Anyone who has ever lived in Johannesburg will tell you that one of the things they love the most about this big, bad, wonderful city are the summer thunderstorms. Our winters are dry and cold, and summer is hot and wet, but unlike the tropics, our summer storms are violent rages of wind, rain and lightning. The rain comes sheeting down, battering the blooms off the jacarandas and smashing rose bushes. They’re also short-lived. While it might be bucketing down at 5pm, by 6:30 you can be sure that the sky will have cleared, the stars will be shining and the city will smell clean and fresh. Steam rises up off the hot tarmac on the roads, and the city is cooled.

Joburg summer storms are huge in every way – on windy afternoons dark clouds gather in the southwest of the city. By 4pm, it’s as dark as dusk and the only things on the streets are sheets of newspapers that get caught in the wind. We have to run around unplugging routers and appliances because, being right under the tower, we get struck by lightning almost every time.  This Friday we had our first massive hail storm of the summer, and it was a doozy. I was convinced that the swimming pool was going to overflow, and the roof was going to blow off.  The hail piled up calf-high, and it smashed the garden to pieces. My lovely mint, which grows in a tangle all over the front stoep, is non-existent. I couldn’t even scrounge enough for a Saturday afternoon G&T. The roses are in tatters, and I fear that my tomato and bean seedlings my never recover.

But when I went outside after that storm, into the cool of an after-hail storm, when it was finally peaceful, the whole garden was full of the most incredible smells -  of lavender and rosemary, from where the bushes had been stripped and pulverised. It was the real beginning of my Joburg summer.

Oh, and speaking of newspapers blowing in the streets – Joburg’s favourite son William Kentridge recently unveiled a lovely public work in the middle of the city, just over the Queen Elizabeth Bridge. It’s called Firewalker and it’s a sculpture of one of the many women who come into the city every day to sit on the pavements with a brazier, selling grilled corn and sometimes, smilies and half-smilies (goat and sheep heads). She’s beautiful, and so very familiar to anyone who has been in the city, but what I love about her the most is that, depending on the angle, she either looks like herself, or if you look from a different angle, the sheets of metal look like newspapers, blowing across the city streets.

I snapped her on my phone from both angles from the backseat of a car the other day. Isn’t she lovely?

From the front, and below, from the side:

See? Isn’t Kenty clever?

Early summer in South Africa really is a wonderful thing. Especially in Joburg, where the sudden heat is mitigated by regular, wonderful thunderstorms, which wash the city clean, cool the air and make the nights tolerable. The heat and the wet also mean that suddenly the fruit and veggie shops are filled with the new season’s fruit and veg: September is broad beans, asparagus, the last of the blueberries, and the last small, sweet oranges of the spring. October sees prices coming down for my very favourite seasonal vegetable – the artichoke and the first crops of watermelon. By the end of this month (maybe early November, if the rain is heavy) we’ll be getting white peaches, and then the big yellow cling peaches, followed by grapes and nectarines and watermelons will be so cheap, you can afford to float them in the swimming pool to keep them cold.

So imagine my delight when we got a call from Manny and Dino at the veggie shop to say “come on down – artichokes are cheap!” they weren’t kidding. At R30 a box (about £2.50) I went a bit mad, and came home with three huge boxes. Aren’t they beautiful?

So most of Saturday was spent prepping all those artichokes. Some got eaten the traditional way – with most of their leaves on and melted butter. Others got stripped of outer leaves and chokes, and boiled in a water-vinegar mix, dressed with a vinaigrette and served up for Sunday lunch. The bulk, though, were stripped, cooked and frozen, so that in the dark, cold months of June and July, I’ll still be able to make artichoke and caper pasta, and dream of the bounty of spring…

]]> http://kahnage.wordpress.com/2009/10/19/bounty/feed/ 2 rebekahn choke3 choke1 http://kahnage.wordpress.com/2009/10/04/two-roads-diverged-in-a-yellow-wood/ http://kahnage.wordpress.com/2009/10/04/two-roads-diverged-in-a-yellow-wood/#comments Sun, 04 Oct 2009 12:17:21 +0000 Vivienne http://kahnage.wordpress.com/?p=852 ]]>

You can imagine it, can’t you.  Two friends on a walk, arriving at a fork in the road and debating which way to go, left or right.  Apparently that’s the story behind Robert Frost’s poem The Road Not Taken . Frost’s friend and walking partner, Edward Thomas, would get to the end of the walk and mutter that they should have opted for the alternative route.  In writing that poem, Frost was poking  fun at his mate.

