Farming for Sympathy is a Nation-wide Symphony

I'm all for supporting ethical, socially and environmentally responsible farmers at the best of times, in fact to coin a cliche, 'many of my best friends are farmers..'.  However as much as one can never condone murder, no matter where, I just don't see why farmers should see themselves as any different from the rest of South Africans when it comes to crime.  Why aren't folk standing up for the residents of Nyanga, the ganglands of Mannenberg, Atlantis (or anywhere else for that matter), where the murder rate far exceeds that of farmers. 

This is not a unique issue facing farmers alone and is more likely to polarise rather than generate sympathy from majority of equally frustrated citizens.  This has nothing to do with politics, as much as the Right Wing and frustrated Expats would have one believe.

Let's approach this as 'All of Us', as opposed to 'Poor Me'..

Always travel with airport friendly bottle openers and clean shoes

I'm glad to hear that it's not only me who gets pounced upon like a reprobate terror suspect at Australian airports (I fear that I may be opening myself up here..), but one should always travel prepared to open bottles of wine no matter what. In Aus however, they sort of eliminate the need for a cork screw, with 95% (my estimate) of their bottles being screw top, so I always take my finger along, to pop my cheek with a cork sounding 'pop', just to bring the romance of the wine opening ceremony back.

But even still, they pounce on me at the airport every time. Just armed with my finger... Only place in the world mind you, taking themselves awfully seriously, only to look so dissapointed when they only discover my 6 bottles of SA wine I'm bringing in as gifts. So they turn to my shoes (seeing I've come from the 'war-torn, dirty' continent), and instruct me to take them off and bang them, I suspect to quash their natural attacking instinct (being leather of a once wild beast you understand..), and then 'kindly allow me' to move on.. 

I can't say the same for the poor dude wearing a fez and his mate with an apparent 'dangerous' turban, both carrying worry beads in their luggage.., not even a sip of wine between them.. I could hear the smack of the invasive latex gloves behind the small curtained cubicle..  So clenching my butt cheeks tightly, I briskly move on to pop corks another day..

See:
Kaley Cuoco Reveals Awkward Discovery Airport Security Made In Her Bag

http://www.ladbible.com/entertainment/celebrity-film-and-tv-kaley-cuoco-reveals-awkward-discovery-airport-security-made-in-her-bag-20170929

Getting Paid in Sunsets

Sometimes it takes a matter of 'stepping back' to assess the treadmill that many of us refer to as life, only to realise that what most folk are chasing day-to-day is nothing more than frivolous stuff.  Most, I would argue, don't even know what they're chasing.

Having nearly lost my father, at the age of 15, to a heart attack, induced by major, high level corporate stress (and some poor Russian genetics, it must be said), I suppose that I've been in the somewhat fortunate position to have been able to understand the two options of life from a very much earlier age than most.  Wealth or Happiness.  They need not be mutually exclusive, you understand, but the weighting is what's key.

As much as having had a very privileged childhood, my parents were very careful not to spoil us in the material sense.  But we had the best education money could buy, holidays both locally and internationally to extraordinary places, luxury cars to be ferried around in, and a beautiful home in a very upmarket neighbourhood.  However, whilst many of my mates had every electronic thing that opened and closed (yes there were some in those days), motorbikes and monkey-bikes at very young ages, brand new top of the range vehicles when they turned 18, paid for private pilot's licenses for fun, and the like, my recollection of my most prized possessions were purely sentimental.  My prized cricket bat (nowhere near the level of today's average school boy bat) was one that stands out.  I still have it.  I proudly tried to pass it on to my sons, but they thought I was joking.  So I oiled it and put it back in it's bag where it remains to this day.

Having just returned from a two week break up in the deep African bushveld, in the Greater Kruger National Park on the banks of the Olifants River, I am reminded once again of my desperation to hop off that treadmill and smell the 'wild potato bush'.  One of the more erudite writers and contented souls that I know, is perhaps ironically to some yet not for me, a game ranger in that part of the world.  A man who lives for the bush and all that naturally live within it.  A man who once said to my then teenage son, deliberating his future career, "You know my boy, many people say that Game Ranging is a poorly paid profession.  But I'd have to disagree.  If it's money and possessions you need to bring you happiness and self fulfillment, then perhaps.  But I get paid in sunsets, and that is something that money cannot buy".  Certainly if money could buy one 'sunsets', it would only be on a short holiday or in one's retirement years, by which time only a few if any sunsets may remain to enjoy.

