Generally the men always tried to appear strong; they walked tall, heads upright, arms steady at the sides, and feet firmly planted like trees. Solid, Jericho walls of men. But when they went out in the bush…and nobody was looking, they fell apart like crumbling towers and wept…
And when they returned to the presence of their women and children and everybody else, they…erected themselves like walls again, but then the women, who knew all the ways of weeping and all there was to know about falling apart, would not be deceived; they gently rose from the hearths, beat dust off their skirts, and planted themselves like rocks in front of their men and children and shacks, and only then did all appear tolerable.
[Burroughs is] in Tangier, writing, doing alright, unhappy like an old rubber tire indestructible, his letters piling up, pathetic, brilliant, Kafka-Celine comedy great Rabelaisian appetite for seedy humor, writing a sort of surrealist satire fable about life in decadent Tangier.
In King Solomon’s Table: A Culinary Exploration of Jewish Cooking from Around the World, cookbook author Joan Nathan writes about the tradition of eggs on the Seder table. “Many Jews have the custom of starting the Passover Seder with eggs, either cooked in salt water or even cooked overnight in sand, a custom still followed today in North Africa,” she writes.
The recipe she shares for hard-boiled eggs with spinach originated on the Greek island of Corfu.
Nathan says she’s been studying these traditions for a long time, and her book is her way of “putting everything together – things that I’ve been thinking about, that I’ve been ruminating about for years.”
Hey everyone I’m starting this series of fun facts about me. Here goes:
I moved from South Africa to Canada when I was in grade 11. Everyone in my new high school legit thought I was raised with lions, elephants and giraffes roaming around my neighbourhood. They were surprised that I knew what Mc Donalds tasted like (horrible) and that I had Nike shoes. They kept asking if I swung from vine to vine to get to school in South Africa and how I spoke english so well and why I wasn’t black. Funny thing is that they weren’t the only ignant mofo’s. Before moving to Canada, I was told it was gunna be snowing there 365 days a year and that I’d be living in an igloo, ice fishing for meals, raising moose and drinking maple syrup to stay warm. Funny how media affects how we view other parts of the world, huh?
I’m already missing my family in sa a lot. On my last day, a Friday, I was lying in bed, staring sleepily out of the window. I could hear my mum playing the familiar tunes of ‘La Vie en Rose’, 'Ballade pour Adeline’, and 'Smile’ on the old and horribly out of tune piano. But that didn’t matter, since I knew the family were gathered around ma’s dusty pink sitting room, listening to mum play piano as they did when they were young.
Before we left for the airport, my family milled around the house saying their goodbyes. I asked my grandma to plait my hair, and so sat on the floor in front of the tv whilst she gently combed my hair and rubbed in argan oil. Ma prayed for us and kissed me on the mouth, telling me she loved me, asking me to come back again in December. My grandpa, who doesn’t talk much but is a very reasoned and wise man, still smoking and whistling at the age of 82, told me “bye buddy, be good”, which arguably meant a lot more to me than just a goodbye.
There’s something about their house that immediately welcomes you: maybe it’s in the constant aroma of home cooking, or maybe it’s the familiar and unchanging decor, or maybe it’s the fact that the house is always filled with people. Whatever it is, it’s home.
Plus, grandma’s hugs are always the best.