UPIU – UPI’s journalism mentoring program for student journalists worldwide Thursday, Oct 14 2010

UPIU – UPI’s journalism mentoring program for student journalists worldwide.

Please read my story everyone! Lame as it is to ask- the more hits I get, the more likely I am to win a kalahari. net voucher. and I really love books.

 

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Overfishing threatens sushi bars Wednesday, Oct 13 2010

In the light of a recent digital journalism assignment concerning business, I decided to do a little invetstigation into the challenges of supplying that ever- scarce source, fish, to sushi bars. Read the full story at:

http://www.upiu.com/articles/overfishing-threatens-sushi-bars

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I am- A journalism assignment Monday, May 24 2010

I am procrastinating. Instead of writing up my journalism assignment, I am deeply engrossed in a novel called The Bang Bang club by Greg Marinovich and Joao Silva. It’s a tale of gruesome murder, heartless massacre and pain endured by blacks in townships around the country, at the hands of merciless rebel troops prior to the end of apartheid in South Africa.

This side of the story is new to me. I am deeply ashamed. I am angry that I was never told. I am angry that I never got taught of this, “other” struggle when I was in school. I am so mad that so many people are left in the dark, every day.

We attended a charitable human auction this week. I sympathised with every dollied- up woman that came on stage, nervous as to her sales price and anxious that her best characteristics be advertised. With every bang of the auctioneers hammer I thought of what my sales pitch would be. I am a fun- loving girl who loves cooking and climbing mountains.

 That kind of sentence makes me feel nauseous. Let me guess: “Looking for an easy- going, funny man who loves me just the way I am.”

I am receptive. My surroundings influence me. I like to think I surround myself with good people. I am reluctant to be labelled. Labels are such a burden. “Afrikaans”; “Christian”, “Hippie,” “student.” Few labels are all- encompassing. I find adjectives suit me better. I am frightened. I am white. I am sorry. I am lying. Some of the time. Brunette. Fast driver. Food addict. Friendly. Procrastinator.Privileged. Selfish. Messy. Hot- tempered. Self- assuming. I am aware that writing down all these bad characteristics is, in fact, likely to put me in a good light. “Wow, she’s honest with herself; she’s not blowing her own horn”

You’re not listening. I do lie sometimes. I can be selfish. Some days you can’t see the floor in my room its so well- covered by discarded garments. I’m not even honest with myself. I’m wary of this advertising game, this selling off and exchange of paltry traits. The crossing- signal game we play in social circles. The assumption that people, who look the same, talk the same and like the same stupid things are likely to group together. I am tired of giving the same Carina- loves-cooking- and- travelling speech. I am searching for my own brand of brutal honesty and I thought you deserved to know the truth.

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Shopping with a clean conscience Wednesday, Apr 21 2010

Shopping with a clean conscience

Buying power. We all have it. Every time we enter a store, it is in our hands to buy responsibly or recklessly. Consumers have the right to ask questions and demand answers, but we can also educate ourselves about companies that are worthwhile supporting.  

There are a few fiddly labels that may confuse shoppers. This is due to lots of opportunistic producers hopping on to the bandwagon of organic produce- It’s a fast growing market, with vast opportunities for exploitation. It’s a fact that producing eco- friendly or organic products is more expensive. The Organic Consumer Association (OCA) says that “Limits on pesticides, for instance, mean more hand-weeding. They also mean farmers run a higher risk of losing all or part of a year’s crop.” Certifying foods as organic is also expensive.  So, some companies use commercial methods of producing, but sell products for “organic” prices with misleading labels such as “natural” “green” or “environmentally conscience.”

You should look out for labels that say ”organically certified” or  at least “made with recyclable materials” or “not tested on animals” Bio- dynamic labels are another cup of tea entirely. According www.go.organic.co.za Biodynamic farmers respect and care for soil, water, plants and animals but also work with natural and cosmic cycles, considering the universe as an indivisible whole that should be manages as such.  It’s pretty intense and proportionally priced!

I visited the shop “The Mustard Seed” at Peppergrove Mall this week and found some really reasonably-priced-good-for-mother-nature stuff.  It’s really worth a visit. The friendly staff will happily point out the environmentally- friendly products.  I found some fantastic Lavendar and Sugar Beet conditioner from Earth Sap Organic. I don’t recommend the Bloublommetjieskloof hair products though- although they smell really good, they’re too runny to apply! However, their Wild Fynbos soap, priced at R8.50 is  a total treat. There is also a vast range of cleaning products to choose from- a great way to cut down on your carbon footprint!

