I remember once stopping by to see my godmother, Gretle. The weekend was drawing to a close and when she led me into the kitchen the table was set for two: Cutlery on paper serviettes folded into precise triangles and two bright placemats placed opposite each other with a bottle of Maggi between them.

Gretle was just going about her evening duties but the scene has stayed with me. I thought it sweet that after 50 years of marriage there was still a sense of ceremony to Gretle and Walter’s dinner ritual, even for something as humble as Bratkartoffeln mit Spinat und Spiegelei.

This is real Sunday supper material, fried potatoes and creamed spinach brought together by a fried egg. Spiegelei – the German for fried egg – translates as ‘mirror egg’, which I love for its implication that you might catch your reflection in the soft, shimmering yolk.

A rich, perfectly-runny yolk coats the slices of potato, sauteed in butter until crisp and golden, and contrasts the earthy flavour of the chard. And the yolk is only complete with a few drops of Maggi, a mysterious brown liquid that, according to my cousins ‘just makes everything taste delicious’. It looks like Worcestershire sauce and has the effect of MSG, Germany’s answer to South Africa’s Aromat perhaps?

A few other notes on the recipe: I’m not denying this will leave your dishwasher full of pots with a pan or two in the sink. It also requires the expert timing of a short-order cook (turning it into a two-person operation makes it easier). And my advice in the eating is to stop as soon as you’ve had an elegant sufficiency – it is tremendouly rich. Otherwise, Guten Appetit!

Bratkartoffeln mit Spinat und Spiegelei

There’s an art to making Bratkartofffeln. The potatoes should be parboiled (if possible the day before) but not completely cooked through, the pan must be hot and the butter foaming. Lay down each slice of potato, one by one, with enough space between them – don’t overcrowd the pan. You want each slice to have enough bubbling fat around it so it gets deliciously crisp, browned edges. This means you may have to fry them in batches but have patience, it’s worth it. Turn each slice individually and what ever you do, don’t try a stir-fry approach or you will end up with potato hash. On the onions, they should still have a sweet crunch to them as well as being glossy and cooked enough to take away any sharpness without being browned and completely soft. And finally, serve the fried potatoes fresh from the pan as they go limp on standing. Wheew, that’s enough bossing for now, I’ll let you get on and make it!

For the fried potatoes:

700g Mediterranean Nicola potatoes

1 tbsp butter

1 tbsp grapeseed oil

1 large onion, finely chopped

sea salt flakes and freshly ground pepper

For the creamed spinach:

1 cup full cream milk

1 bay leaf

1 onion peeled and halved

25g butter

25g flour

400g chard leaves only, removed from stalks, washed in salted water.

sea salt flakes and freshly ground black pepper

freshly grated nutmeg

1-2 tbs fresh cream (optional)

For the egg:

4 eggs

To serve:

Maggi

1. Add the potatoes to a large pot of cold water and bring to the boil. Once it’s come to a boil, reduce the heat slightly and simmer for 10 minutes. Drain, allow to cool, peel and cut into 5mm thick slices (if possible do this the day before).
2. Add the milk to a small saucepan over a medium-high heat and add the onion and bay. Heat until it’s steaming but not yet boiling. Then turn off the heat and leave for 30 minutes.
3. Melt the butter in a medium-sized pot over a medium until foaming. Add the flour and cook for a minute or so, stirring, until it smells like baking biscuits.
4. Gradually whisk in the milk, while still over a medium heat, until it forms bechamel sauce. Boil briefly and season with salt, pepper and nutmeg.
5. Add the spinach (with the water still clinging to the leaves) to a large pot over a medium-high heat. Cook, tossing with a pair of tongs, until bright green, wilted and cooked through.
6. Drain the spinach in a colander and then use a bowl to press down on it to squeeze out the excess liquid or put on a pair of washing up gloves (so you don’t burn your hands) and squeeze it dry.
7. Place the spinach on a board and chop finely – you could do this in a food processor but I prefer the texture of chopping. Fold the chopped spinach through the bechamel sauce and heat through, stirring. Add the cream (if using) and remove from the heat.
8. To fry the potatoes, heat the butter and oil in a large pan over medium high heat until foaming. Lay the potatoes in the pan, one by one, season and fry for a minute or two or until golden. Turn each slice, again one by one, and fry for another minute or two. Remove to a plate lined with paper towel and repeat until all the potatoes are fried. (I did this in three batches, adding anotehr nut of butter and a drop of oil before cooking the last batch.) When cooking the final batch of potatoes, add the onion just after turning each slice. Once the potatoes are cooked, toss gently to allow the onion to finish cooking. Add the other batches of potatoes to heat through.
9. In another pan, add a teaspoon of butter and heat over medium heat until foaming. Add four eggs and cook until the white is set but the yolk is soft.
10. Working quickly, heat the spinach and dish onto plates with the potatoes. Add an egg to each plate and serve immediately!

