Missing Darling Street and my lovely Auntie M

As you might have gathered it is raining in Port Elizabeth. Lovely icy Cape Town weather - making me miss the spice shops of Darling Street. Yes, before you all tell me you can find all the secret curry spices in PE, but buying spices at the supermarket and buying at the spice shop is not the same thing.

In Darling Street you first had to introduce yourself, explain your cooking, ask nicely and perhaps bring a sample of your bobotie to make sure that you are a worthy buyer.

If you walked into the dark little shop with an umbrella and a big handbag there were space for nobody else. Auntie M behind the counter would first ask about the news of the day, demand a detailed explanation of the state of my love life, look for any signs of a ring or possible pregnancy, wanted to see if the shoes were suitably fabulous and then and only then would you be allowed to request spices for a dish. She taught me to make boeber - lovely rose-water flavoured melkkos, that made you cry if you were sad, bobotie, the best possible chicken and lamb curry and along with it came advice, little bits of Bo-Kaap skinder and mostly warnings about men. If you started the conversation with " I am in a hurry" you were summarily dismissed as "decent people never buy spices in a hurry."

To get her to give you chicken curry spices you first had declare that you are quite sure that the chicken would be on standard and that you have enough of the right sort of vegetables, promise to several multi-cultural gods that you will use brown sugar and agree to never ever ever serve your curry on anything but basmati rice and agree to several threats that you were likely to drop dead if you ever brought a metal spook near your pot of curry. I often feared that she will arrive unannounced at my house for curry inspection. And of course you had to come back and sometimes when we were trying something new bring leftovers. However she was always delighted when there were none.

The last time I was there her shop was closed up and Auntie M had died. I realised that I never once saw her feet and that if anything I hope that when I am older my eyes will have the same laugh lines, my kitchen will be filled with the same beautiful fragrances and more than ever I will have enough people to threaten, interrogate and advise on their cooking.