Bulk buying is another way to save the environment and your budget when you consider how expensive packaging is for everyone involved. Digs- mates can buy 5 litres of cleaning products and share it. To make it even more worth it, The Mustard Seed also offers a 10% discount to all GRASS members on cleaning materials!

Another long-term investment worth considering is purchasing a ceramic wash ball. You don’t need to add any soap to your wash! Manager Louise Krueger owns one and highly recommends it. “It works, and you only have to pre- treat stains” she says. “You can also put it in your fridge to keep your veggies fresh.” Retailing at R479, it’s not bad considering a 2kg pack of commercial washing powder costs R59.99 and only lasts a month or two.  

Other interesting buys include Instant Organic Miso soup, although it costs about R10, its good clean convenience, especially for hikers.  They also stock Organic Pukka Teas. Its 12;48 am and I just brewed a cup. The flavour I chose is Clarity, with organic ginger, lemongrass and gotu koja tea. It’s amazingly good. No sugar or milk required. Just refreshing lemon grass and revitalising ginger that doesn’t taste raw or astringent. Priced at R3.95 a sachet, I’ll keep it for special occasions like pre- exam stress relief and the night before deadlines!

People in search of healthy food (bird seed, that kind of stuff) will enjoy the Health Connection range. Be aware of the subtle packaging- bright green packets are organic, while the dark green labels are not.  Solgar vitamins and herbal supplements are also a fantastic buy, they focus on sustainable production, going so far as to use filtered water in the process. They also have special vitamins that are focused on vegetarian and kosher diets. Read more at www.solgar.com

We move from the cozy Mustard Seed to the glaring lights of Pick and Pay and are confronted with the moral issue- Free- range (R9.99) versus caged chicken eggs.(R8.99) It’s as simple as free versus caged- what would you prefer? There are so many good reasons to buy organic, free- range and eco- friendly. You are in a position to promote healthy soil building, reduction in fertilizer usage and cruelty to animals. Your money also goes a long way to support small businesses, which in turn follow fair trade principles. You’re helping humans today, and by supporting planet-friendly ventures- the generations of tomorrow.

Even the simple act of filling up your recycled bottles at the spring near the highway makes a difference- Think of the plastic that goes into packaging water. As a bonus, spring water is deliciously sweet and better than anything you can buy! And don’t forget to take home your green goods in a recyclable or environmentally- friendly bag, it’s just one more step towards a squeaky clean conscience.

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Face to face with homophobic rape Wednesday, Apr 21 2010

The house where the rape occured

It all started in the elevator of the media 24 building where I met a reporter from Drum magazine. She asked if I was interested in doing a story with her. Eager beaver that I am, I jumped on board. Really excited about the scoop I was about to be a part of it, we chatted and laughed as we drove to Gugulethu. In Gugu, I came face to face with the most stunning piece of journalistic inspiration I could have hoped for her, but eventually cried for.

Face to face with homophobic rape

Rape. Homophobia. I know these things exist. Now, I see it.

I see a 30 year old woman. She is slight and fragile. She wears men’s chinos and sturdy boots. A black beanie hides her shaven head. She turns her face toward me and I look into her eyes. They have been blackened. Under swollen eyelids, moist brown eyes swim in a sea of red- she was beaten repeatedly. Supposedly, she was taught a lesson. She has stitches above her eyebrow and a splint around her broken fingers. The scars on her neck were from when the rapist tried to strangle her. She rubs the welts constantly, unknowingly. It seems as if she is trying to erase the terrible memory.

It was 11 pm on Good Friday, the 2^nd of April. The woman was walking down the street in Gugulethu, where she has lived her whole life. A cigarette in hand, she asked a man whom she knows for a lighter. He lit her cigarette for her, but smoked most of it. She reached for her cigarette; but he grabbed her arm and pulled her into his house. The rapist is an opportunist.

At 4 am the other tenants in the house could stand the screaming no longer. They had stopped believing the man who said he was fighting with his girlfriend. They kicked the door down and found Mary, lying naked on the floor. She had dirtied her pants and was bleeding all over. She recounts how she had lost consciousness at least once.

Before the ordeal began, the rapist said to her “You’re a boy, not a girl.” He pushed her down. Mary is swaying on the couch as she speaks to us. She looks down. I can’t understand Xhosa, but I can hear the intensity of her voice deepen. Then it cracks. “He said he wants to have my babies, and then, he said ‘I’m going to put you in a plastic bag and kill you.’”

