Book tree at the Artists’ Cafe, Clarens. I am now going to make my own.

I’m thoroughly enjoying reviewing the books I’ve read in the last while, but have decided to interrupt the Twelve Bookish Days of Christmas blogs with some things I’ve often posted on Facebook at this time of year in the past, on How to Survive The Festering Season. And even turn it into a True Season of Peace and Goodwill.

For starters:

Go for a walk. Kiss someone you love. Stroke the cat or dog. Drive with immense caution. Stay away from shops. Eat and drink well, but not so much that you feel ill or get hungover. Read a good book. Take lots of pics of your littlies. Develop temporary deafness, especially at fraught family gatherings. Put your feet up. Give the money you were going to spend on Aunt Ethel’s bath salts to a good cause or a beggar. Count your blessings. Take a nap. Laugh. Walk. Kiss. Rest.

Also good to remember:

This time of year can be very difficult for many — and not just for the poverty-struck for whom the spectacle of the middle classes in a paroxysm of consumerism must be very bitter. Even for those with food in their fridges, something about the myths of family and loved ones — that all will be reconciled because of the conjunction of a magical date, impossible expectations and suffocating social pressure to be happy — can be brutal. I'm thinking especially of those facing a first Christmas without a beloved partner, parent, child, relative, friend or pet. Breathe and endure. It will never be this bad again, and in the meantime, I wish you fortitude and many hugs. And a nice dog to take walking, or a kitten to pull down the decorations.

Now for some practical tips on etiquette for family get-togethers.

Note that courtesy (MUCH needed around the dinner table and braai) is 50% commonsense and 50% kindness. Resolve to practice both. Do not bang on about painful and contentious topics. Do not lecture people on issues of which you have no DIRECT personal experience. Do not treat family and friends as captive audiences for your views on the economy, politics, crime and long-simmering family feuds. Draw up a list of subjects that can only lead to tears, and get everyone to agree not to ruin the hard work of the cooks by discussing these, and thereby wrecking a beautiful meal. Instead, try this party game (it works really well when there is a wide range of political views and ages at the table): ask everyone to go round and describe the most memorable or interesting place they’ve visited; a favourite new recipe or meal they’ve recently discovered; what book/movie/series made the biggest impression on them this year; the cutest thing done by a grandchild or pet that year.

But what to do if you’re alone over the silly season? Here are some very wise ideas from Karabo Kloleng.

* Limit social media. Log off from your emails. ALL of them.
* Stock up on food that requires little to no cooking.
* Stock up on books.
* There are great deals at the cinema right now. To avoid the crowds, attend the late morning or early afternoon screenings.
* Candles because Netflix isn’t a guarantee with loadshedding.
* Take a book to a public pool or beach or nature reserve or park, plug in your earphones. You might even end up swimming.
* Take out your pencils and draw or write something even if you suck at drawing or writing.
* Do one thing that makes you feel alive each day (this should be something you do all year but it’s extra important during this season).
* Remember that this too shall pass, and that being alone beats lousy company, wasting money, or toxic family. YOU are all you need.

Finally, I promised a friend some cheap and cheerful festive recipes, but then ran out of time. However, here are my Luscious Magic Tomatoes. (Magic because you can serve this dish as a salad on its own, as a room-temperature sauce for a dish of rice, roast veggies or legumes, or on cheese sandwiches, or hot as a pasta sauce. It is cheap, vegan, colourful and even healthy.)

Ingredients:
As many baby/roma/cherry tomatoes as your biggest frying pan will comfortably hold.
At least four fat peeled cloves of garlic.
Oil for frying (olive is nicest, but any will do) — at least 2 tablespoons
A tablespoon of balsamic vinegar (or the juice and zest of a small lemon)
Herbs — dried sage and thyme are nice, but the best are large quantities of fresh basil and/or mint, a good handful. Fresh rosemary snipped up fine is excellent.
Optional: rocket leaves, chives, finely chopped spring onion leaves, other veggies you may have in the fridge (mushrooms and courgettes, sliced, are good; also excellent are fresh sweetcorn kernels, chunks of roast butternut, olives, peppadews).