One of my defining Berlin moments was eating a currywurst at Konnopke’s while elbow-to-elbow with a pack of tattooed Berliners who were debating the merits of using Bratwurst. So it was with great anticipation that I entered Berlina’s, a shop at the bottom of Loop Street where an ex-Berliner called Leni is selling currywurst to Capetonians.

The spray-painted stencils of Trabants and Ampelpmännchen did a good job of fueling my Berlin nostalgia (as did the lone jar of Spreewald pickles) and Leni opts for a thick, sweet-hot curry sauce instead of merely draping the sausage in ketchup and sprinkling with curry powder. And it must be speared with a miniature plastic fork – you’ll find these on the counter.

Berlina’s, 7 Loop Street, Cape Town. (When driving down Loop Street it’s on the right-hand side next to the nightclub Ragazzi.)

It’s not very German but this is a lemon meringue worth knowing.

It comes from the suburbs, from a neighbour in my parent’s street who is ‘Bev’ to everyone else but ‘Auntie Bezzie’ to my brother and I.

Her pie is capped with meringue that sounds hollow when tapped and crushes like snow under ski boots when cut with a cake knife - Aunty Bezzie’s meringue never weeps.

It’s undemanding in method and a trip to the corner cafe will arm you with the necessaries: One big lemon, a large tin of condensed milk and a packet of tennis biscuits.

My Bond loves his lemon meringue, even more than chocolate cake, so lemon meringue it was for his family birthday tea.

Bev’s Lemon Meringue Pie

For the biscuit base:

1pkt Tennis biscuits, crushed

100g butter, melted

For the meringue topping:

2 egg whites, beaten until stiff

112g castor sugar

For the lemon filling:

1 large tin (385g) condensed milk

½ cup (125ml) fresh lemon juice

2 egg yolks

1. Preheat the oven to 230˚C. Mix together the biscuit base ingredients and press into a 20cm cake tin or pie dish.
2. Beat the egg whites and slowly add the caster sugar, then set aside in the fridge.
3. Combine the filling ingredients and beat until smooth.
4. Fill the biscuit base with the lemon filling and spoon over the meringue topping.
5. Place the pie in the oven and immediately turn down the heat to 120˚C.
6. Bake for 30 minutes and then turn down the oven’s temperature again to 100˚C and bake for another hour.
7. If time permits, turn the oven off and leave the pie in there to cool.

When ravenous on a hot afternoon, meatballs in the fridge is like money in the bank. I eat them with Bohnensalat (green bean salad) for a Sunday supper and then cold from the fridge with a dab of German mustard the following day.

Bohnensalat was Opa’s favourite and he made it with Blue Peter runner beans from his garden that started out purple and magically turn dark green in the cooking.

The dressing was always equal parts water, spirit vinegar and vegetable oil seasoned with white pepper but since we live in the age of extra-virgin olive oil and freshly ground pepper, I use those.

Fleischküchle

A great big bunch of finely chopped flatleaf parsley wouldn’t go amiss but I like a dainty walnut size over larger, patty-sized Frikadellen. 

500g beef mince

500g pork mince

1 Brötchen roll

about 1 cup full-cream milk

1 onion, very finely chopped

1 egg

Plenty of freshly ground nutmeg

1 tsp white pepper

2 tsp sea salt flakes

Butter and vegetable oil for frying

1)     Break up the roll in a shallow bowl, cover with milk and soak until softened. Squeeze out the milk and add the soft roll to a larger bowl.

2)     Add the mince, onion, egg and seasoning and mix until well combined. Roll into balls.

