Red petticoats and Skrikkeljaar poeding

In Irish legends St Brigid (5th century nun) complained to St Patrick that women were waiting too long for men to propose. He suggested that it be every 7 years that women be allowed to take the lead, but Brigid was having none of that and negotiated it to once every leap year. Then along comes Queen Margaret of Scotland (Maid of Norway) who introduced a law in 1288 allowing women to propose and men were not allowed to refuse them. If they refused the woman, the man would then pay a forfeit of a new silk dress, or if they were too poor, a kiss on the cheek. The women wore red petticoats to signal their intention of proposing and many a man was seen skiving over the hills and dales at the sight of a red flash of petticoat. And in France a woman would place a lit red candle outside her lover's home. If he kept it lit it signalled his acceptance but if he extinguished it, the answer was no. You can still purchase "La Bougie" or special red candles every four years. What worries me is why would you need to wait 4 years? And who would want to marry a man that wasn't keen to be married to you? The idea is to break with societal norms and the woman takes the initiative, but seriously, are men supposedly so scared of marriage that women have to coerce them down the aisle? Any person that isn't thrilled to be married to their love should not take the plunge. I have heard people say that marriage is restrictive and limiting, I found it the opposite and loved being a partner to a lovely man. It takes a confident woman to stand in front of a reluctant male and say "I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy .... and will you marry me?" We are so conditioned to believe it is the man's right to choose the wife/partner etc. Surely those days are past? Are men challenged by a woman who knows her own mind and is assertive? Is it that we need an assurance that we won't be laughed at and ridiculed? Who knows. But the Afrikaans folks have a pudding that they bake that is supposed to ensure a man is enamoured not only with the woman, but her amazing cooking skills. 

Skrikkeljaar poeding (Leap Year pudding)

75 g butter

125 g sugar

three  egg yolks 

Beat till creamy and lighter in colour

1 teaspoon vanilla essence

1 cup of flour

2 teaspoons of baking powder

1 pinch salt

1/2 cup milk

Add to other ingredients and stir, place in a greased tray and bake at 180 degrees centigrade for  thirty minutes

1/4 cup of smooth apricot jam spread over the cake while still warm

1 cup milk poured over the cake (do not poke holes)

beat egg whites and 2 tablespoons powdered sugar into stiff peaks and place on top of cake

Return to oven and bake for 20 minutes.

Okay, now you have snagged your man you had better find friends to help you finish the Skrikklejaar poeding because it is delicious but also very rich.

Talking about strong characters who are women, I remember my father talking about Shanghai Lil who lived in a house on Field's hill in Durban. She was supposed to be a German spy or at least harbour German spies during the war. She dressed in Chinese clothing although she was a European woman. She imported exotic things like camphor boxes from the Far East and her house was weird because the kitchen could only be accessed from the outside. I must have been young when my father spoke of Shanghai Lil because the stories are a bit garbled in my head and they don't quite compute. We seldom travelled up Field's hill when I was young. None of our family lived there and there was no reason for us to be in the area. Where were we travelling to when Dad talked about that woman?  Lil never married and was fabulously wealthy and a real icon of Durban. So, when I saw on Facebook that someone had researched Lil, I was happy to become Alice in Wonderland and dive down that particular research rabbit hole. She had two aliases and maybe more. And where did the money come from to start her empire? Her parents were working class stiffs from Wisconsin (but originally from Bavaria), so no grand inheritance for Lil. I loaded the story from FB onto FamilySearch and left it to the Gods of chance as to who would see it. And wow, was I surprised to hear from a grand nephew of Lil saying that my story had blown them away. They had no idea what had become of her and spent thirty years looking for her information. Of course they had no clue that she was living under an alias and the names they were looking for meant nothing if they wanted to find her. But they did give me a snippet of information that I could tease. She apparently owned a diamond mine in 1900's. And again we come up against that male dominated field of finance and investment stuff that women like Lil would not have access to. Did she have a rich sugar daddy that gifted her the diamond mine? Or did she steal it or even assume a male persona and another alias to be able to own the mine? Her home is now the Gregory hotel and maybe the family will make the pilgrimage to see it for themselves, who knows? It might be interesting to see if any of her exotic pieces still exist and her prized possession of a green lacquered grand piano, where has that gone? Is there a home in Durban that houses those treasures? And as to Lil, she is buried in

Stellawood cemetery under the name Georgia Gale. Which to put it bluntly is not her birth name but one she invented for herself. Wow, may we all invent new personas for ourselves as we outgrow our old selves and shed the skin of past mistakes and trauma. Okay, I'm unlikely to do that but then again, I wear my culture and my past on my face and I wouldn't recognise myself without that skin staring back at me from my mirror. (Shanghai Lil's real name was Anna Boedecker if anyone is interested 1890-1951). 