I wish this was only the first time for this woman. Unfortunately, she was gang- raped by 5 men in 1998. Men that she was having a drink with, men that she thought were her friends. She didn’t report the rape, living in fear of the shame it might bring upon here family. An average of 10 cases of homophobic- related rape are reported in Cape Town every week, according to aid agency Action Aid. How many are not reported due to fear of shame? How many women are too afraid to tell their communities? And how many stories go unheard?

Ndumi Funda is caring for the raped woman.  She runs the project called Luleki Sizwe, which provides shelter, counseling and support for lesbians in the community and woman who are victims of homophobic rape. “The police are useless” she says. The investigator was present at the crime scene on Saturday, but has not responded to the victim yet. Funda tells how her  ex-partner was gang raped by men she knew. The case was reported but the offenders walked free. The police man told her to give him a call if she ever saw the men in the street.  “She passed away as a result of a virus received from the rapists.”

The perpetrator in this case is still being held in prison. He has not received bail, as 80 picketing protestors ensured outside the Cape Town court on Monday morning. He has been charged with rape, assault and kidnapping. Funda wants charges to be laid for attempted murder. No state lawyer has as yet been assigned to the case.

In a country hailed for its non- discriminatory constitution, one can only wonder how corrective rape proceeds to be a growing phenomenon, particularly in townships where discrimination has always been a sensitive issue. Is lesbianism seen as a threat to the African man’s masculinity? Is he daunted by this woman with her sturdy boots and cropped hair? When he abuses her, does he really think he can “fix” her? Doesn’t he understand that there is nothing wrong?

He takes her life into his filthy hands and contributes to a widening rift in a society that hasn’t yet healed from its most recent strife. He thought he taught her a lesson; he only showed her the essence of cruelty. I learnt a lesson, a terrible one- that homophobia and rape are still rife, and easily justified by mere men who consider themselves superior.

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The culture of children- a journalism assigment intended to demonstrate acculturation Wednesday, Apr 21 2010

The Culture of Children

Theo and Carina Truyts, Nomsa and Thandi Macholeka. We were neighbours in rural Lesotho. Over the years spanning our childhood our lives were weaved into a complex web of Basotho, English, Afrikaans and the simple language of children- play time.

I didn’t realise how different we were until their father bought home a sheep and slaughtered it on their stoep. Nomsa and Thandi danced a jig, but I cried as I watched Ntate Chanty hang the skin over the fence dividing our gardens. On another occasion, it was a chicken, beheaded. This time I tasted the chicken stew and I began to understand. To this day I have a fundamental respect for meat and where it comes from, mindful of the unrealistic presentation of meat in its sterile, plastic wrapped form.

The sisters would come to our house to play games on the computer, build with our Lego blocks, drink Nesquik and eat Tinky bars. They loved to listen to our Mango Groove CD, and the girls would sing along, playing guitar on the tennis racquets. At their house we played with a ball made with newspaper stuffed into the toe of an old stocking. Other children in the community would join in as we played “tamatie sauce” and “mokong,” games where we would dance and sing in Sotho; or kick our makeshift ball around.  Their cousin let us cook mielies and pap. I really loved those mielies.

Their father was a prominent man in the village on top of the mountain where we lived. He owned a tavern at the very tip. In the morning, his sister would hail from the tavern; projecting her voice so that it would rumble down the hill- a reminder to order more beer or contact the chief. My mother wasn’t too pleased with us when we started shouting across hillsides, but it was much more fun than the conventional broken telephone game.

The Macholeka family set-up was very different to ours. Their older cousins, who sometimes lived with them, were called their sisters and brothers. We barely knew our relatives; while they had their grandparents live in their house when they were ill. Their father ran the family, fetching and taking members to and from Maseru, providing support to those who needed it, unconditionally.

Nomsa and Thandi shared a room. In fact, they shared everything. Their birthdays were 2 days apart, and the gifts they received were given to them both. We never witnessed a single dispute between them, they were a team. Theo and I would bicker, sulk and act up. After a while we got the cue from them and we realised it was frowned upon to be so silly. Ashamed, we would try to sort out our quarrels peaceably. The friendship between my brother and I improved drastically, thanks to the subtle example set by our friends.

There were children from other denominations and cultures all along our street. We celebrated The Jewish Sabbath on Friday with the Anderson twins, and ate Yugoslavian soup with Dejan Stojanovic. We learnt to respect religion after a failed attempt to convert the Andersons to Christendom by tempting them with bacon and viennas. Valeria Onasko was the step daughter of “Mr Bogdan”- a Polish man whose new and unknown bride and daughter had arrived by aeroplane. She couldn’t speak English, but showed us her mother’s intricate hand- painted willow plates and pictures of Moscow that we secretly thought weren’t real, they were that magnificent.