By contrast, a dad with a son at school with mine some years back, a guy who was by this stage many times over a very wealthy fellow, once said something that I'll never forget.  He said, "Greg, you know I really envy you."  On asking why somewhat perplexed, he responded, "You really know your boys.  You've made it your mission to be a major part of their lives, to be at every sport, cultural or other event possible that they've taken part in, and you clearly have a close rapport with them.  I on the other-hand don't.  I've seldom been to my son's matches, or award evenings, music events and the like, because I was working.  I honestly don't know my sons, nor they me."  Reflecting on what he had just said I was truly flattered and yet saddened by his honest comment. I replied, "But why?  Why do you carry on working so long and so hard?  You've had more money than most, for decades already.  You have a younger son (youngest of 3) who is still at school, with only a few years left.  Why don't you change your envy to reality for yourself?"  He agreed that it was a very good idea.  But never did it.

Even I'm embarrassed at times that it takes my recharge in the bush or on my favourite remote strip of beach in the Eastern Cape, to once again be reminded of that which is truly important in life.  I suppose those places are just so back to basics, that is a complete contrast to city life as we know it.  As much as I often joke that life is just to short for bearable company, palatable food and average wine, there are times when the city-slicker world in which we live envelopes one above the eye balls, so much so that we are running on the ever-demolishing wheel of self destruction without realising it.
Sure there are important things in life where money can certainly help, no-one's saying it isn't important to a degree.  However it is that degree that often get's blurred, and our apparent drive to Self Actualisation on Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, that tends to get stuck in the bottom part of the hierarchical pyramid of rather basic needs & material wants.  Simply put, motivated by shear greed.   Poking one's head out above it all to 'smell the wild potato bush' becomes a desperate need for a paid for holiday as opposed to a life changing event or merely a very different, yet logical mindset change.

I have been convinced since early on that chasing riches ends in tears at best, but most likely one's premature demise.  Some of the saddest people are those I met whilst working briefly as a water-ski instructor in Monte Carlo teaching billionaire rich kids to ski in the Mediterranean.  They were the saddest and loneliest kids I'd ever met.  The sad state that most of us wake up to too late is perhaps only on reaching retirement (assuming one makes it that far), only to wonder what happened to life, to one's family and true friends.  Surrounded by one's magnificent mansion overlooking the best view money can buy, with one's luxury yacht moored on the jetty, 10 permanent crew all bustling about to get it ready for a week or two cruise of the year, helicopter on the pad and Learjet in the expensive hanger up the drag.  And yet the kids don't call (except for money occasionally), friends, well just aren't true friends.  No hobbies of note, because one 'just didn't have the time for such before', and a large empty void that can never be filled.  You may get a few Sunsets to watch, but can you really enjoy them?  Not likely.  Sunsets need passion, excitement, romance, friends and family to share them with, otherwise they merely become the period before darkness.

So.  Open that special bottle of wine tonight, the one you've been hording for years for that one special occasion that never comes.  Go off up the mountain or to a remote part of the beach, bush or wherever you can just ponder alone for a few hours this weekend, and write down your remaining life's Mission Statement, fleshed out into your top 5 or 6 objectives, one for each part of what you regard as important in life.  Family, Friends, Work, Play, Personal Development, Travel, or what ever.  You may just be surprised that money and wealth are nowhere to be seen on your list.  If they are, well then I'm sorry for you.

Perhaps this video will give some further inspiration..  Enjoy!

From wherefore 'hail' ye Julius Malema (alias Caesar)?

Think of him what you will, but Julius Malema is no fool. He may have some seemingly outlandish ideas at times, but when one really thinks about it, they make theoretical sense for the poor and disenfranchised. Where I have to differ with him though is on the subject of so-called (Land Reform).

e.g. Will the Zulus need to also give back the land they violently grabbed from the Xhosa and Pondos, Swazis and Sotho? (Perhaps also some of their stolen women, children and cattle?), or is this thing merely racial?  If so, do the Coloured folk need to only give back half their land, and if they don't own any do they only get half back?