Cut all the tomatoes in half lengthways. Thinly slice each clove of garlic as if it was a doll-sized loaf of bread. That’s the fiddly bits over. Heat the oil in a deepish, heavy-bottomed or non-stick frying pan and when it starts to sizzle, tip in the tomatoes and stir around. Once they start to ooze juice, add the garlic (this would also be when to add mushrooms or courgettes, if desired). Stir gently for a minute. Add the vinegar or lemon juice/zest and the dried herbs, if any, and turn the heat right down. Add the sweetcorn or butternut, but only if you have any. Let the whole thing simmer away for at least half an hour. Keep adding small splashes of water to keep it moist — it should get sticky, but don’t let it catch or turn to toffee. Once it has turned into a deep garnet-coloured sticky squishy porridge (you should still be able to see the indiviudual tomatoes), take off the heat and add the basil or mint, and then the optional rocket leaves, or chives or finely chopped spring onions, or all three. Serve with bread suitable for mopping. You can also crumble in feta or blue cheese, if no one objects to dairy.

Enjoy, stay safe, and deep breaths.

There’s been quite a buzz about the ten best-selling books of the decade, with the Fifty Shades trilogy taking the top three slots, but what interested me was seeing The Girl on The Train (Paula Hawkins) and Gone Girl (Gillian Flynn) neck-and-neck in sixth and seventh positions. I read both with an uneasy kind of fascination, and can’t say I enjoyed them — not a single likeable character in either — but they (and other similar books) have had me pondering the rise of the unreliable woman narrator. Clearly this makes books sell like hot cakes.

It’s been especially interesting placing the woman narrator who can’t be trusted in fiction alongside the parallel social and cultural explosion of the #MeToo movement and its auxiliary #BelieveHer. The overlapping of these arenas raises the thorny question of how to write about sexual violence, always tricky territory for writers, but equally an area in which novels of every stripe are supplying refreshing, disruptive and subversive treatments of what is, appallingly, a ubiquitous experience for many women, far too many children and some men.

In 2019, two South African novelists wrote gripping novels in which rape is the generating event: Fiona Snyckers produced the extraordinary Lacuna, a response to J. M. Coetzee’s novel Disgrace (except that it’s so much more); and Alex van Tonder launched A Walk at Midnight, a noir semi-thriller full of spiky twists. Although both books explore the long-term effects of rape in detail, both are highly entertaining reads, with page-turning pace. They’re not unduly bleak or distressing; in fact, there is something to celebrate in the ways their slippery, sometimes infuriating, but always intriguing heroines pursue the conclusions and closures they need, or think they need. Snyckers’s novel is often laugh-out-loud funny, as she skewers one sacred cow after another. Van Tonder provides a backdrop of sparky and quirky commentary on modern trends and values; set in the USA, it clearly reflects the climate of the Stanford sexual assault case and the Kavanaugh hearings.

Both novels have central woman characters who, the reader swiftly learns, cannot be trusted. And yet, and yet: they can. One thing that moved me about both books is that in a world where women’s accounts of rape are automatically distrusted, it becomes necessary when telling these painful truths to “tell it slant” — as Emily Dickinson said. Both novels use multiple voices to present different perspectives; in Lacuna the voices are mostly in Lucy’s head, including some very funny and often poignant imaginary (or are they?) conversations she has with her therapist. In van Tonder’s novel, a cast of family members and friends all chime in with contradictory accounts of a troubled marriage.

Snyckers’s project is explicit and political: at the very beginning, she announces her intention to give a voice to the silent, stoic character of Lucy Lurie, who in Coetzee’s Disgrace is gang-raped and impregnated by a pack of feral, faceless black men. She boldly tackles and disrupts the highly problematic gendered and racial readings this narrative seems to endorse, to provide a complex and yet compulsively readable response to the disturbing (to me, anyway) use of rape as a metaphor for post-apartheid retribution and reconciliation.

A Walk At Midnight begins like a conventional whodunnit: the police are interviewing the apparently flawless Jane Robson, whose husband has just died in circumstances near-identical to a murder described in her forthcoming novel. It’s almost impossible to describe what happens next without giving spoilers, especially in a novel this twisty. I did struggle at first with the premise that one could become a very senior political figure with two past rape charges to one’s name — until I remembered the pussy-grabbing monstrosity currently inhabiting America’s White House. So although there are plot elements that stretch credulity, nothing in van Tonder’s story hasn’t already happened in real life — and right under our noses.