I feel a little like that pair this morning as I write to tell you that I shall not be posting on Brixton Broads as regularly as I have in the past.

I have long imagined Earth turning off an alarm clock each weekday morning, putting on a suit and tie and saying, wearily, ‘Well, another day at the office, then’.  The result of that imagining is a new blog  called Earth at Work and, for the time being at least, I shall be concentrating my blogging energies on that.

This is by no means the end of Brixton Broads. I know Rebekahn has been plotting some tweaks to the site, so do continue to visit and look out for her posts.  And I’ll be here from time to time adding my two cents’ worth.

Thanks for reading  and commenting on my posts over the past eighteen months or so. Writing for Brixton Broads has been, and is still, tremendous fun.

Much love

Vivh

This plant might be dead. My friend RocketMan thinks it is, and on Saturday, after lulling me into a well-fed torpor, he challenged me to bring it back to life. Now maybe it was all the fish I’d eaten, or all the wine I’d drunk that clouded my judgment. I can’t say. But I agreed, and with atypical braggadocio-style (must have been the fish) even suggested a wager. Now I’m stuck with a dead plant, which, I may mention, I can’t even identify. Any ideas?

I don’t really think it’s dead, in fact, I suspect it might be still alive. Deep down somewhere in the middle. So I’ve brought it to Brixton, and put it outside, under the apricot tree. I’m going to let it sit for a day or two, and get it’s bearings, and then I thought i might cut away all the dead leaves, and give it a hefty dose of vermicompost. If those tricks don’t work, I may move it to a bigger pot. I suppose it’s possible that the roots have gotten all clumped up and that’s why it looks so sad.
If none of that works, I might just give up this gardening malarky for good.

PS: The wager was supper at the oldest bar in Johannesburg where they make the best caldo verde in town. In return for successful advice, I’m sure we can find a way to spread the love….

A heavy cold – and swollen glands that have given me a neck like Mike Tyson’s – in almost unseasonably hot weather today. Having to stay in bed on such a lovely day is heartbreaking. Colds are designed for winter. End of story.

Can anyone tell me what these spiky blue things are? I took this photo in the Brockwell Park Community Garden recently and,  coming from the other side of the world where plants are altogether different, I cannot make them out.  Not alliums, not eryngiums, not teasels, although they have the spikiness of teasels.  They’re not pincushions, either, but the name would certainly fit.

The Community Garden is an inspiring project that helps local youth get their hands grubby, something important, I think, if you live in a cramped council flat three storeys up. It’s a sign of age that I can type ‘youth’ so easily – I used to abhor the term.  One of these days I’ll go along and ask to spend an afternoon with them.  When I popped my head in a couple of weeks ago I found a motley collection of make-shift vegetable and flower beds – just the kind I love -  as well as a superb greenhouse that was ripe with the scent of growing things.  Here’s the notice board, which looks as every self-respecting notice board should: a bit of a mess.

And here, well, if I said this was a plant growing in a barrow of sorts I’d be pointing out the obvious, wouldn’t I?

For South African readers, those long brown things just behind the plant are old teasels.  In early summer they have lovely mauve- and lilac-coloured flowers.

So, suggestions, please.  Even if you don’t know the name of the spiky blue things, what do you think they should be called?  Don’t hold back – this could be the exciting beginning of a whole new Brixton Broads nomenclature.

