from my mother's kitchen

She cooked for many people besides us kids and my “old man”. There was the old Mrs Fineberg up there in Leopard Str, old Mrs.Videgas down there at the bottom of Burger str. They used to kiss and hug me when I brought some tasty dish from Ma’s kitchen. I can still recall the delicious soft smell of their face powder and the enticing feel of their soft fleshy bodies as they hugged me. Usually they gave me one of the tasty cakes they’d baked. At first I delivered “Ma’s” food on my bicycle and later I used my dad’s Wolsely and later his green Chev. To this day I confess a special affection for old ladies. I don’t fantasize over them, that activity is reserved for film stars or girls that look like film stars, like Jane Russel in that famous, classic movie “Outlaw”. Under 18’s weren’t allowed in but somehow I managed it even though I was only about 12 years old when it showed at the President Cinema. When I was a young boy of about 14 I thought it was evil and unnatural to fantasi...

She had help, usually a black lady kitchen maid, whose name was usually, Elizabeth, Mary or Lydia and a black gentleman by the name of John, but mostly she did the work. Their function, as far as I could see was so that they were people that “Ma” could shout at when things didn’t go right or when a dish got broken, or when the food got burnt. There were many things, I learnt from bitter experience that could go wrong in ma’s kitchen and bring the wrath of Ma down like the shrieking of a shot hyena.                                                                        Ma didn’t hesitate to let the culprit know how she felt. It was an ano...

Breakfast and ma’s kitchen complicated my life. I could have been on time for school had it not been for that. Today I realize that ma loved me and just wanted to see me at least once a day, because I was always disappearing, usually with the dog, the cat or the chickens or whatever sideline amusement was available to a child constantly on the lookout for pleasure and adventure. You can add another appellation, “moaner”, because I was always moaning that it wasn’t fair that I had to comply with all ma’s demands; I always moaned in a long drawn out voice: “oh Maaa”. Life could have been smooth and cool. My opinion was that my mother was complicating a life that could have been lived simply without the drama caused by her insistence, every day, on eating breakfast, lunch and supper. She was “one helluva cook”, using my brother Raymond’s rather crude but suitable expression. I always had the feeling that Raymond only said this out of politeness but I really did like my mother’s co...

Getting up in the morning was my favorite activity of the day. The white cushion and cozy blankets couldn’t hold me back from rushing to meet the new day. I had spent enough time lying there after waking, gazing through my bedroom window at my beloved plum tree in our garden and listening, through the partly drawn, curtains to the rustling leaves of the giant eucalyptus trees in the park across the road, thinking how pleasantly I could spend my day. Society had other plans; it was time to get up and get ready for school. Without further reverie I jumped out of bed, ran to the bathroom to get ready for the great occasion that started my school day, the morning assembly, my socks pulled up, tie straight and hair combed. I was nearly at the door when my mother called me back:  “Leon!!!! Where do you think you’re off to? sit right down there at that kitchen table and finish your breakfast. Do you hear me? Leon. You don’t go anywhere without finishing your breakfast. It’s on the...