But it gets trickier.. What happens if you're a direct descendant of the Khoisan of the Cape, and a descendant of a 'Strandlooper'? Do you get the land up to the Spring Tide mark, and which beach exactly, or nothing, because they moved constantly in those parts long before the Khoi-Khoi, Dutch and English arrived?  The Xhosa and Pondos never occupied land west of the the Fish River.  What about the land owned by a Venda dairy farmer, having bought and now settled in the Eastern Cape?  Tricky Julius, tricky..

As for me, I think I may demand land back from the Romans, stolen from my Ruski and Scottish forebears. Or do I have a claim from the Moors for stealing my Pagan ancestral land whilst my rellies were painting themselves blue and picking fights with the folk from across the peat-bog?  I don't know.. Perhaps I'll have a better idea after a glass or two of wine this evening.

When in drought, bath in wine..

For those of us living in the Cape, we are all very aware and more than somewhat edgy about the now well ensconced drought, the worst in over 100 years.  Needless to say, folk are running out of practical ideas as the last drops of our dams edge ever nearer.  It may be a bit late for long-term solutions from the State and local municipality, (seeing as those with 'faith like potatoes' have disappointed us somewhat in the outcome of prayer for rain).  Nevertheless, I thought that I would try to contribute, beyond the normal 'showering in a bucket', which I found to be very uncomfortable, or weeing outside, which has had neighbours lock away their daughters, dogs and even parakeets (which I do think was taking things a little too far).  However the fact remains, what will we do once the water runs out altogether?!

Drinking, certainly for us is not an issue, as the wine cellar is well stocked, however bathing will undoubtedly be.  I have however, got a few spare barrels of wine which I intend using for bathing from next week, and a few spare for friends, should they so require.  Cleopatra may have bathed in milk, but had she been a friend of mine, she would have been significantly better off in a barrel of my finest (not over a barrel, you understand).  I must point out that the only wine barrels available for bathing now will be the Sauvignon Blanc barrels I'm afraid, as I'm using all the Chardonnay ones for myself - sorry..). Nevertheless, bathing in Sauvignon blanc despite leaving one feeling a little acidic under the pits, somewhat tart in attitude, with whiffs of grass and asparagus emanating from your nether-regions, it will leave you feeling a lovely sense of cool, crisp freshness with a lingering subtle wooded aftertaste.. (Yes it has a touch of wood, being in a barrel and all, so I do hope you don't mind being a little blanc fume'd?). Of course, nothing like feeling tasty after one's bath though..

For our Kosher Jewish mates, I know a guy who knows a guy who's Rabbi's son makes Kosher wine, but it may leave one feeling a little sticky. But then there're always my beloved barrels of Cabernet Sauvignon still lurking, but you may end up being stained for life..

For our Muslim mates, well, there's always yogurt and honey.  Neither of which I can help with, other than to put you in touch with a bunch of lovely moms (from that nice school in Wynberg), who make the best Halaal samoosas and sticky koeksisters, the latter of which are damn nice when dunkend into a glass of blessed yogurt.

For my Agnostic mates, well, you're a tough bunch to please, I should know, but hey, when in doubt give praise to the bottle (of wine of course), but remember to always take an Uber afterwards.

Happy to share my barrels though, so let me know?

The Winemaker (alas not the Rainmaker)..

“Your sniff of salmon and skid-mark of jus Sir..”

For years I've poo-poo'd what I term hobsnobbery in wine, rather than the simple enjoyment and appreciation thereof quietly, or with those family or friends who are interested enough to want to chat more about it.  It’s not a show, it’s not to show how much one knows or to impress those around one, but to just enjoy and savour the flavours and complexities, no matter the price or brand thereon. 

As a wine maker and food lover, unfortunately I’ve come to learn over many years, (perhaps too many now), that some folk just love to show-off.  And without fail, they tend to be those who know the least about wine, but feel the need to prove otherwise in public. Most of them don’t hail from the so-called ‘Wine & Foodie Cities’, but perhaps suffer from wannabe deprivation.  Whether it’s name dropping of winemakers they may have met or spoken to at a wine event, and now refer to as ‘good friends’, or babble on about the wine ‘Terroir’, perhaps lamenting on about some exotic French Bordeaux or Burgundy they rate as something ‘unsurpassed’, or the fact that they only drink Champagne, because it is always the best Bubbly one can buy - nonsense.  I have to bite my tongue as I have little time for those types and tend to move away from the conversation as swiftly as possible.  My wife says that I battle to hide my disdain. 

