By Dianne Tipping-Woods

Pretoria has good weather. It’s the middle of winter and I can count on one hand the number of cold grey days that we’ve had so far. “The city is arguably the sunniest Capital in the world, receiving over 3300 hours of sunshine a year (over 9 hours per day on average)” – at least according to wikipedia.com

And since I am by nature a creature of the sun, the good weather warms my heart and lifts my spirits.  I am happy when the sun shines.

On the other hand, when Pretoria gets a little bout of icy weather, I am woefully ill-prepared. Like a week or two ago when the temperature plunged to a wet six degrees celcius. Feeling chilled to the bone and wanting nothing more than to curl up with my green blanket, hot chocolate and my latest book (Exclusive Books is having their winter sale – one good thing about the season), I was told (as one is) to expect guests for supper. Right.

Graciously conceding that it was my duty to warmly welcome into my home those unfortunate enough to be on the road in such inclement weather, I rose above the petty resentment of having to re-plan my evening. I steeled my shivering self with visions of my guests arriving cold and wet to welcoming lights, toasty rooms, a hot shower and comforting food. I rummaged through the draughty attic to bring out the big blow heater as well as the little one, warm rugs, winter bed linen (unused since leaving Grahamstown) and found candles for atmosphere…

Just as I was beginning to imagine the winter stew I would make, resplendent with rich mutton and full of root vegetables that I otherwise never get to cook, and the buttery malva pudding that I would serve with double cream, the lights went out.

I groped for some matches and found my way to the switchboard. Nothing had tripped. I found a torch, checked outside. The other houses were all ablaze with light. I fumed, prodded, poked. By the time Joel arrived I had given up and opened a bottle of wine. “This is all your fault” I yelled, rational as always. Joel made manly strides, prodded, poked and commiserated. The lights stayed off.  The house was freezing. The electricians blamed the municipality. The municipality didn’t answer the phone.

While Joel was out checking for some box or another, I, draped in my blanket, looking like an algae covered moonwalker (on account of my layers), greeted my guests who, as anticipated, were cold and miserable on account of a grey, wet drive from Phalaborwa. Their faces fell when they realised our predicament. “No nnn-no, its fine, no-no-not t t t a problem” said a dripping Charlotte and a shuddering Ian. What to do…

And then some inspiration. This is Pretoria - home to the Voortrekker Monument, the Blou Bulle – and BOERgeoisie, that bastion of boerekos. The restaurant is famous for comforting, hearty meals, seasoned with nostalgia and served up with mash, pap, samp, rice, and sweet pumpkin…comfort food.

Not even bothering to change, we piled into the car and made our way to the restaurant. On arrival, steaming slightly, I thought– this is how it used to be – coming home after a long day out in the veld or the mines, bones cold and aching, to warmth and sympathy – served in a sherry glass for me, one on the rocks for Joel and Ian and in a steaming mug for Charlotte. And then the food: mouth-melting magic served in cast iron pots that generally hold enough for five. Poitjiekos, Waterblommetjoe stew, Venision pie…

So on the verge of chilly disaster, we were saved, and by the time we left the restuarnt we didn’t even feel the cold. The lights were still off when we got home, but we didn’t mind. The cold sheets soon turned warm enough and, belly full, and friends well fed, I went to sleep thinking that perhaps after all, the cold weather’s tolerable – at least once in a while.

Note: BOERgeoisie is best visited in circumstances (such as extreme cold) where your very survival depends on there being rich and abundant food on hand. You need to come hungry and you need to like meat. And with an icey weekend expected - I would book now!