Nomsa  was the leader of our little group. When I was eight years old she passed away of pneumonia. I cried then for the loss of a playmate, but I realise now that we lost a teacher, whose lessons were acceptance and fairness. She was the judge and decision maker, the director of our affairs in a beautiful bubble where the children had no concept of apartheid or cultural segregation.

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Gino’s Wednesday, Apr 21 2010

Gino’s                                              

Address: Hill Street Parking area

Tel Number: (046) 622 7208

Hours: Monday to Sunday from 11h00 till late. Deliveries start at 15h00

Corkage: R15

I arrived at Gino’s with high expectations. You see, I’ve been craving the “real Italian Food” that the advertising suggests, for weeks now. All I want is a ripe tomato sauce, poured over well- cooked pasta with fresh basil and a dash of parmesan. I’m easy to please like that.

First impressions were ruined by the stand- offish waiter. Clearly not inspired by the prospect of serving a bunch of young people, he didn’t even bother to be professional. No one likes being treated like a poor student – he had the cheek to insist that we take the larger sized pizza for “just R2 more, come ON guys.” He also forgot to mention the free bread (it’s in the corner, by the pizza oven. Cut your own slice, but stray from the margarine.) On a different occasion, the waitress hardly seemed to care about us- we only had her attention at the seating, ordering, and bringing of the food. The spaces in between were annoyingly long.

The variety of Pizza’s available is mind boggling although the list of pastas is quite strange. Woe, they only have 2 tomato based pastas- the napoli and the arrabiata. The former was bland, overcooked and far too sweet. They don’t even bother to caramelise the onions. The latter can be likened to eating raw green chilli sauce.  I don’t mind spice- but without flavour it’s a crying shame. Yes, tears formed in my eyes (for future reference, red wine does not help.) The honey and mustard pasta dish seemed an interesting option to a friend, but the sweetness was so overpowering that she couldn’t finish her food, let alone consider dessert.

Overwhelming sweetness seemed to be the general theme. The chicken, chutney and mushroom pizza is the kind of thing a kid might enjoy, to put it kindly. The tastiest pizza was the spinach and feta. Avocado, onion and bacon seemed like such a lovely option- until we realised that they cooked the poor avocado along with the rest of the pizza. Hot avocado. Just seeing it written down spells sacrilege.

The next time I visit Gino’s; it will be at the delivery department. No need to sit through the painstaking process of unprofessional service, bizarre decor and endless waiting when you can get a hot, crusty pizza pronto. Sundays are a great value- get a family sized pizza for R99.90 and a 2l cooldrink for free.

Gino’s has a long held reputation as a family favourite, a local classic. Sadly, the only Italian spirit I felt was due to the good half bottle of Leopards Leap red wine that I consumed. They’re resting on their quasi- roman laurels and people are bound to notice.

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Flying saucers Sunday, Mar 7 2010

Tell people you’re a chef and they picture scenes from the F- word, a TV show where macho- chef Gordon Ramsay swears like a sailor and throws frying pans around. I’m reminded of a similar scenario that played out when I was a 19 year old trainee in one of South Africa’s top restaurants.

It was a Friday night and we were fully booked. The kitchen was bustling, poised for battle against 120 hungry diners, 2 food critics and 20 demanding waiters. Prematurely soaked in sweat we guzzled down juice or ice water from large jam jars (its pointless buying cups for cooks.) Meat sizzled on the grill amidst the chef’s banter of dirty jokes and predictions of which section was going to get “rammed.” The luxurious aroma of truffle oil filled the air as I folded it into whipped cream. The first table was seated and we thought we were ready.

The sous chef (second in command in the kitchen) told me to take the amuse bouche (a fancy little snack attack to whet the guest’s appetite) up to the pass. I studied the small saucer with its beautiful truffle dressing, herbed croûte, chicken liver parfait and chervil sprig. I hesitated. “Chef won’t want that parfait” I told him “It’s raw.” The sous chef gave me a condescending look- The kind of look that says “Listen kiddo, I’ve done this a thousand times before- I’m the boss and you’re a donkey.” I placed the plate down tenderly in front of the head chef and held my breath as I walked back to my section.

A guttural noise erupted behind me “I don’t want this fucking parfait” he shouted as he flung the plate across the room. I ducked as the plate smashed to smithereens against the wall. Silence. The whole kitchen froze. Pots stopped clanging and no- one stirred. All you could hear was the constant whirr of the extractor fan and the far-away din of the dining room. I thought I could hear my blood pulse.