So Vivh was right  – I have been hiding under a duvet for the last few weeks. And then I was working on a really big project, and then I was struck down with a horrible cold and sore throat, and am only emerging now from a fug of tissues, Vitamin C supplements, chicken soup and endless cups of rooibos with lemon and honey. And some kick-ass antibiotics, of course. (I’m the Number 1 proponent of chicken soup as a cure all for everything from broken hearts to broken legs, but there does come a point where you’re too far gone and need to call on modern medicine.) But I’m back now, with a vengeance, and lots to tell you about. Beans, bulbs, bloggy things – all these are grist to my mill today.

First off, a round-up of the winter. It’s been cold. And weirdly enough, a bit wet too, which is very unlike Joburg winters. Not that I’m complaining. It’s done wonders for the garden – the broad beans are now well over waist-high, and covered in flowers and bumble bees. Tell me, people who know about broad beans, are bumble bees particularly fond of these beans? It’s a lovely sight, to see these fuzzy, dumpy creatures burrowing around the flowers. Either way, somebody is doing their job because I’ve noticed a couple of tiny little pods peeping out from under the leaves. They’ve been staked, and well-fed with vermicompost, so fingers crossed…Some of the bulbs I planted last season and was too lazy to dig up and move have come up too – a couple of tiny grape hyacinths have come up in a pot and some wee narcissi have popped up under the orange tree. Of course, the beloved namaqualand daisies are still blooming their little heads off, they’re the most reliable standby in the garden, and they’re right up against the broad beans, so their lovely orange and yellow petals look just gorgeous next to the silver-green bean leaves.

But all in all, it’s still pretty grim here. Today a freezing wind is blustering around, and while the sky is blue and clear, nobody in their right mind is leaving the house. Which is why this morning, when I stumbled into the kitchen for my current favourite breakfast (English Breakfast tea and avo on rye toast) it was such a delight to see these ranunculus:

They’re so bright and friendly and kind of unpretentious. They’re not fancy, delicate bulbs. They’re tough, and a little bit rough and ready, and unashamedly colorful, and I like that. And before you start thinking that I’m some sort of bulb-genius, let me tell you that I did not grow these. In fact, I bought them on the cheap from a local flowershop, who were selling 5 bunches for R40, which is a bargain. I’m always amazed by colour in flowers. I know that may sound a bit lame, but really, when these colours are copied by man, in fabric or paint they so often look gaudy and tacky, but somehow, in a flower, it just looks lovely.

When my younger sister was a child, her nickname was “ranunculus”, shortened to “nuncle”. I have no idea how it came about, although it’s a nicely onomatopoeic word for kids. Anyway, now she’s a grown up, and living in Japan, and I’m busy crocheting a blanket for her, in similar colours to these blooms. But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to buy even the best wool in the world in colours like these:

Would you ever guess, from these pictures, that there was a howling, freezing wind buffeting the house? I thought not.

In other news, I wanted to let you know about a really fun project I’ve been working on in the last few weeks (to the neglect of this blog, I know, I know and I’m sorry). It’s a blog project called The Unexpected run by The Economist here in Johannesburg in the run-up to 2010. They’ve asked various people from different parts of the city, and with different interestes and passions to talk about what it is they they love about Joburg. Very kindly, they have referrerd to me as an ecologist, which I have never considered myself to be, but they’ve given me free reign to talk about the things I love most in this city, which is really exciting. So click over, bloggy ones. Watch the video of me in a park (do I sound like you’d imagine I would sound? Didn’t think so…) and have a look at my other posts, and those of the other city bloggers. And let me know what you think…

It really does feel very good to be back….

‘I’ve turned yer boiler down to 52 degress, yeah. Should save you a bit of money,’ said Omar, helpful representitive of British Gas, one morning this week.  There’d been no hot water for several days – parts, a fan, a flue (presumably not from Mexico), the storm, he said.

He pointed at dials and buttons, outlined the concept of pressure -  all new to me, coming from South Africa where a boiler is a geyser that lives in the ceiling out of sight and out of mind until it explodes (or something) and causes the ceiling to collapse in soggy mush on the carpet below.

I tried to listen.  I really did. I knew it was important.  But what was on my mind was the pair of secateurs and a single, late blooming ‘Gertrude Jekyll’ rose stem in my hand. ‘Have a sniff,’ I interrupted him eventually.

