Catherine Nicolette
The joys of mixed parentage!
Dad was from Tramore, Ireland, Mom is from Amsterdam in Holland.
They met and married in South Africa.
Thus I grew up in a mixed household, a veritable blend of cultures.
How it worked was like this; sometimes we ate Irish.
Dad had a say in the cooking, and often got behind the stove himself.
He was a veritable chef, I his willing acolyte.
We would work away in the kitchen with Dad dispensing nuggets of Irish wisdom as I peeled the potatoes and tended the humble cleaning duties.
Jack of Diamonds
Dad measured, whipped and concocted fabulous dishes we all ate with absolute relish.
The tapedeck would belt out Dad's favourite tunes. To this day the older of my siblings and I amaze people with our word perfect knowledge of 'Jack of Diamonds,' 'Solitaire,' the Platters 'Only You,' and all of the Al Jolson songs.
In winter we children would walk home while viewing a plume of smoke against the sky from the Whittle chimney.
At that time South African households enjoyed central heating and electric fires or radiator
Our Celtic influenced home boasted a coal fire, around which we would sit.
Sometimes we toasted marshmallows on long forks at the fireside, and ate toast with dripping butter.
Dad would indulge in the old fashioned tradition of story telling.
And what stories they were, 'It was a dark and dreary night, and the wind was howling around the eaves...'
We would settle around the fire, looking into the coals.
Sometimes I was lulled to sleep by the sound of my parents' voices quietly chatting while Mom knitted for the family's latest baby. Such total safety and security...
Next morning I would wake tucked up cosily in bed, never sure how I got there. Such were the Irish evenings.
Windmill spring clean
The Dutch days ... ah, the Dutch days.
When Ouma, my Dutch grandmother) would announce an impending visit, a whirling Amsterdam spring clean would take place.
Windows would be washed until they sparkled.
Zoute drop, butter biscuits, percolated coffee and thick slices of delicious bread with Gouda cheese would grace the table.
The aroma of fabulous Dutch meals would waft through the air as Mom bustled around the kitchen.
Everything had to be perfect.
The beautiful little blue and white Dutch ornaments would sit cheek by jowl with Irish Waterford crystal.
Dutch art books would line the bookshelves, while the wooden kitchen dresser had six Delft plates.
I simply loved the beauty of the home with its Celtic and Dutch traditions.
Cultural influence
I continue to be influenced by multiple cultural influences.
I am thoroughly South African in upbringing. My accent still gives me away in Dublin.
When I visit my friends, it is open culinary season.
Afrikaans friends ply me with pap, onion tomato sauce and melktert.
Portuguese choir members cook fabulous Mediterranean cuisine.
South Sotho friends place samp, beans and putu pap before me.
The only South African dishes I ever struck out on and declined to eat were mopani worms and fried locusts.
My friends thought I was a wimp.
Beating the system
As a child, I was smart enough to use the system. When a Dutch gathering took place, I would wear the blue dress Ouma had sewn for me.
I would liberally sprinkle phrases like 'Dag,' 'Dank u, and 'Nee' or 'Ja' to show I was one of the gathering.
As Sint Nikolaas day rolled around, I would be more Dutch than the Dutch.
I would leave newly bought socks on the chimney in the hope that Mom would put oranges and sweets in.
She always did.
Turncoat
Turncoat that I was, when St. Patrick's Day came around, I would become more Irish than the Irish.
I would wear my green and gold dress and run around loudly talking about St. Patrick and the shamrock.
I would feast on Irish stew and watch in awe as Mom made Irish coffee.
Her services were in great demand until she came back, now teetotal, from a Lourdes pilgrimage. Everything else in the Whittle household except for the sherry trifle then went teetotal too.
Including the famous Irish coffees.
As the Welkom Irish contingent remarked one memorable St. Patrick's Day years later, it was a sad day indeed.
International
The upshot of all this is that I am as at home in Holland as in Ireland; in South Africa as in France.
I love visiting India, England, Italy.
I see a unique beauty in all countries, and enjoy the wondrous diversity of different cultures
I have been the beneficiary of a multicultural upbringing - a mixture of Dutch zoute drop and Irish stew. . .
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