One of the most devastating things about sexual violence is how often it happens at the hands of those we trust; in which cases it can be the betrayal more than the assault that does the damage. Both these novels focus our gaze on the monster nearby; unsettling, and yet somehow also a relief. These are not exactly beach reads; but they’re absorbing, satisfying, and bound to start some lively debates, with Lacuna in particular a layered work that is richly rewarding to re-read.

Festive quotient: excellent for when you emerge from a plum pudding coma and want something a little more dark and stimulating than Lindt Intense. Also great for warding off uncles who get a little hands-y after two rounds of brandy and coke. In fact, both books will put a steely glint in your eye that will make creepy relatives give you a wide berth.

*Disclaimer/disclosure: I edited Lacuna (and have also edited several other of Fiona’s novels); and although I had nothing to do with the production of A Walk of Midnight, I’ve assessed other manuscripts by Alex in the past. I’m thrilled to witness the development of their writing careers.

The octopus visited and photographed by Craig Foster was so clever, David Attenborough made her the star of Blue Planet II. Watch the clip linked here!

In the last few months, I’ve been getting my reading mojo back, after possibly too much writing and editing and general brain clutter. Now it’s December, and the Season of Mayhem and Malls is upon us. And yet for many, it’s the one time we can legitimately take a break. I do that by falling into a book. All I want for Christmas is to read and read and read and read. My plan was to do an Advent calendar or Twelve Days of Christmas series of bookish blogs, and while it’s a bit random, I’m going to try to mark this time of year by posting about books — reviews, my favourite book adventures of 2019, my passion for local literature, and more — at least for the holiday duration.

Let’s kick off with what looks like a coffee-table book: huge, hefty, with glorious colour photos. But it’s much more than a decorative object. I’m talking about Sea Change, by Craig Foster and Ross Frylinck, which I won this past year in exchange for an HONEST review for that wonderful secret Facebook group, the Good Book Appreciation Society. The subtitle (Primal Joy and the Art of Underwater Tracking) gave me pause; it sounded a bit lofty for a book on the kelp forests of the Cape Peninsula — but it makes perfect sense once you read the book, which I did in a single sitting, although I will be going back to marvel over the photographs, especially the double-page spreads. 

It's a BEAUTIFUL book in every way, but not in the pretty way of the usual coffee-table book — the images are often eerie and trippy. In fact, the whole book is a trip, and that makes sense, given that something the authors explore is the concept of “wilderness rapture” and “primal joy” — the experience of transcendence brought about by immersion in nature and deep recognition of our place in it as one more (lethal and horrendously destructive) creature in a awe-garnering web of life. Craig Foster and his brother Damon, the film-makers, first learned this when making the documentary The Great Dance, about the lives of San people in the Kalahari. (This isn't about middle-class “tourism” on the edges of indigenous post-genocide communities, I hasten to add, but sincere attempts to regain knowledge of lifestyles and perceptions the loss of which threaten the entire planet — and therefore ourselves.) But this isn’t one of those environmental books that hammers out grim truths either. This book made me feel strangely comforted on an increasingly apocalyptic planet, because (just as the authors plunge into the icy waters of the Atlantic in mid-winter) this book plunges the reader into wonder, a place of deep magic that is sometimes shocking. Craig’s photos suggest Tolkien underwater on speed. The richness of what is under our noses, the delicacy, complexity, brutality and brilliance of all those species balanced in the kelp fields we see as we drive around the Cape shorelines: these evoke awe and amazement. 

Nudibranch known as blue dragon or sea swallow. (Pic from book, photographer Craig Foster.)

As a poet, I fell in love with the names of these nearby neighbours of whose existence I was mostly unaware: pyjama catshark, pleated toadfish, false plum anemone, heart urchin, granite limpet (factoid: the teeth in its tongue are made from the hardest known biological substance on earth). The photos show these and many other creatures killing, eating, mating, spawning, playing, sleeping and in some cases, physically interacting with Craig as he drifted quietly in their world. Some of these are incredibly moving: look out for the octopus, otter and whale ear pics.

