Dense Breast Tissue: You NEED To Know!

What does one do when you are terribly homesick on a Sunday night? How about cooking for 5 hours? If nothing else, exhaustion sets in after about 3 hours and after 5 hours you are ready to blog about it with a glass of red wine and feet up! It started with Skype calls to my friends in South-Africa. How I miss them! How I wish I can be there more often!     

I needed to build a bridge tonight and more than any other blocks; food, flavors and spice can transport me from the here and now to a moment captured from the past. I needed to pour my heart out by re-creating the memories of past comforts and peace – a gift to myself to ease the ache of separation.

(Side Note: The difference between a gift and a present? A present is something that you want the recipient to have. But a gift is something that the recipient would want.)

Naturally, an over-achiever would not be happy with just one dish; instead I chose to make four complicated and involved, from scratch, ensembles that could have secured me a spot on the Food Network. The first was from home; a quintessential South-African dish that crosses racial and cultural boundaries, called “Bobotie”. Malayan in origin, it shares a similar flavor profile with Indian undertones. Over the years, I have added my own twists and turns to a version that reflects my style and taste. It is a wonderful marriage of spices, dried fruit, ground beef and custard – think shepherd’s pie meeting Quiche with curry and garam masala.

My next labor of love were samosas: delightful little triangle bites filled with all sorts, and in my case, curried lamb with peas. Not only is it a much-loved dish in South-Africa, but it was also one of my most favorite street foods in India. Making the filling, then form and hand stuff the triangles, were an intense exercise in patience and devotion. Oh, but how sweet they were!

But my masterpiece was a chicken tikka masala. It is satisfying to create the layers of flavor and the complexity of a sauce known by many, but all my own. Not much of a recipe follower, instead, I trusted my taste buds to balance toasted cumin seeds, coriander, paprika, curry, garam masala and so much more. Rounding out the group was another classic, lamb biryani, which will always transport me back to Delhi, to my first supper after the Himalayan 100 mile endurance race.         

The stormy weather outside was a fitting backdrop to my head space as a great downpour reminded me of nature’s way to yield to heartbreaking sobs and a good cry. Never underestimate the healing powers of our tears, or the rain, as it cleanses and washes away much of our frustration and pain.  To ease my kids’ fears when they were little, I constantly told them that a rainstorm was God watering His garden and that all the flashes of lightning was God taking pictures of the beautiful flowers.

My internal struggle to balance the puzzle of my life is ongoing. My American polish shines bright over the strata of the underlying characteristics from my third world love affairs. I have lived the privileged life for so long that I wonder if I can traverse back along the path to a more rugged and uneven route.

My South-African roots run deep and it seems the older I get, just like an Alaskan salmon swimming back; the place of my birth is calling me home. I miss my people, my culture, and above all, the land, whose sunsets, smells and sounds bring pleasure to my soul. My African dream hopes to carry me home one day.     

India struck a profound chord that is hard to explain. Having travelled extensively across many continents, I have never felt so instantly connected to a time and place as I did in this very complex country of extreme contradiction. And maybe that is exactly what attracted me the most to India’s core, as I recognized the extremes that exist within me.

From the sheer wonder of the Taj Mahal, the intense poverty in Mumbai, to the greatness and splendor of the Himalayas, to Varanasi, one of the oldest living cities in the world; I was thrilled by a tapestry woven with threads that took my breath away.

Varanasi (Banares) was the city whose spirit still echoes loudly and whose memory I unwrap often to enjoy like a special treat. Situated on the banks of the Ganges, it is the sacred city to both the Buddhist and Hindu and the holiest of all pilgrimages. As I stood under the tree where Buddha gave his first sermon, my wish was that I could be touched by my own enlightenment. I longed for the same peace I felt from the orange clad monks I encountered at the monasteries I visited.   

Watching dawn break over the Ganges, Holy River for the Hindu, wrapped in my beautiful sari, when twilight painted the world in blue ambient light, just before the first rays of the sun washed the temples and shrines in a golden hue along the river; I watched as thousands of people bathed in the blessed waters. I wished I could shed my own robes and baggage that easily, and stepped into my own waters of reverence.  

Being cremated on the Ganges is the supreme wish of a Hindu and the cremation flames have burned for more than 5,000 years at two ghats on the river, without ever being put out, ever. As I watched their flames from the middle of the river, I thought of the rituals and traditions that define the cultures we belong to. And I understood how much I am a nomad, sharing in many: some borrowed, some inherited and some acquired along the way, not always sure where I belong.

My Indian feast included witnessing exquisite pieces of art dating back to 2,300 BC. One of my most  favorite was a two-inch incredibly beautiful crystal sculpture of a woman’s head. I had no idea that the art of crystal was that old! I can still see her flowing hair and defined eyelashes in a piece that would have made Picasso envious. And it made me happy to know that humans were capable of creating such beauty so long ago. Regardless of the cultures that we belong, or the rituals we embrace, in the end, it is our humanity that ties us together. And I can embrace all the threads that have been woven into my complex design. 

Gift and present, I’m taking some of my homemade samosas tomorrow to a South-African Indian friend that calls Dallas home – somehow it seems to be the fitting close to my effort to build a bridge between the worlds that collide in my heart.

In my younger days I used to have a rule to only stay in places with working plumbing. Consequently camping was not my forte!  My initial reluctance to embrace al fresco sleeping stemmed from a weekend of complete misery in Cape Hatteras on the Outer Banks of North-Carolina.  Shortly after I arrived in the US, friends talked me into beach camping. The bugs ate us alive, my borrowed sleeping pad deflated during the night and I ended up down the hill with rocks hugging me as if I was a lost daughter. And the fine beach sand . . . how persistently it invades everything!

