and where our “Jamie” friend joined us for a 6-course extravaganza – at the ridiculously wobbly price of R150. Ha! That’s like $20.

Ah-frica rocks. Or wobbles.