Last night's meat free Monday supper was easy. Mostly courtesy, as usual, of market fare. I admit that I was unusually grateful because last week's long days, especially Saturday's 18 hours, is smacking me now.
It consisted of Trish's falafel - a gift from a few weeks ago - and stashed for just this opportunity, a chopped garden tomato, a quick tzatziki and out of "my" jars, Asian salad and hummus.
Quick pitas - I had made and frozen the dough - and a gentle warming of the falafel and we had - according to The Husband - the most delicious supper.
About that mother
Yesterday, for the first time, I shared some of my sourdough starter. The story begins on Sunday when my friend who lives high in the mountains, messaged me. She asked, in her words, complete ignorance, if I had some sourdough starter for one of the family who's come to visit. He's a regular bread baker, it seems. I knew she had a house full: a nephew from another part of the world, had chosen to get married op die berg and the extended family was descending, or should I say, ascending...
Back to mother. On Friday evening, before I went to bed, I had put mother in the fridge to bed. I knew that with what lay ahead on Saturday and that on Sunday I'd be near death with exhaustion, she'd be neglected. So when R asked, I knew I had to have a long and deep conversation with Ursula: like me, she's not good in the cold. I had to wake her up, warm her and feed her. I told R that I'd start the treatment and let her know in the morning.
I fed Mum, instantly, and set her in a warm spot (we've gone from summer to almost autmnal weather...) for the night. I checked on her yesterday morning around 7.30, and she was lookin' good, so I fed her again. By 10h30, she'd multiplied sufficiently for me to create some "offspring". So, I sent R this photo.
With the message:
For D. If anyone's passing by, let me know. Ursula's waiting.
When D fetched her, he confessed that although he'd packed the bicycles and canoes, wife and children he'd left his mother at home.
So, a little of Ursula went up the mountain.
Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa
Photo: Selma
Post script
If this post might seem familiar, it's because I'm doing two things:
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Original artwork:
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