My dearest mates in South-Africa, Mark and Simone, have always considered my education lacking, especially given that I’m a “regte boere meisie”, and took it upon them to expand my camping skills while I was visiting in 2007. Bundu-bashing is a required activity for any true-blood South-African, and deep in the Kalahari Desert is about as wild as Southern Africa gets. That was where we were heading! And our bush plumbing included a little chair with a hole in the middle and a small shovel to dig and bury.        

It took days to get all the provisions needed and I was dumb struck at the inventory of supplies our two Landies will carry. Khutse Game Reserve in Botswana is one of the most remote wildernesses on earth and only accessible by 4×4’s. Due to its isolation you also have to be fully self-contained and carry enough water and gasoline for days. My friends don’t do anything shabby and a white tablecloth, fine French Champagne and a fiberglass ice chest found spots to ensure that we would camp with flair. Packed to the hilt, my friends, I, their 2 teenagers (Natasha and Kimberley) and their 5-year old, Alex, left Johannesburg for the long drive north.

(Side note: Ok, so I don’t really know how to drive a stick-shift car. And if you ask Simone, she will tell you that I have no clue. So, without any doubt, me driving to, in or from the Kalahari Desert was never on the table! And as a serious type-A, control freak and contingency planner, I rented a satellite phone before we left. Not that it did us any good, as it never found a signal.)          

Many hours later we arrived at the Khutse gate. It was late afternoon and the guard showed us on a map how to reach our designated camping spot with a pit latrine as the only luxury. There were no other living souls in site and without any lodges, chalets, rest camp or supply stores; “isolated wilderness” became very real. Simone had to drive into the setting sun and the rutted, sandy road made me consider converting to all the religions of the world – just in case. It was a nightmare! We were skidding from side to side and soon lost track of Mark’s Landie ahead. As night was falling we arrived at our spot, still having never seen another human. Khutse is famous for its hyena and lion, and without any barriers, we knew that becoming dinner was not far-fetched.

I was introduced to a head lamp and pitched a tent for the first time under close supervision. I learned that in the bush, with wild animals all around, you use your cars and tents, with wind screens, to make a circle. Yeah, I know, I would not have made it on the prairie either! And then we discovered our first major hurdle – we had a flat tire – and a “moerse groot probleem”!  

Having set up camp, we got the fire going and soon the smell of boerewors and lamb chops filled the air. The bush is alive at night and we could hear the roars and laughs of the nearby lion and hyena. Our lux, bush pit latrine was some ways away, and walking over there gave you chills down your spine as you wondered how many pairs of eyes were watching your moves. Botswana did not allow guns upon entry and our only weapons were a long sjambok, an axe and a shovel. My tent buddy was 18-year old Kimberley, a seasoned bush camper, and at 3am when I had to go, the one who stood guard with the sjambok, in case a rogue predator was out on the prowl.

(Side note: Khutse Game Reserve and the Kalahari Desert are located along the Tropic of Capricorn, which marks the most southerly latitude at which the sun can appear directly overhead at noon.)

The next morning we discovered our second major hurdle – some pipe, to cool the engine, of the second 4×4, had broken. And the phone could not connect to any of the dozen satellites circling the earth. Apart from being lousy at driving a stick-shift, I have also never changed a tire. It was my lucky day, because not only did I learn how to change a tire, I also learned how to fix a hole in a heavy-duty tire, under a tree in the middle of the desert! It took most of the day, beneath a blazing hot sun, several ice-cold G&T’s, much sweat and plenty laughter.

We have a saying in Afrikaans – ‘n boer maak a plan – and this “boere meisie” finally earned my way. I suggested to Markie that maybe we should use aluminum foil to build a new pipe because foil could withstand the engine heat. What do you know, it worked, and we drove all the way back to Johannesburg with a homemade foil pipe – maybe I would not have been totally lost on the frontier!

The African sky is flawless and unforgettable. By day it is an endless dome of blue and by night, a canopy of black velvet on which the stars sparkle like scattered diamonds. You can reach out and grasp the Milky Way between your fingers. And the ever-present beacon in the southern sky to guide me back to the African part of my heart, the Southern Cross. During those nights in the Kalahari, the sky was a masterpiece.

We ate like kings, laughed, danced around and begged the storm clouds to reward us with rain, met our neighbors whose roars made us shiver at night and generally had the time of our lives. I learned that you stash your trash inside the car or suspended from a tree, you keep the bonnet of your car up so animals cannot jump on, and that you can squat with a flashlight and a sjambok and still keep your shoes dry.       

Without any blood family, my friends mean the world to me and Simone is the sister I never had. The time together in the African wilderness was another vivid color woven into the fabric of my life. I discovered that bundu-bashing was in my blood, and when we broke up our tent, that we had slept on a cyclone of scorpions.    

These days working plumbing is of no importance, and a tent under a tree in an isolated wilderness, or a hut in the Himalayas; are all places I cherish and seek out. In such settings, stripped from the gloss of our conveniences and close to the essence of nature; I have found that I can hear my thoughts and listen clearly to the voice of God.       

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           (Translations: regte boere meisie - real Afrikaans girl, bundu-bashing – travelling thru remote & rough terrain, Landie – Landrover, moerse groot probleem – big trouble, boerewors – South-African sausage, stick-shift – gears, sjambok – horse or cattle whip made from the hide of a hippo or rhino, ‘n boer maak a plan – a farmer makes a plan, bonnet – hood)