3)     Heat butter and vegetable oil in a pan over medium to medium-high heat and fry the meatballs until browned and cooked through.

Bohnensalat

1 large packet green beans

Small onion, finely chopped

3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

3 tbsp white wine vinegar

Sea flakes, freshly ground pepper and white granulated sugar, to taste

1)     Plunge the green beans into rapidly boiling water and cook until bright green but tender. Drain and refresh with cold water.

2)     Take hold of the stalk one bean and tear it into two lengths. Repeat with the rest of the beans, then cut them into 2cm sections.

3)     Add the oil and vinegar to a salad bowl, add the beans and season generously with salt and pepper and a scant teaspoon of sugar.

4)     Toss well and leave to stand for at least 15 minutes before serving.

Yesterday Gretle celebrated her birthday back in the Heimat and we ate Zwiebelkuchen in her honour. Gretle, my beloved German godmother, is the queen of Zwiebelkuchen and I know she would have been pleased – peeling and slicing one kilogram of white onions to make this onion ‘cake’ is a true labour of love.

Our family history is deeply entwined; when Gretle first arrived in South Africa she stayed with my grandparents, in the house where I now live. We’ve since gone on to share a love of baking and Birkenstocks and happy times playing German folk records in her lounge.

It was Gretle who taught me to salt the onions, vital for drawing out water before cooking, and that Zwiebelkuchen is enjoyed around the time of the wine harvest with a glass of the first-press juice.

Happy Birthday Gretle! Alles Gute Zum Geburtztag!

Gretle’s Zwiebelkuchen

300g cake flour, sifted

1 packet instant dried yeast

125ml milk, luke warm

80g butter, cubed

1 tsp salt

For the filling:

1kg onions, peeled and finely sliced

salt

1 tbsp butter

1 tbsp vegetable oil

70g streaky bacon, chopped and fried until crisp

2 tsp caraway seeds

2 eggs

80ml cream

1)    Place the onions in a colander suspended over a bowl, sprinkled with salt, toss well and set aside for 20-30 minutes.

2)    Sift the flour into a bowl and make a well in the centre. Stir the yeast into the milk and pour into the well. Leave for 5-10 minutes.

3)    Mix into the flour, add butter and salt and bring together and knead until the dough is smooth. Cover with a clean tea towel and leave in a warm spot until doubled in size.

4)    Heat the butter and oil in a large pot over medium heat. Squeeze out the liquid from the onions and add to the pot. Cook, stirring, occasionally until slightly softened (no colour). Leave to cool.

5)    Whisk the eggs, cream and caraway and stir through the onions and bacon.

6)    Butter a 25cm pie dish. Roll out the dough and line the dish. Spoon in the filling and bake at 180C for 1 hour or until cooked through and golden on top.

So tomorrow marks one month since Christmas. The baking production line of Heimatgefühl Halfway Haus kits seems far away now but over the past few weeks some of the lovely people who purchased the Halfway Haus 2012 have been sending in their pictures.

My heart was filled with joy when I saw their creations and I always love seeing the personal flair that comes through in the decorating, say a charming roof-tile design or innovative use of Liquorice Allsorts or styling that would put Martha Stewart to shame!

Take a look below…

THE VAN DER WALT FAMILY HAUS

THE MESHAM FAMILY HAUS

THE MORRIS FAMILY HAUS

THE CRANE FAMILY HAUS

THE DALE-ROBERTS FAMILY HAUS

THE MATHEWS FAMILY HAUS

Presenting the Heimatgefühl DIY Halfway Haus 2012!

After some tinkering in the kitchen, this year’s house has been resized so it’s easier to assemble, requires little adult supervision and less of a wait for the icing to dry.

Heimatgefühl DIY Halfway Haus 2012

The Knusperhäuschen or Hansel-and-Gretle Lebkuchen house is a German Christmas tradition. With this flat-pack kit of home-baked gingerbread panels you get straight to the fun bit: building and decorating. Think of it as Ikea meets the Brothers Grimm.

I personally mix, roll, cut and bake every house and pack each kit. These little boxes of love include: 1 x base, 1 x front panel, 1 x back panel, 2 x side panels, 2 x roof panels, 1 x heart, 3 x Christmas trees, 1 x Heinzelmännchen / gnome.