I sank to my knees, desperately trying to pick up the pieces of porcelain and hide my face. The floor was dirty and there were too many sets of knees; too many bits off glass. I choked out words of apology, trying to fight the sobs in my chest and the blush that was spreading over my face. Impossible. Even my ears turned red. I could feel them burning like hot coals attached to my head.

Have you ever felt utterly hopeless? Like running away into the dark Friday night would be the only way to save your soul and your dignity? I think Tanya, a fellow older student had. She just bent over and squeezed my shoulder, saying, “its ok” She had already come up with a replacement amuse and had memorised the next few orders. The numb feeling began to leave my body and I gained control of my shaking hands. I was amazed as even the most hardcore cooks made an effort to catch my eye and nod encouragement. They understood.

Chef bought us all a round of beer that night. He gave me half a smile and I knew he was no Gordon Ramsay. He just has high expectations and serious respect for food. It pays, too. Two months later La Colombe was named the Best Restaurant in South Africa.

I happily worked 16 hour shifts after that. I aced chicken liver parfait and could carry 5 amuse plates in one go. I made up a new amuse (Salmon Rilêtte with lime and parmesan.) Chef put it on the menu. Sweet success! After 2 months I could actually decipher the orders that he called out. I was taking charge and taking responsibility. I stood up to my seniors. In months to come I would suffer much worse at other fine restaurants and hotels. Thanks to Luke- Dale Roberts, the head chef of La Colombe, I was prepared to receive any wooden spoons that were tossed my way. Fits of fury by arrogant sous chefs who loved abusing junior cooks would only make me smile inwardly and remember my first flying saucer.

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maYO! Monday, Feb 1 2010

maYO!

Ingredients:

• 3 egg yolks
• 2 tablespoons white vinegar (use any type but I like white wine vinegar)
• 2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
• Salt
• 500ml vegetable oil

Method:

1. Place the egg yolks, vinegar and mustard in a magi- mix or in a blender (I’ve even made this in a Kenwood fitted with a whisk attachment ) and blitz. You can also do this by hand, but you really have to whisk a LOT!
2. Gradually add the oil in a thin stream. If you are whisking by hand, use a large bowl and add the oil drop by drop.
3. If the mixture get’s a bit thick, thin it down with a bit of water and whisk it up again as you add the oil. You may have to do this a few times before all the oil is used up.

Variations:

• Cook 2-3 cloves of a garlic with a mit of milk, wrapped in a foil bundle in a low heat oven for about 30- 40 minutes until softened. Blend into your mayonnaise to make aioli.
• Use lemon juice in place of the vinegar and add some grated lemon zest (from 1 lemon) to the mayonnaise at the end
• Add in chopped coriander and crushed, lightly toasted coriander seeds  for a north- african flavour.

Uses:

• Make yummy sarmies with rocket and gypsy ham and sliced tomato!
• Served with cold crayfish (a favourite in this house)
• Spread some mustard on to a white fish fillet. Season. Spread some mayonnaise on next. Make a mixture of breadcrumbs, grated parmesan and plenty of chopped herbs and press on top of the maYo! Drizzle with a little melted butter and bake in a 200C oven for 15- 20 minutes until fish is firm and just cooked through. Hmmmm:)

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what to do with 100 egg yolks Friday, Jan 29 2010

This wee post is dedicated to my fabulous, wine-maker-in-the-making brother who had to separate 100 eggs recently to use in the fining process for making wine. I warn you brother, most egg yolk recipes require a SE-RI-AS whisking arm.  Some of these recipes would be a challenge for even Arnie. (but not Chuck Norris- he could do this with his left pinky)

You can use egg yolks to make the following:

• Mayonnaise
• Custard
• Creme Brulee
• Egg noc
• Lemon curd
• Hollandaise and Bearnaise
• Ice- Cream (see also my recipe for No- fuss ice- cream that doesn’t even need eggs)
• add it to your scrambled eggs
• pasta dough
• shampoo (i have NOT tried this yet- but do let me know how it turns out:)
• short- crust pastry
• apply as a face mask for your housemate (just put cucumber over her eyes and don’t tell you’re rubbing raw egg into her face)
• fold into béchamel (white sauce)
• make a chocolate mousse or rich chocolate cake
• nuke in the microwave for 1 minute then..erm feed to the animals on your farm for a shiny, luxurious coat (no, really, I’m not making this up- think of it as the ultimate protein feed)
• Freeze them individually in ice- cube trays with a bit of salt, then pop out into bags and keep for a really hungry day, just don’t forget what they are and eat them as is- egg yolk sorbet cannot be good for you
• just always remember (sigh) you’re egg-stra special (guffaws:)

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