Memories of childhood – Easter Holidays
Easter always seemed to coincide with the end of the grape harvest, but whether that is factually true I do not know. Memories are always a conglomerate of what really was and how we would have liked things to be. Sometimes we delete things that were unbearably embarrassing or painful, and we contract several experiences into one to ‘package’ it into a manageable format. In the setting for many of my childhood memories, we seemed to have gallon tins with screw tops full of ‘moskonfyt’, a product from somewhere in the wine making process. Come Easter Time this would be baked into the most delicious sweet bread, ‘mosbolletjies’ . Sometimes it would have aniseed in it but around the end of harvest it would incorporate raisins, signifying the bounty that lasted from one season to the next. These would be soaked in hanepoot wine before being kneaded into the dough. Then fresh grapes (symbol of the current season’s blessing) would be placed on top of the bread just before it went into the oven. The European tradition of Hot Cross Buns for Easter, emerged very late in my childhood.
Bunnies and shining wrapping
How wonderful is childhood, when one utterly believes a benevolent bunny, carrying a basket of chocolate eggs wrapped in the most richly coloured golden and silver paper, knows of one’s existence and bothers to deliver a treat especially. I remember a weekend with family on a farm. They had a storybook grandfather ( …. he actually wore yellow braces with a bright blue pattern of polka dots, to keep his trousers up as no belt could fit around his barrel tummy). We were all having milky tea and ‘mosbeskuit’ at the kitchen table, when suddenly this grandfather swore (an unusual and excitingly shocking occurrence), grabbed the bowl of lemons on the sideboard, and started forcefully hurling them over the closed bottom half of the stable door, loudly proclaiming that the blasted bunny is bl— eating his spinach in the vegetable garden outside the kitchen again. Needless to say by the time we had opened the door and rushed outside, the rascally rabbit was long gone, but amongst the carrots and parsley, the runner bean trellises and spinach, we found Easter eggs. No jewels could have been more precious.
Author: Suenel Bruwer Holloway is a playwright, poet, speech writer, translator and editor as well as guest writer. She specializes in satirical social commentary, the arts, education, book reviews and three course picnics. She comes from a long line of hat wearers.
Suenel is available for guest posts and can be contacted at the e-mail address provided.