Whatshot
The Pantry of Time
The Pantry of Time
Date: 2026-06-26
It's Saturday morning. I'm in the kitchen making oat biscuits for the week. As the price of food escalates, I am increasingly drawn to making my own goodies at home. Juices. Quiche. Cakes. I tried to make rotis but they emerged from the pan harder than a discus.
As I gently caress the butter and flour and roll the oats, Proust like, it stirs an instinctive memory of my childhood. 26 Redcross Street, a redbrick, terraced house, where my grandparents lived. I jog my mum's memory. At age 92, the whatsapp starts to rattle into life, reeling off the delicious fare held in all our memories.
Grandma Rushby's pantry was like entering a wonderland - shelves stacked. On the left were all the savoury treats, shepherd's pie, meat loaves, on the other, sweet things like queen of puddings, fruit sponges, rhubarb and apple crumble. So many cakes. Every child's dream.
Cured hams hung on hooks from the ceiling. Patience and time would turn these into ham and egg loaves, pies, sandwiches on thick brown bread.
Grandad was a prolific gardener so the bounty was endless. It was the art of preserving though which was truly the miracle of their joint union. He would bring home baskets of seasonal fruits. Blackcurrants were everyone's favourite. Grandma, her purple stained fingers would turn these most precious globes into jams and jellies. The aroma of sweet bubbling fruits, the rows of empty jam jars gaping to be filled, sealed with a round disc of paper, then clamped shut. Like a time capsule.
We have our own Grandma up the road here in Umhlali. The wondrous Cindy, who is pickling and preserving traditions. With her husband Bala, they brought their love of fresh produce into the world. Mango atchaar, Peanut and mint chutney, pickled garlic, that most wondrous of delights. Her website says "From very humble beginnings, they built something truly extraordinary. And every jar, every bottle, every packet carries a little piece of that story."
We hardly work in the kitchen with our hands. The touch and feel of pastry, the peeling of peas, the squeezing of an orange. How can we when nails are longer than an eagles talons and palms smoother than a baby's bum.
There are those who still hold on. But every generation loses something as kitchens become depersonalised, more like hospital operating theatres, than places in which you can conjure a home cooked meal like grandma used to do.
Switch off, turn on the oven, and create your own capsules of magic.
I must go now. Going to try and make my own samoosas from scratch. The problem is my maths is hopeless.