The text is interestingly presented, and it took me a little while to get used to the two different voices: surfer Ross Frylinck tells the story of his friendship with Craig, but it's also a short and honest memoir of his relationship with a father lost, found, lost again, and his own son. At the same time, the lengthy and fascinating captions are written by Craig himself, who lacks Ross’s scepticism and is wholeheartedly engaged with the world underwater. It makes for an interesting double perspective, especially as Ross, for much of the tale, clearly considers Craig to be bat-scat-crazy (a view I found myself sharing at times). 

I’m intrigued by the impact of very cold water on human physiology, with implications not just for our physical, but mental health. So I was riveted by the accounts of what regular ocean diving sans wetsuits did to Ross and Craig’s minds and bodies (and those of their children). I wish there had been more information about the hormonal surges post-immersion that can create trance states very similar to those described by researchers investigating psychotropic drugs as a new frontline against depression and other mental illnesses. But maybe that’s a topic for another book: the goal here is to open the eyes of our eyes (in the words of the poet e. e. cummings).

The book is part of a broader project that links research, exploration, conservation, documentary films and educational outreach, and it had me galloping to the internet to find out more. Visit their website, one of the loveliest and linky-est I’ve seen. Given that the book is an enormous full-colour hardcover creation (it weighs 2.3 kgs), with exquisite production values (Quivertree, the publishers, are unfailingly excellent in this regard), I expected it to cost well over four figures, but it costs only R850. NOT cheap, but for a special occasion or even a last-minute Christmas gift for someone you really love, it’s a bargain. You can also get the e-book for R375.

I'm impressed at the wide reach the book has. It’s important to academics and conservationists (it is comforting in an age of mass extinctions, a daily ongoing carnage, to learn that Craig keeps finding undiscovered species in the waters only a stone's throw from a major city — he also records previously unobserved fishy behaviours that bring the marine biologists and scientists running). It will appeal to all greenies, hippies, visionaries and artists (I say this as someone who is all of these things, as well as a bit bat-scat-crazy myself). It makes an extremely NB but also encouraging contribution to environmental literature and record-keeping at a time when much of this material is so bleak as to induce despair. And it’s a wonderful book for anyone who surfs, kayaks, swims, sails, dives or just generally loves to wander along our beaches and look into rock pools.

Holiday cheer quotient: high, because this is a book about the real magic right next door.

I’ve left Craig’s caption intact, although it’s hard to read (my fault), to give a sense of the love and wonder with which he writes about the denizens of this world alongside us.

Meta-read: Sally Andrew reads about the Lazy Lizard deli IN the Lazy Lizard deli in Prince Albert, from the third in the Tannie Maria mystery series. Karina Szczurek, supporting the home team, is inspired to try the Full Monty breakfast.

I recently had the good fortune to be invited to take part in the Prince Albert Leesfees, a delightful book fair in a small Karoo town at the foot of the magnificent Swartberg Range. It’s the back of beyond — a five-hour drive from Cape Town — but well worth the trip.

I drove up with my friend and fellow book-fiend Karina Szczurek, who was showcasing three books, fruits of her new venture, Karavan Press. I was going to read poems and talk about Wise About Waste: 150+ Ways to Help the Planet, my latest book. There was even more interest in the first in the series, 101 Water-wise Ways, and no wonder — the Karoo looked as if it had been scoured with a blow-torch. The drought is deadly serious, and PA residents are on rations of 90 litres per person per day. It was a relief to find all the grey water from my cottage went through a filter for re-use.

Karina and I plotted (in every sense of the word) all the way up the N1. Little did I know I was soon to be drawn into a different plot.

We settled into our borrowed digs for the weekend — a house and a cottage respectively, each cool and tranquil under the burning sun, beautifully but comfortably furnished, and our minds soon turned to the NB matter of What To Eat. Dinner that night was at the superb locavore establishment, The Real Food Company, but the one deli that kept popping up on all the recommended lists was The Lazy Lizard. Also, even my carefully egalitarian hosts gushed about their apple pie. Apple pie? Very nice, but not usually a dish that makes gourmets come over all messianic.

