I pick up my wine glass and take a long draw of the ice cold summer rose that I poured out minutes before. In the background my iPod is beating out something loud and somewhat inappropriate, but I shrugged it off- my music taste was never ever going to be as tame as my own mother’s music. It’s another warm, humid summer evening, but tonight’s dinner party was unavoidable, so the plethora of smells and heat was robust, and somewhat cloying. Looking mostly as unglamorous as ever, I wipe the glean of sweat off my forehead, and decide that the next round of preparation can wait. I could do with a refreshing cold shower, and I owe it to myself my guests myself to even out my summer complexion with make-up, ring my eyes with a smashing of kohl and spritz some perfume on. Ignoring the bickering going on in a kids bedroom, I take myself off to freshen up.
An hour to go before the Appleton’s are expected to arrive, which means I have 90 minutes still to finish up with dinner. My hubby won’t be home in time to light a fire to braai, so I’ve been cooking a lamb shoulder in the oven for the last 4 hours. In hindsight I really should have taken up Becca’s offer of her slow cooker when she started getting ready to move back home, but I really didn’t know where to pack it away when I wasn’t using it so here I am, wilting in my overheated kitchen at the end of yet another hot summer day in France.
Submerging myself in this amount of cooking has actually been a very necessary distraction if I’m perfectly honest. Yes, it’s true that the conflict of cooking for my friends who were leaving, and the need to distract myself from their departure was a bit much to comprehend but sometimes you just need to go through stuff.
I open the oven door, reach in to retrieve the LeCreuset from within and as I remove the lid, the aroma of lamb, rosemary and pomegranate fills my senses. In an instant I remember that Becca and I had discussed this very recipe, and how she had often asked for culinary advice, the lingering reminder between us that normally she would have asked her Dad for tips, but between her father passing away very unexpectedly at the same time my own dear mum was diagnosed with terminal cancer, neither could speak to the person we had always turned to.
The perfectly cooked lamb shoulder is now resting on a carving board, the stock from the pot is busy simmering to reduce- I can finish the honey and pomegranate sauce later, and the potatoes are about to start simmering so that they’re parboiled before I fry them when the Appletons arrive. I walk into the dining room to start laying the table and see the chocolate tart I made earlier and left to chill here. With a smile, I realise I must remember the ingredients that went into the tart- there is no doubt that Becca’s older daughter will ask me what I used to make it. Like my own rascal scallion child, they have similar allergies, and alongside the hand sanitiser we carry in our handbags, neither Becca nor I go very far without a prescription antihistamine, in case of emergency.
Sigh. School pick up and drop offs. How the years passed so quickly, how the girls grew up before our eyes, so many moments at the school gates. Every morning when we stepped off the bus I looked forward to spending 10 minutes with Becca before we headed off to work. Our younger daughters, always to keen for last-touch-kisses and distraction would inevitably grasp hold of each others hands and trot down the bank to the school playground. Our older girls, looking for some quiet time together away from their ‘so annoying sisters’ would have hurriedly pecked our cheeks and wandered over to their big school, already trying to assert their independance at this early age. How lucky have I been to have this friendship where our daughters have enough in common that it’s made living in a foreign country so much more easy?
In a life where I was thrown into being a Stay At Home Mm unexpectedly, in a world where all of a sudden I was to lose a bit of my own soul, where I found myself sifting through all sorts of new emotions and thoughts, Becca just let me be me. If I happened to be in a judge-y and self absorbed mood, she would laugh at me, knowing that my behaviour was just a silly nuance and nothing intrinsically nasty. When I tore strips off my children for doing something they shouldn’t, she got it. When I said no to glitter-fests during craft time, she would back me up. When I vented my frustrations about family, close-by and far away, she never ever formed an opinion and let it change how she treated people. I know many other people who did, but never Becca. Even after everything that had fallen in the last year, Becca was always her brilliant, considerate self; always a wide smile, an occasional harried bis when she had things on her mind, never seeking an apology or needing to protect a fragile ego with apologies for not being somebody else. Always a breath of fresh air.
It’s a good thing nostalgia can’t kill you. I had heard a very apt description of it yesterday, it’s origins come from a Greek word, words to mean ‘return home’ and ‘pain’. As I drain the par-cooked potatoes into the colander, wipe the pot down and pour oil back into it, I know that I am sad and feeling the pain of losing a friend, it feels that everywhere I turn I see something that reminds me that she won’t be around next week.
“Crap-bag woman”, I express out loud. “Stop with the self-pity party already.” Before my girls wander into the kitchen asking who I’m talking to, and I really don’t want to be caught to appear quite bonkers, the rest of my sentence plays out in my head. One dear friend returning to her home for the greater good of her 11 year-olds’ education is absolutely no reason to wallow. We live in the same hemisphere, we’re only one time zone apart, we’re adults who can maintain a friendship away from day-to-day runs, this really is not the end of the very world. And also, just there, on the other side of my fingertips, is a phone with the numbers of several equally amazing friends, all of whom are just the same as Becca, and maybe I don’t see them 5 days a week, but I know that they accept me for who I am, and I love them for who they are too. I’m sure I will still be able to enjoy a glass of wine at the end of the day with Sally and Jean. I know that Pippa will always have her coffee machine primed for play-dates and a excellent book suggestion, that Annica might let me go for a run with her if I ask her to run slowly, and for when we need to get our craft-aprons on, that Lize and Gwen will arrive armed with glue-guns and embroidery thread.
Leaving the oil to preheat, I take my glass of wine out to the terrace. The sun has cast a golden glow, the haphazard selection of pot plants are green and fresh and I feel a rush of quiet content to my soul. My children have tried to set the table for dinner, but it looks like we’re missing place-mats and serving spoons. Sitting down on a chair, I shrug my shoulders. It doesn’t matter. This is life, and I need to stop sweating the little stuff. Becca taught me that.
And suddenly, just on the other side of the 6 foot high hedge and down the path to the cul-de-sac, I hear the excited shrieks of the Appleton girls. My girls have heard them too, and have already rushed out the front door to greet their best friends. As their garbled chatter steps back into our hall, I rise to my feet. Those potatoes are not going to cook themselves, and I think the oil is just perfect now.
Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals 