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Deeg: die enigste boek oor deeg wat jy ooit nodig sal kry!

Die enigste boek oor deeg wat jy ooit nodig sal kry!

Alle soorte deeg om terte of pasteie te maak word bespreek – broskors, blaarkors, skilferkors, warmwaterkors, fillo en strudeldeeg, ook die gewilde Marokkaanse ouarkadeeg.

’n Besonderse boek wat al die kunsies van deeg fynkam: bestanddele, toerusting, basiese beginsels en puik resepte.

Deeg dek ook algemene foute wat by deeg kan voorkom en die oorsake daarvan. En om die terte of pasteie te laat pronk gee Theresa wonderlike aanwysings oor hoe om dit alles te versier.

Word ’n bobaas bakker met hierdie boek wat selfs intimiderende deegresepte maklik maak.

Theresa was een van die gewildste deelnemers aan Kokkedoor 1. Sedertdien bied sy landswyd kursusse aan oor deeg – al die kunsies en wenke. As boervrou van Brandwag staan haar hande vir niks verkeerd nie. Sy is ook bekend vir haar nougat wat te koop is by al die Kersmarkte in die Wes-Kaap omgewing.

Boekbesonderhede

Book launch: foodSTUFF by Tony Jackman

The cookbook as memoir, or memoir as cookbook? With foodSTUFF, maverick food writer Tony Jackman presents us with a refreshingly original take on life and food.

He relates every heartache, every joy, and does not shy away from imparting the pain of loss of a family member or his troubled relationship with his father. The stories of his journey towards adulthood are counterbalanced by rich tales from his life. foodSTUFF has many meaty recipes, spicy poultry dishes, some of Jackman’s eccentric signature dishes, and desserts he likes to spoil his friends with.

Jackman, known in particular for his article Sliced & Diced in the Weekend Argus, invites you into his world, from humble beginnings in an English working-class family to an illustrious career as an unapologetically eccentric South African foodie, playwright and author.

foodSTUFF tosses together tales from a rich, nomadic life with masses of meaty recipes (Obies oxtail potjie, beef fillet with melted French Brie, parsley-crusted rack of lamb); spicy poultry dishes (tamarind duck curry, chicken coconut curry); a handful of signature dishes (spanspek soup, bacon-and-beer braai bread); and the desserts with which Jackman likes to spoil his friends (the chocolatiest chocolate tart ever, lemon syrup cake, pears in Chardonnay Pinot Noir with a Parmesan wafer).

Buon appetito…

Event Details

Johannesburg launch of Queen of the Free State by Jennifer Friedman

Jennifer Friedman will be in conversation with Michele Magwood about what it means to grow up Jewish in a small town in the Free State in the 50s and 60s, the outsider on the inside…

Event Details

  • Date: Thursday, 25 May 2017
  • Time: 6:00 PM for 6:30 PM
  • Venue: Love Books, The Bamboo Lifestyle Centre, 53 Rustenburg Road, Melville | Map
  • Guest Speaker: Michele Magwood
  • RSVP: info@lovebooks.co.za, 011 726 7408
     
     
    Book Details

As By Fire an urgent and necessary book on the South African student protests’ crisis

What are the real roots of the student protests of 2015 and 2016? Is it actually about fees?

Why did so many protests turn violent?

Where is the government while the buildings burn, and do the students know how to end the protests?

Former Free State University Vice-Chancellor Jonathan Jansen delves into the unprecedented disruption of universities that caught South Africa by surprise. In frank interviews with eleven of the VCs most affected, he examines the forces at work, why the protests escalate into chaos, and what is driving – and exasperating – our youth.

This urgent and necessary book gives us an insider view of the crisis, tells us why the conflict will not go away and what it means for the future of our universities.

‘A view from the inside of the cauldron… Warning: he doesn’t mince his words.’ Ferial Haffajee
 
 
Prof Jonathan Jansen is a leading South African educationist, commentator and the author of several books including the best-selling Letters to My Children. He is the former Vice-Chancellor of the University of the Free State, where he earned a reputation for transformation and a deep commitment to reconciliation. He is married with two children.

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Cape Town launch: Queen of the Free State by Jennifer Friedman

Jennifer Friedman will be in conversation with Nancy Richards about what it means to grow up Jewish in a small town in the Free State in the 50s and 60s, the outsider on the inside…


 
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Jennifer Friedman’s memoir, Queen of the Free State, told with humour and pathos

The outsider on the inside. The one who watches and listens. The bearer of tales. 

Growing up Jewish in a small town in the Free State in the ’50s and ’60s, Jennifer Friedman moves between child and adult, black and white, as Verwoerd’s grand apartheid is dividing South Africa.

There are midnight escapes, stolen loot and banned comics Frogs’ legs, eisteddfods, icy drives with Grandpa, hideous encounters with bras, terrifying policemen, albino messengers and Pa’s beatings.

Told with humour and pathos, Friedman’s memoir brings to life a strong sense of place, love, rebellion and betrayal.

Mike Nicol on Queen of the Free State: “There are books that open our eyes to the world, that reveal a truth about life … This is one of them. When that insight comes from a life story that is charming, surprising, funny, beautifully written we cannot but be seduced. Yet Jenny Friedman takes no prisoners. She has a clear eye and a sharp way with words: those who fail her bleed. Hers is a classic memoir.’

Jennifer Friedman was born and raised in the Orange Free State. She studied at UCT, and her Afrikaans poetry has been published in various journals such as Tydskrif vir Letterkunde and Wetenskap en Kuns.
 

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‘Plenty of humour, yet politics darken the idyll, and beautifully written’ – Margaret von Klemperer reviews Queen of the Free State

Published in The Witness

MEMOIRS by relatively unknown writers inevitably make you ask – why would anyone want to read about someone they have never heard of? Apologies to Jennifer Friedman here: she is a published poet, but sadly poetry confers little celebrity these days within the reading public.

Friedman, now living in Australia, grew up in a small Free State town in the 1950s and 60s, the daughter of the local pharmacist, and a member of the only Jewish family in an overwhelmingly Afrikaans and conservative environment.

She was an imaginative and rebellious child and that immediately put her at loggerheads with parents who were determined to conform and not stand out too much, and who seemingly made no allowances for their eldest child.

The style is episodic: short chapters telling of events in what was in some respects an idyllic childhood. Jennifer loved and was loved by the family’s servants who gave her the affection her parents seemed unable to express.

There is plenty of humour, including one hilarious scene when she bites a teacher because she wanted to know what she tasted like. And another, which many female readers will relate to – the horror of being taken off by an embarrassing mother to buy the dreaded first bra.

But there is a darker side to Friedman’s story. Politics begin to intrude, darkening the idyll as unknowable and incomprehensible adults react to the Sharpeville massacre and the assassination of Hendrik Verwoerd. There are undercurrents of racism and anti-Semitism, and above all, Friedman’s ongoing battles, sometimes physical, with her parents, who do not come out of this memoir with much credit.

The writing is beautiful, as you might expect from a poet. It lifts the story, giving it weight beyond its telling of a small life. Though, of course, no life is really small, and to be able to glimpse the experiences of another is a way to make sense of some of your own. Also, stories from South Africans of all backgrounds add to the rich and often disturbing history of the country, an important archive for the future. – Margaret von Klemperer

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Lees ’n uittreksel van Lloyd Zandberg se spitsvondige debuut kortverhaalbundel Per Ongeluk

Lloyd Zandberg is ‘n opwindende nuwe stem in Suid-Afrikaanse satire.

Kyk één keer deur sy oë na die lewe, en niks sal ooit weer dieselfde wees nie.

Hierdie versameling kortverhale bied ‘n histeriese kykie op alledaagse situasies: ‘n tango-les in die platteland; die tannie “so eenvoudig soos ‘n ses-stuk legkaart”; ‘n besoek aan ‘n tandarts en sy assistent met wie hy meer as net ‘n spreekkamer deel.

Zandberg se debuut is ‘n boek vol deernis en humor, met vriendelike gebruiksaanwysings vir mense wat nie so goed lees nie.

Uittreksel uit “Inkopies”, ’n kortverhaal wat verskyn in Lloyd Zandberg se debuutbundel, Per ongeluk (Tafelberg, 2017).

Ek het al in my lewe geskenke gekry wat my laat bloos het vir maande aaneen, sielkundige toe gestuur het of net lelik laat laster het. Een jaar het ek by ’n vriend van my ’n springtou en ’n aero- bics manual gekry. Ek weet presies wat hy wou sê, maar dit was onnodig, hoewel my eating disorder geen staatsgeheim was nie.

Ouma, aan die ander kant, was briljant met die koop van geskenke. Dit was asof sy jou met R50 kom opsom. Elkeen in die familie het altyd iets kleins gekry, maar dit was elke keer in die kol. Tot die honde, katte, budgies, rotte, hamsters en vissie kry geskenke. Sy het nooit gemors gekoop nie.

Deur die jaar het sy al idees bymekaar begin gooi, en vroeg in November het sy oorgegaan tot aksie. Die geskenkkoopses- sies was gewoonlik ’n hele dag se storie.

So loop ek en Ouma die winkelrakke deur terwyl Bles Bridges ons in die agtergrond vermaak met sy musiek. Ek sê nou maar musiek, want dit speel oor ’n speaker, maar ek weet nie of dit as musiek geklassifiseer kan word nie. Bles moes liewer kyk na ’n modeling career of professioneel dans, want sy nommers maak my ongemaklik. Maar ek en Ouma gee Bles die benefit of the doubt en gaan aan met ons soeke na elkeen se geskenke.

Op daardie stadium het ons al vier-en-sestig Krismis-crack- ers teen ’n onverbeterbare prys gekoop. Daar is net agtien van ons, maar Krismis-crackers hou mos.
’n Paar minute later is ons in die afdeling vir persoonlike higiëne en ons staan voor die rak met die shampoo en con- ditioners. My ouma trek ’n bottel bubblebath vir my ma van die rak af en lees die label agterop. Dit is toe dat ’n vrou met liggaamsdele waarvan sy nie weet nie naderstap en my op die skouer tik.

“Waar kry jy die crackers?” vra sy.

Ek skrik, want skielik sien ek ’n deel van haar waarvan sy blykbaar onbewus is. Party mense noem dit ’n suikerpens. Die vrou wys met so ’n vienna-vinger na my ouma, wat met die mid- night blue bubblebath staan.

“Is dit jou ma?” vra sy.

“Nee,” sê ek, “dit is my ouma. En sy is kwaai.”

Ouma het aanbeweeg, sy is nie hier vir geselsies maak nie. “Sjoe,” sê die vrou, “sy is so jonk. Mevrou, jy is pragtig.” “Dankie en geseënde Kersfees vir jou,” sê Ouma, haar aan-
dag nou afgetrek deur ’n nuwe ekseemroom wat net vir my ouer broer se Kerskous bedoel kan wees.

Ek vra toe vir haar of sy bewus is van daai stuk wat so hang.

“Nee,” sê sy, “waarvan praat jy?”

“Daar hang iets onder jou bloes waarvan jy nie weet nie.” “O, my pensie,” sê sy en vat aan haar maag waar dit op die trollie rus.

“Dit is tannie se tupperware, my maag stoor alles daar wat te veel is,” lag sy asof sy in ’n advertensie vir haar maag speel. “As die oorlog kom, het ek genoeg rantsoen, my pens weet mos nie wat môre gebeur nie.”

My ouma loop ’n ent verder en ek bly staan en verkyk my aan die tannie wat sukkel om ’n koekie seep van die boonste rak af te haal. Dit is toe dat haar man om die draai kom met ’n slaapsak in sy regterhand en onder sy linkerarm knyp hy ’n kleinerige gasbottel vas, soos een wat wil steel. Ek kan sien hy het groot planne wat haar nie betrek nie. Sy weet dit net nog nie.

Ouma waai vir my dat ek moet kom. Sy wil weet of my suster se voete sal pas in die voetbadjie wat sy vashou. Ouma se trollie is al vol familie. Ek sien elkeen se gesig. Bles Bridges se “Reik na die sterre” begin speel.

Maar heeltyd hou ek vir Tupperware en Cadac dop. “My maggies, ons troulied!” sê Tupperware vir Cadac. “I’ll be damned,” sê ek.

“Moenie so staar nie,” sê Ouma.

Ek kan my oë nie glo nie. Die twee staan en langarm soos mense by ’n wildsfees – heel van ritme af en asof hulle gedwing word. Ek staan nader aan Ouma, want ek is bang. Nes Bles die chorus vir ’n tweede keer begin sing, skree iemand kliphard daar aan die ander kant van die winkel.

Ek dog nog daar is ’n special op brandewyn of Coke of iets en begin al Ouma se waentjie omdraai. Maar toe sien ek die man met die pistool. Hy sê op ’n dringende toon dat ons almal op die vloer moet lê. Dit lyk asof hy dit bedoel. Hy het daai uitdrukking op sy gesig van iemand wat nou ’n toilet nodig het.

’n Mens glo mos maar eerder so ’n persoon.

Ek gryp Ouma se hand en vra haar of hulle ernstig is. Sy kyk my net aan en ons albei besef dis nie speletjies nie. Ek en sy val soos slap kak op die vloer, maar Tupperware en die man gaan aan asof hulle van niks weet nie. Hulle dans so dat dit amper vir my mooi is.

ek reik na die sterre niks is ooit vir my te ver nie liefde
in my lewe laat my ook op plekke swewe iets om na te
strewe want dit is my hele lewe
ek wil aan jou vertel, maar ek dink tog jy weet dit wel jy is
my lewe


“Julle moet loop lê!” sis ek.

“Net op ons anniversary,” sê Tupperware.

“Jammer om te hoor, maar hulle gaan ons skiet,” sê ek.

“Ek was in die army,” sê Cadac. “Julle moet kalm bly, hierdie amateurs het nie ’n kans nie.”

“Jy was ’n week daar,” sê Tupperware. “Jy is ’n onderwyser, wat weet jy?”

“Ons gaan vrek,” sê ek.

Oral om ons lê almal tjoepstil soos kinders by ’n evangeliese kerkkamp terwyl party lyk asof hulle dalk in tale mag begin praat. Ouma lê langs my, maar sy is min gepla. Sy kon net so- wel op Hentiesbaai se strand lê.

“Ek sal op my rug moet lê,” sê ek, “my maag druk my ribbes dat ek nie asem kry nie.”

“Doen wat jy wil,” sê Ouma, “dit mag dalk jou laaste kans wees.”

“Moenie so sê nie, dit laat my nog meer sukkel vir asem,” sê ek. Toe ek omdraai om op my rug te lê, kyk ek op en sien die verskriklike hoë rakke wat hoog bo ons uittroon, asof ek in die middel van die pad in 5th Avenue in New York lê. Wolkekrab- bers vol shampoo en body wash.

“As hulle hier begin skiet, is dit ’n moerse skuimbad,” sê ek. Ek praat gewoonlik kak as ek nervous is.

Ons lê vir ’n verdere sewe minute. Intussen het Bles oorge- skakel na “Ruiter van die windjie” en ek sien hoe Tupperware se voet klop-klop saam met die chorus:

ruiter van die windjie wil ek bly vryer
as die voëltjies rondom my van verre
lande vertel ek
goue strande en die see, oho hoo

Die man met die pistool sien ek nie weer nie, maar ek pak intussen die R37,50 uit my beursie langs my selfoon as hy dalk sou belangstel. Van waar ek lê, kan ek onder die rak deur kyk na waar ’n tannie in ’n pastelkleurige kaftan lê en bid.

Skielik gaan daar ’n alarm af. Ek skrik my spoeg weg. Ek het geweet dit is die einde.

“Is ons dood?” vra ek vir Ouma.

“Nee, man,” sê sy, “dis Bles se jodelliedjie, ken jy dit nie?”

Boekbesonderhede

Per ongeluk bied ’n histeriese kykie op alledaagse situasies

Lloyd Zandberg is ‘n opwindende nuwe stem in Suid-Afrikaanse satire.

Kyk één keer deur sy oë na die lewe, en niks sal ooit weer dieselfde wees nie.

Hierdie versameling kortverhale bied ‘n histeriese kykie op alledaagse situasies: ‘n tango-les in die platteland; die tannie “so eenvoudig soos ‘n ses-stuk legkaart”; ‘n besoek aan ‘n tandarts en sy assistent met wie hy meer as net ‘n spreekkamer deel.

Zandberg se debuut is ‘n boek vol deernis en humor, met vriendelike gebruiksaanwysings vir mense wat nie so goed lees nie.

Lloyd Zandberg is in Windhoek gebore in 1991.

Na baie jare in Kaastad, het hy teruggekeer na Namibië, waar hy foto’s neem van wilde diere en mooi tannies wat lelik sit. Onlangs het hy ‘n ATKV Namibië-veertjie gewen vir 12 van sy kortverhale.

Hy verkies om te glo dat hy op die verkeerde planeet bly. Maar weet ook dat hy niks daaraan kan doen nie.
 

Boekbesonderhede

Fiction Friday: read an excerpt from Ken Barris’s The Life of Worm & Other Misconceptions

The Life of Worm & Other Misconceptions is a collection of new and critically acclaimed short stories by award-winning author Ken Barris. They combine everyday events with the surreal: the title is centered on a dog called Worm; in another, a husband and wife quarrel over a plugless lamp; and in another, a man encounters a speaking baboon in his kitchen.

Lyrical and humorous, these stories concretise the human condition via the author’s characteristically unfettered style.

Read an excerpt from a story titled “Poor William” here:

I do not know Cape Town well. The last time I was there I made myself unpopular by suggesting that there might be a demonic aspect to the mountain. The puff adders, baboons, and porcupines that apparently come down the mountain while the people are going up amount to a devil’s menagerie. There is not enough space between the mountain and the sea, so that anyone who does manage to find a sliver of land becomes self-congratulatory, hence the famous Cape Town snobbery. The peninsula is like a scorpion’s claw, waiting to be crisply snapped off Africa . . . – Hanoch Abelman, 31 January 2010

As I walked into my house, I knew something was wrong. There was a smell in the air that I couldn’t identify – something rank and wild – and then sounds of breaking crockery from the kitchen confirmed it. Mastering my fear, I walked slowly to the kitchen door. A large male baboon looked up from a slice of bread laid flat on a cutting board, and turned to me. My shock at first prevented me from recognising the object in his left hand. It was a butter knife.

The baboon rose into a shambling walk and approached me, the knife grasped awkwardly. I resolved to hold my position, but not to stare boldly into the animal’s eyes, or grin (although I was far from grinning at the time). I knew that baboons interpret such expressions as aggressive, which might provoke an attack, and their fangs are bigger than a lion’s.

The ape paused just under a metre away, and stuck out its hand. The left, still holding the knife, dangled by its side. I was bewildered, and couldn’t understand this gesture.

“Don’t be alarmed,” it said. “I would like to shake your hand. Unfortunately I cannot introduce myself properly, as I have not considered a name for myself, but I believe the newspapers call me William.”

Stupefied, I took the animal’s hand, and shook it. The texture of his skin was rough and horny, as if it were long accustomed to manual labour.

My astonishment grew when the beast raised an eyebrow, if that is what one might term the bridge of raised fur above his copper eyes. I was disturbed by the cunning spirit, the shrewd intelligence, that animated them.

“And you are?” he asked.

I had to clear my throat before I could introduce myself, and stumbled over the sound of my own name.

The baboon turned back slightly, making a sweeping gesture that included the entire kitchen in its scope.

“Well met then, Mr Harris. I suppose you expect me to apologise for my presence here. I mean no harm, I assure you, but I am of course an urban guerrilla. It is my nature as an ape to take what I can, but even so, I am sometimes driven to do things that I regret.”

You will grasp the absurdity of my response when I tell you that I did insist on an apology for the broken jug on the floor. But what does one say to a talking baboon?

“I do so apologise,” he replied gravely. “As you can see, I walk with a limp because of an injury that hasn’t healed properly. I was shot in the hip, right here, and my tail isn’t fully under control.” His mouth twisted oddly – if he were human, I would say it was an expression of bitterness – as he added, “I knocked off your jug with my tail, you see.”
Dropping the butter knife on the floor, he parted his fur to the side of the hip, and showed me a puckered weal.

“The bullet had to be removed surgically,” he said. “I have another injury here, a lesser one.” He ran his forefinger along a strip of whitened skin along his hairless cheek. “I was merely grazed here, thank heavens. If I hadn’t turned away when I did, the damage would have been fatal, I am quite sure of it. Luckily it was a small-bore weapon.”

I recall that my mouth opened and closed foolishly. I was quite at a loss for words.

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