So the next morning, Karina was in search of a Real Brekfis, and she wanted to try the Lazy Lizard’s menu (word had gotten round). We arrived to find none other than Sally Andrew, author of the hugely popular and internationally renown Tannie Maria detective-and-recipe series, drinking coffee at one of the tables. She sprang to her feet to greet us. “I’m so glad to see you!” she cried. “May I read you a passage from my book?”

It turned out that a chapter in the third book in her series, Death on the Limpopo, is set in the Lazy Lizard itself. And we all wanted the gloriously surreal experience of being read to ABOUT the Lazy Lizard IN the Lazy Lizard. And it led to orders, too; Sally had barely gone a page when “The Full Monty” breakfast rolled up for Karina. But when Sally got to the apple pie, I simply had to find out what all the fuss was about, and ordered a piece. The most enormous wedge arrived. “I’ve being trying to get them to give me the recipe, so I can put it in a book,” said Sally. “But they won’t divulge. Please do some sleuthing and see if you can come up with the ingredients.”

The pie of pies.

So, for all Tannie Maria, baking and fruit pie fans, here’s my best effort. First, the pastry is definitely not shortcrust, but a moist flaky pastry with LOTS of butter, and confectioners’ sugar dusted on top. Then, the apples are baked French-style: they’re clearly sliced very thinly and raw when the pie goes in to bake, not pre-cooked. This means they’re as leaved and layered as the pastry, and are meltingly tender without being sloshy. I’d venture that they were Granny Smith apples — definitely not a red variety. Then golden raisins (but not too many); DEFINITELY lemon zest — a lot (and possibly some reconstituted candied peel as well); and finally, the most teasing of all: the spice mix. Cinnamon, obviously; but also a hint of clove and ginger — maybe allspice too? Plus more sugar and butter. That’s the best I can do, Tannie Maria, and if the Lazy Lizard chefs are now snickering up their sleeves, at least I gave it a shot. I now have to read Death on the Limpopo, if only for the happy memories, and also try my pie recipe to see if I can figure out quantities.

There’s a sweet coda to this sweet story: Karina is wearing the same rugby shirt her late husband, Andre Brink, wore when the Boks won the Rugby World Cup in 1995. Was this a teeny tiny factor in the Bok victory later that day? I like to think so. Also: book festivalling in a small town on the same weekend the national rugby team wins the World Cup is a very MERRY experience.

The fabled Prince Albert library quilt.

PS: Thanks to the organisers of the Leesfees — you did a wonderful job and we’re all longing to return.

"Please provide evidence of family members remaining in your home country whilst you travel."

Dear Humans of Great Britain,*

We strongly disapprove of our mother’s intention to travel away from us now and again, even though she assures us this is necessary if she is to keep us supplied with our preferred cat food (she says it is clearly made from lobster and caviar, with a sprinkling of diamond dust – we think this is what you call sarcasm).

We approve of her writing books for a living (she’s on Number 19 at the moment), as it means she stays home and we can entertain her by rolling all over her keyboard or demanding snacks when she’s on deadline. We are rather more frosty about the fact that she needs to visit her UK publishers and London agent every other year or so. She will shortly be launching a historical novel, Charlotte, which, she tells us, means she will have to attend book launches and literary festivals in the UK and Europe. Frankly, we think it sounds like an excuse to drink wine with other writers. Then the entire exercise will repeat in two years’ time when the sequel is published. Hmm.

However, she can’t stay away TOO long. We enjoy our catsitter, a most affectionate damsel, but our mother says she costs a bomb. And so she ought: because one of us is a special-needs kitty with a missing front leg and other damage, he needs someone with veterinary nursing experience to look after him when Mum is away. Frankly, we like her because she is the best, and of course we deserve the best. But her meter does run up in a way that makes our mother rush home to us as soon as she can.

So we are not going anywhere (our nice big garden is full of mice and SUNSHINE). This means Mum isn’t going anywhere, either. Or never for very long.

Yrs purrfully,

Boychik (age unknown, found desperately injured at the side of the road and rescued)

Meg (ten years old)

Lily (ten years old)

*Actual letter submitted to the British Embassy