The constructed and completed house (pictured above) is on display at Café Frank, 160 Bree Street, Cape Town. This is simply how I chose to ice it but by all means, go wild! Slice marshmallows for overlapping roof tiles, use pretzels to build perimeter fences and candy canes for door frames and windowsills – after all Hansel and Gretle plucked sweets and cookies from the walls of the witch’s house!

Dimensions: The Halfway Haus is 25cm high and 15cm to 16cm wide at the base of the roof and sits on a base that is about 15cm x 19cm.

Price: R250

Collection point: Café Frank, 160 Bree Street, Cape Town

Ordering: Contact me (Nikki) on cooksister[at]iafrica[dot]com

‘I would love to try this in cake,’ said Deborah of Café Frank on tasting my lemon marmalade. So this weekend, with Deb in mind, I baked an Alice Waters sponge, adding lemon zest and juice, sandwiching the two halves with marmalade and plenty of whipped fresh cream, and dusting the whole cake with icing sugar. The sweet-tart intensity of the marmalade was exactly right for bringing together the two more subtle layers.

The cake was a thank you gesture for a family friend who helped out with some German translation and turned into a reason for Kaffee und Kuchen in their home. Standing on the threshold with cake-stand, lemon cake and glass cloche in hand I was amazed to see the interiors had remained unchanged since the house was built in 1962. In an instant my ongoing fascination with all things vintage pullled into focus.

For at least the first third of my life there were weekend afternoons spent in settings such as this one, accompanying parents and grandparents on visits to German friends and relatives. Funny how an aesthetic once associated with a sense of duty and mild boredom – relieved momentarily by a long-awaited slice of Kuchen - now brings on nothing other than fond feelings of nostalgia and associations of cake and conversation, family and community.

Lemon Layer Cake 

Although the original was made with two cakes, next time I would divide the same mixture into three for more marmalade surface area. The recipe is from The Art of Simple Food by Alice Waters.

200g unsalted butter, at room temperature

2 cups caster sugar

3 cups cake flour, sifted

4 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

4 eggs, separated

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 tbsp finely grated lemon zest

2 tsp lemon juice

1 cup milk

To assemble:

250ml cream

Lemon marmalade*

Icing sugar

1. Preheat the oven to 180C. Butter and flour three 18cm cake tins.
2. Sift the flour, baking powder and salt into a bowl.
3. Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy.
4. Add the egg yolks one at a time, beating well after each addition.
5. Add the vanilla, lemon zest and juice.
6. Add the flour and milk a third at a time, alternating between the two and beating after each addition.
7. Whisk the egg whites until soft peaks form. Add  a third to the cake mixture and mix in to loosen. Add the rest of the egg whites to the mixture and fold through until well combined.
8. Divide the mixture between the tins and bake for about 30 minutes.
9. Cool completely.
10. Whip the cream until soft peaks form. Spread two cake layers with a thin layer of marmalade. Top one with half the cream and place the next layer on top. Cover with the rest of the cream and another layer. Dust generously with icing sugar and serve.

My Godmother, Gretle, is visiting for Easter and brought with dye and stickers so we could colour boiled eggs; something she did at Easter time as a child, then for her sons when raising a family in South Africa and now as a reason for us to get together. She tells me how as children in Southern Germany they would roll their boiled eggs in the meadows – the person whose egg made it the furthest distance before the shell cracked won.

When I arrive Gretle has already lined the counter with newspaper and set out jars and spoons. The eggs simmer and she cuts one in half to check it’s just right, hard boiled but without a grey ring, it’s perfect. Gretle sprinkles the hot egg with salt and offers me half. We dissolve tablets of colour in glass jars and leave the eggs to steep and take on the primary colours as we discuss what to cook for Good Friday supper: Bratkartoffeln mit Spinat und Spiegelei or pancakes with cooked quinces.

Once we’ve decorated the eggs with transfers and rubbed them with butter for shine, we return them to the cardboard egg cartons. These boiled eggs were always part of my childhood Easter basket, the sensible German eggs (that would later become a string of egg-mayonnaise sandwiches) sat in a nest of shredded green crêpe paper alongside the foil-covered chocolate bunnies. The ritual of making them is filled with nostalgia but now, more than anything, is an opportunity to spend time with some one I love.