This week I was on Rootstech watching some stories and talks when a notice that says I am 11th cousin once removed from Queen Elizabeth 11 of England pops onto my feed. Somewhere in my bones I knew this because I was about 10 years old when I announced to my friends at Empangeni Primary School that I was related to royalty. I was then challenged to prove it. Not cowed at all by Hope and Faith (yes they were girls in my class who were very aggressive and demanding) and they were not the girls you wanted to upset. A few years later I did take a hockey stick to Faith's shin bone when she persistently stole my lunches each day. Anyhow, not wanting to upset Hope or Faith, I trotted out my claim to fame ... Twinkle Twinkle little star in olde English. "Scintillate, scintillate, globular vivic, Fain doth I fathom they natures specific, Highly poised in the ether capacious, strongly resembling a gem carbonaceous." That did little to impress the two sisters and the next day they punched me on my arm and told me that if I was related to royalty then our family would be rich. How I thought some little ditty would prove anything at all is a mystery. Oh how I wish that were true that if we were royalty adjacent we would have money. My mother always said that money didn't solve life's problems but at least you could suffer in luxury. Of course all the pundits say that if you can be happy when you are poor then you will be happy while rich. But if you are miserable while financially broke, then money will not change your mindset. I wonder who they tested that theory out on? Hope and Faith lived in a trailer/mobile home while their father worked on the roading crew. They had a long drop for a toilet and bathing was done under a garden hose or over a basin of luke warm water with a cloth. They didn't consider themselves poor even though toilet paper was a luxury and lunches were not always guaranteed. I lived in a home where servants stoked a fire so that I could have hot water to bathe in and food was always abundant. Did I think we were poor? No. After all, I was related to the Queen of England. My mind and imagination took me to grand kingdoms of wonder and I dreamed the great dreams of a child with food in her belly and a safe place to sleep at night. But I am up for the challenge of proving that rich people can be happy. Just give me some money and we will see.

I am horrified at the prices of Easter eggs this year. Seriously! Yes, I am one of those moms that still gives my adult children Easter eggs each year. But maybe not this time. I have been tempted to make a Scotch/Easter egg thingie. Where you take a Cadbury creme egg, layer some cake pop mix over the top and then roll it in melted chocolate (remember to remove the silver paper first). One egg will be enough to give you the sugar jitters for at least a week. As a child we would have those really, really dark Easter eggs with royal icing swirls and rosettes on them. That egg was so rich that it took us a whole week to eat it. Well, no not really. I would eat it until I felt ill, take a minute or two and then go at it again. Then there was my Gran's hot cross buns. Aaargh spices, spices, spices and yummy. When I buy hot cross buns now from the bakery, they are stodgy, bland and yuk. Just as well because if they were as nice as my gran's were, I would live on them non stop over this Easter period. Then there's the Simnel cake with 11 balls of marzipan on top and then roasted slightly. Aaargh again. Why only 11 marzipan balls? They represent the 11 faithful disciples of Jesus. But layers of marzipan.... come on folks, that is Heaven in a slice. Fruit cake and marzipan are kryptonite to my Superman/woman. In fact if I ever make Christmas cake I have to buy an extra block of marzipan because not all of it makes it onto the cake. No, I am going to be strong and good and not over-indulge. I am going to resist and restrain myself. Maybe. And Shrove Tuesday? Who did the pancake races and flipping and eating and being silly? Okay, not your tradition, well that's fine. I didn't either. Flipping and running at the same time are way beyond my skill set. Actually running is problematic on its own. I went to the Hamilton gardens to watch the grandchildren perform with their Pacifica group and walking on uneven ground required a walking stick to stay upright. Ah well, my bones and body are getting old, but my mind is still active.

For the women out there, be assertive and happy, for the men, treat your women like Queens and they will respond in kind.