Tea & Rusks

This is what breakfast looks like for us right now. We leave our campsite at sunrise in search of wildlife and eventually stop somewhere with a line of sight that will give us advance warning about approaching predators. The breakfast picnic is packed the night before and is both a pretty simple and quintessentially South African way to start the day. A flask of rooibos tea steeps overnight, creating deep umber brew and a flask of hot water sits ready for coffee, hot chocolate and ceylon tea. To accompany all of these choices we have fruit and then rusks - also known as "beskuit". We use the bonnet ("hood" for my American compadres) of the car to pour and serve from and then we eat somewhere close enough to jump back inside if need be. The boys often sit on the roof, for a birds eye view and added safety if surrounded by dense bushveld. Usually breakfast is mellow and we savor the moment to be out of the car and take in our surroundings after a few hours of game driving. As people who currently live far from the land of rusks, each bite is a treat as we sip and dunk our way through our repast.

To give some perspective, rusks are a corner stone of the South African comfort food experience. They are sold everywhere and come in a variety of shapes and forms, but certain things remain consistent: they are a slightly sweetened, soda-style bread, ideally made with buttermilk that once baked is cut in to portions and then dried until crisp. They are something akin to biscotti, but not as sweet and are a whole lot less fancy. 

A rusk has a buttery flavour and is a dry, crumbly thing to eat on its own, but dunked in to a cup of tea (or coffee or hot chocolate) it softens just a little and picks up the hot drink in its nooks and crannies. When one takes a bite it is a mix of buttery dry crispness and liquid all at once. Somewhat like roasting a marshmallow, there is an art to dunking a rusk and with each rusk there is a unique experience of texture and flavour with each person preferring a different length of dunk. There are the soakers, such as my eldest son, who likes to dunk his rusk until it has softened to the point of it possibly falling apart in a soggy mess before it reaches his mouth. I prefer the quick dunk and the flavour of tea and rusk in my mouth together, but separate.

The most classic form of rusk is a buttermilk rusk made with white flour, it is a light and buttery experience as seen in the photo above. The bush-worn hand belongs to my husband with whom I share a his and hers relationship with rusks. He prefers a buttermilk, pure and simple version, while I err towards one made also with bran flakes, some whole wheat flour and possibly nuts of some kind. My mom sent us off in to the bush with a box of her homemade "health rusks" and when those ran out I bought a delicious buttermilk-bran version from a South African food purveyor that we found in Maun, seen below. It is crisp, nutty, buttery and good.

We are on a sell drive safari and do our own catering and therefore have tailored our mornings to whatever it is that makes us happiest. Rusks don't spoil in the heat and stay fresh for a good long while - perfect when shops are a hard day's drive away and fresh baked goods an impossibility in the bush. They are central to our happiness. We were amused to stop alongside a safari company's vehicle the other morning to say hi and see that their morning spread mirrored ours. Tea, coffee and rusks served to people for whom it would have been a novel experience. I love the thought that countless tourists have come to the bush and learned the sweet joy of a rusk dunked in a cup of tea or coffee. Maybe some will remember them with affection and even try their hand at baking some when back home. I bake my own in California and have turned friends and neighbors in to rusk-lovers along the way. 

NOTE: this is not a recipe type of blog but if this posting compelled you to make your own, contact me and I will send you a recipe once back on the grid. 

Water in a dry place (2)

Water in a dry place is a recurring theme in my paintings and now too I realize in places that I am compelled to seek out. Whether it is that Africa imprinted itself on me during the first 22 years of my life, with a love of dry, dusty heat and the juxtaposition of rain when it eventually comes. Or is it whether I am simply drawn to the meeting of opposites, I don't know. It is likely a little of each.

Botswana is a country defined by both its lack and abundance of water. Much of the country is sandy and dry, it once having been the bottom of an ancient and massive lake. It sees annual evaporation exceeding annual rainfall in much of the country and the dry season is for much of the year. In the center of this otherwise deeply dry place lies the Okovango delta - a place of lush green growth and abundance of water that fills annually when the river that feeds it floods. We are here right ahead of the rainy season, so it has been dry for a long time and cows are thin and the land is parched as everyone waits for rain and green grass to return. The delta however still has cool deep channels and rivulets running out in to the earth, with thick papyrus and palm forests lining the waterways. 

Flying over the delta yesterday, we looked down over a minaturised world of elephant and hippo seen from above and gathering around rivulets and pools that are the end point of a river's journey. This is the place where the river pools and drains in to the earth, bringing life and abundance, months after the last rains fall. It is an emerald in a yellow-grey landscape, with snaking lines and forms utterly organic yet at the same time abstracted and graphic. It's beauty like a cool glass of water to a partched throat.