Cradock - When The Heat Is On, thoughts turn not to the song Glenn Frey wrote for Beverly Hills Cop, the now classic Eddie Murphy buddy comedy, but to everything cool and soothing.
To cucumber, to watermelon, and to the chilled thrill of a sorbet or an iced melon soup.
After the blindsiding death of David Bowie at the age of 69 only days into the new year – and for us Bowie fans this was the Elvis Presley moment, because some people just should not have to die – we soon learnt of the death of the Eagles co-frontman, Glenn Frey.
In the stultifying heat of an endless drought there was some relief in being diverted by memories of the heyday of the man many called a chameleon, an sobriquet that really did not fit, as a chameleon adopts colours to disguise itself, whereas the booty-strutting Ziggy Stardust, the lightning-splashed Aladdin Sane and the gauntly sartorial Thin White Duke coloured themselves to draw attention, not avoid it.
For days on end I pored through old Bowie albumswhile also listening to my copy of The Next Day (2013) and Blackstar, issued as he faced a grey, colourless end. For days, images of his alter egos floated by. The Duke crooning Golden Years, me in my first year in newspapers. Ziggy in lurid bellbottoms leaping about on stage and with cracked voice singing, “Ziggy really sang, screwed-up eyes and screwed-down hairdo/ Like some cat from Japan/ He could lick ’em by smiling/ He could leave them to hang/ Came on so loaded, man/ Well hung and snow-white tan”, and me at 17 listening in my bedroom, Aladdin singing, “Who’ll love Aladdin Sane/ millions weep a fountain/ just in case of sunrise...”
Now, under a callous Karoo sky, promise of rain unfulfilled, a Sixties kid’s mind solicits understanding of vivid creatures, faded ends.
The clouds gather ominously in this part of the Karoo, and play evil games with the human ants scurrying far below, willing them to release their collected waters. The heat sears your mind and dries your skin. Soon the clouds pass and you’re left staring after them, waiting for a sunrise that brings a new day of gathered clouds, no rain.
Before you’re able to assimilate the death of Bowie, news arrives of the passing, even younger, of a key member of another part of your formative growing, Glenn Frey of the Eagles. It was Hotel California that suddenly leapt out from the pack of cards, bringing with it images of arid land leading you to an evil inn where you could check in any time you liked, but you could never leave.
Yet the song that could have been their making became, with the album, success that slowly destroyed the band, as happened at Ziggy Stardust’s zenith: “Making love with his ego/ Ziggy sucked up into his mind/ Like a leper messiah/ When the kids had killed the man I had to break up the band.”
And bands dissipate like clouds ungathering in a Karoo sky, and heroes leave us, and you’re left below. The heat is still on, ever on. You console yourself with life’s mundanities and normalities. A country walk, gazing into skies beseechingly. A braai with friends with lots of wine and rich stories of remember that, remember when. Kitchen sessions playing with ideas, any ideas, that involve the cool, the chilled, the iced, any way to fend off the heat.
I made a consoling supper full of cool things. A watermelon salad. It was good, but yearning for rain still lingers, and sadness for souls lost still hangs in the sultry air. And an evening passes, and bed calls. And millions weep a fountain, but there’s no rain at sunrise. And Bowie and his entourage are still gone.
Watermelon Summer Salad
For each serving:
5 or 6 triangles of watermelon, about 1cm thick
4 or 5 triangular wedges of firm feta cheese
10 very thin slices of cucumber
6 to 8 pitted green olives
10 white grapes
2 Tbs blue cheese, crumbled
8 to 10 mint leaves
Dressing:
3 Tbs watermelon juice
1 Tbs aged balsamic vinegar
Cracked black pepper
Salt
Assemble each portion on individual plates, to look as attractive as possible.
Divide the watermelon into quarters lengthwise, which will give you long triangular sections. Cut off the rind, neatly. Carefully cut the remaining large triangle into smaller triangles by cutting through the whole thing lengthwise again. Now slice each long section into pieces roughly 1cm thick. Arrange these on the plates.
Use clean fingers to squeeze the juice from the cut-off parts, by which I mean the red flesh near the rinds you’re about to discard. Squeeze into a bowl and add balsamic vinegar and a good grinding of black pepper. Keep aside.
Having chosen a good, hard feta (as you want whole slices of it), slice it into triangular shapes and slot between the watermelon triangles on the plate.
Slice cucumber very thinly, rind on, and arrange along each side of the row of watermelon and feta trianges.
Scatter green olives and white grapes (preferably seedless ones) here and there. Crumble a little blue cheese over. Drizzle with the dressing.