He sniffed. Twitched his nose. ‘Oh yeah. That’s alright, innit. The pressure then…’  But I knew Gertrude had won him over; later I caught him eyeing her up on the dining room table.  ‘Got a nice garden, haven’t you?’ he said.

Apologies for the silence recently.  I expect Rebekahn is buried beneath a duvet  in Johannesburg at the moment; on the other side of the world I’ve been trying to make to most of England’s rather shortlived summer.

While wandering through Dalston, Stoke Newington and Islington the other day I was pleased to find this matchbox of a garden just off Upper Street.  Isn’t it great?

I love the conrast of foliage against cement here. Although arches of star jasmine (you can see the top of one in the middle) aren’t really to my taste, the patch does make the building look much less Cold War, doesn’t it?

In case you hadn’t heard, London is officially in the middle of a heatwave.  If there were any doubts about this, the tabloids dished out on public transport have certainly laid them to rest.  This evening at least two of them ran with a story on the inflated prices of bottled water, which we are instructed to carry with us at all times. In my mind, a long gin and tonic is more suitable and offers better value for money.

To counter the heat a few evenings ago, I opened wide the large sash window in my bedroom, leaned out and inhaled deeply.  I was expecting nothing more than a whiff of exhaust fume but, to my surprise, I smelled the ‘Gertude Jekyll’ roses in the garden my room overlooks – and something else.  Another sniff.  And another. Jasmine.  Somewhere on my half-run-down, half-gentrified street in the badlands of Brixton, where muscly, yellow-eyed dogs strain on metal leashes and the sirens of various emergency services run all day and all night, someone had thought of the way the sweet, exotic scent of jasmine would float on the warm night air, and had planted a shrub.

This evening I stepped off the 159 bus from Piccadilly and walked down my road thinking about nothing much.  From the flat conversions above the street I head the clink of dinner plates being stacked on a draining board, a hair dryer through an open window.  Someone cycled past. Quiet.  And then  that same scent.  I stepped forward.  Gone.  I stepped back a few paces and looked around.  Nothing.  I walked forward slowly, sniffing all the time.  And there it was.  Jasmine, tucked into a small bed between the garden gate and some wheelie bins. With its pale white flowers guiding me to it, I stretched out my arm and picked a small stem, hoping no-one would decide at that moment to open the door and take out the rubbish.

I held the stem close to my face and recalled a moment on a similarly warm evening in Madurai, India, where the scent of fresh jasmine flowers in someone’s hair had calmly risen above the melee of pedestrians, scooters, autorickshaws and old Ambassador taxis. Heaven.

My botanical knowledge is such that I’ve no idea what species this jasmine is.  Typically for an evening-scented plant its flowers are white and a few moments ago a moth came fluttering into my room. (‘The cashmere!’ I thought in alarm, although that which I have I’ve bought from charity shops and have darned already.)  I expect the moth was drawn in by the light, rather than the flower itself, but the principle is the same – the scent and those white flowers attract nature’s night workers and moths are pretty useful pollinators.  In St James’s park recently I noticed nicotiana in early flower; that, too, is white and heavily scented at night.

In the big Midlands garden, I grew up with star jasmine (Trachelospermum jasminoides) which is a different beast altogether.  It climbed thick and heavy on a trellis and every now and then the lovely domestic worker my parents employed for thirty years,  fearing snakes and much to our consternation, would instruct the gardener to trim that climber until it was bald.  Here is a picture of it on a good day:

Now that they’ve moved to the city where it’s warmer, my parents have been contemplating  indigenous starry wild jasmine, Jasminum multipartitum, or, if you’d rather say the Zulu, imfohlafohlane.  Have any of you grown that, and does it have lovely scent, too?

Home now, I’ve put the stem I picked in an old glass jar and it’s here, next to my laptop.  In a moment I’ll move it to my bedside and fall asleep, hopefully dreaming of hill stations, cardamon, shooting stars over the Bay of Bengal, holy cows and sacred elephants, houseboats and coconuts.  Or not.  The sirens are still going.