If I may be blunt, being an emotional and spiritual adult means taking care of your own shit. If we are ever to be psycho-spiritually independent and cultivate healthy soil…
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Dream Clothes – It was Oscar week in Los Angeles, a time when us residents avoid Hollywood Boulevard and cram in the last few nominated movies we haven’t yet seen. This year’s proceedings were probably the most boring since the Hugh Jackman hosted disaster in 2009. Way too many forgettable music numbers – one could have been excused for thinking this was the Grammys. But we also watch the Oscars for the clothes – for the missteps, the dreamy and the fashion disasters and everything in between. Nothing much stood out for me – my dream clothes at the moment can be found in the SS 15 collections of Dior and Valentino. And with such beautiful runways, I was very let down by the Christian Dior number Raf Simons designed for Marion Cotillard, already dubbed the “hole-puncher dress”.
Cape Town has been hit by some horrible virus that has laid half of the city low with coughing, sniffles and weird temperature fluctuations. People who are nowhere near menopause, or…
It’s been a fortnight full of images: March’s international magazines are downloaded onto my iPad, hard copies of my favourite SA magazines sit in my bedside table, online mags arriving and Facebook is full of interesting bits and bobs. Sometimes I wonder if I cram too much into my brain – retrieving the information is becoming harder every day. I am toying with the idea of limiting how much I read, scan, absorb and interact with. Which gives rise to a host of inner-chatter: But how will you limit it? And what if you miss something you need to see? Will that even matter in six months time? Maybe your brain isn’t even overstuffed – maybe it is the stuff you’re stuffing it with, ever think about that? Maybe you are just getting really old. All questions that I am sure I could address thoroughly if only someone would send me to a sun lounger in the Seychelles for a month. Until then – here are the (5) things that resonated with me and my addled brain this week.
camparigirl has alluded to my uselessness at baking in the past. I don’t know what it is about me that causes that which is meant to rise to flop, and that which is meant to blend to separate (in food terms!!). Even when it all looks right – the outcome will be … meh.
sofabrother even bought me a step by step guide to baking for my last birthday – everything I have tried from the book has turned out mediocre. Which is annoying as I have followed the recipes exactly as directed. “Well”, said Claudia, “the thing about baking is you have to try it over and over again, you seldom get things right first time. That’s why pastry chefs need training. There are complex interactions between with ingredients that create the outcome. Once you have understood all that – it becomes easier” … she paused …”eventually.”
I am not much of a baker. No, let me revise that comment: I am not a baker at all. Totally hit or miss, no finesse. Results vary greatly. The Nans fondly remember ‘Da Bizzkit’ a flop of a chocolate cake I made last New Year’s (along with the flopped braised ribs – an almost unfathomable miss). But, I perservere, often getting ideas above my station and throwing the results away before anyone gets to see them.
This weekend I went to McG with my nephew, Jasper. We had an excellent time – we played pool-noodle polo, held our own Earth Hour, walked Jack, read, backgammoned, went out for dinner and watched Blade Runner, the Final Cut. Him for the first time, me for the nth. It was fascinating to hear his take on the movie – he got the ‘son of God’ references immediately, grasped the concept of replica humans being grown from stem cells, understood why they had to be ‘retired’ and felt empathy for their need to find connection. He was deeply affected by the Replicants’ yearning for memories, and asked a million questions about the photographs that one of them, Leon, carried around with him. I wonder if I would have understood Roy Batty’s dilemma so clearly at 10 years old.
On the morning we were due to come home, he reminded me we had still to go to Frangipane. The kids love it there. Glynn, the owner, makes sublime Iced Tea, Ricki (the waiter who has been retrenched, much to Jasper’s horror) is/was always charming, and best of all – there is usually real-home-made carrot cake.