In the same vain, I feel very much the same way regarding the wave of so-called 'hip' restaurants that suddenly became all the rage within the past decade (at the outside), in cities like Cape Town, Sydney, London, San Francisco to name a few, particularly it seems amongst the nouveau riche about town or foreigners who only read the ‘Hobsnobbery Places to Eat Out when visiting town’ ratings.  But more annoyingly those who feel the need to tell everyone-they've-been-and-you-really-should-go-types, when the truly honest response is more that they were left in awe of the creativity and all, but bloody hungry afterwards.  I just don’t like leaving a restaurant having paid a small bond on a 5 course meal with exorbitantly over-marked-up wine to need to pop into KFC for dinner afterwards.  It sort of goes against my grain.

Look, I'm all for art, my mother’s an artist, so I had no option but to.., but keep art in a gallery or on a wall somewhere appropriate.  I really don’t want to eat art, otherwise it would all be created on flavour, colour infused rice paper. However, when you want me to buy into the fact that the tiny morsel of whatever you're ripping me off with in your restaurant as a result of the apparent blood and sweat induced 'added value' creation before me, the result of over-touching, molding, infusing and nitrogen nuking a perfectly good raw ingredient in plastic bags under high pressure is worth it, I’m not really that impressed.  I get particularly disappointed when the plate arrives not with the Portabellini mushroom the waitron had so carefully and skillfully described, but a mushroom flavoured skid-mark thereof instead.  Don’t give me that ‘jus’ nonsense, this isn’t nouvelle cuisine Paris of the 70’s, give me ‘sauce’, or at least call it that.  ‘Jus’ for some reason gives one the right to up the price rather significantly.  It’s ‘posh’ you see.  Give me the bloody (ed) mushroom for god's sake.  I could have purchased something that looked very similar to that infused skid-mark at the babyfood section at Pick 'n Pay!  

OK, granted, it may not have been infused by truffle oil (squeezed out of a poor little innocent truffle apparently - is that even possible?!).  But don't tease me with bull, smoke and mirrors. Just give me the delectably prepared flavoured mushroom, so I can see what I'm about to tantalise my taste buds with next. What happened to being able to use all of one’s senses in enjoying food?  Like my wine, I like to see what I’m drinking, touch it if necessary (not in public of course..), at least be able to fork my food or pick it up with chopsticks (not a straw), chew it, feel it swirling about, taste it and assimilate all that together.  The good ol' tantalisation of the senses are what I'm after, not the equivalent of eating in the dark, whilst everyone fumbles about making the right noises.  Most often people around the table tend to have a hushed debate as to what's what, so as not to appear ignorant to the table of snooty, apparent food fundis sitting at the next table.

Somehow when one ads an amuse-bouche to the proceedings (the French term meaning “Amuse the mouth”, aptly so as they are very small teaser samplings of food served before a meal, to whet the appetite and stimulate the palate – and boy won’t you need it!).  Or the entremets of palate cleansing sorbet between courses, somehow giving license to the establishment to now charge more than double that of the fantastic Bistro or Italian Trattoria down the road.  The one that uses the same ingredients, though absolutely fresh, doesn’t over complicate matters, but rather than employing stressed artists, uses passion and generations of skill past down from Nona to grandchildren, where simplicity of lovingly assembled natural flavours are ‘the art’.  Give me that, not sous-vide cooking methods where once fresh ingredients need to be sealed in vacuum-sealed plastic pouches then placed in a temperature-controlled steam environment for hours on end.  That’s just food abuse!

At the end of the day, I’m quite happy paying good money for great food, great wine, great service and ambiance, but I just don’t want to eat fragments of art on a plate and sip on pretentiously overpriced wine that is merely there to impress the snob among us, rather than its intended purpose, to simply enjoy lovingly created passion on a plate and in my glass.

Here's a little 'taste' of what I mean..  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JvsWibR_nsk