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Vetkoek met Marmite

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Pa Frans op die swart stoel.
Pa kuier vir die naweek. Hy was lanklaas hier en is nou veel beter as ‘n klompie maande gelede. Hy klim viets uit die kar en loop met ‘n vinnige stappie die huis binne na die stamperige rit van Wakkerstroom af. Hy val met ‘n sug in die swart stoel, vou sy benerige vingers oor mekaar, kyk om hom rond en sê: “Ek kan nie glo ek is hier nie.”

Hy sit stil en kyk na ‘n “skop, skiet en doodslaan” fliek saam met George. So nou en dan staan hy op, loop kombuis toe en kom dan weer terug  en gaan sit. Die hoender staan en ontdooi op die kombuistafel. “Waar’s die aartappels wat ons moet skil vir die hoender?” vra hy. Of, “die vetkoek brand al.” Dit staan in 'n lou oond om te rys, maar sy lus hang al lankal uit daarvoor.

Hy is permanent honger. Dalk maar as gevolg van die medikasie maar die onderliggende obsessiwiteit met kos bly maar huiwer en ‘n mens sien dit wanneer hy byna koorsagtig eet. Ek probeer al sy gunstelinge ingepas kry in so ‘n naweek. Gisteraand was dit pannekoek, vanoggend “oats pap met heuning”, vanmiddag het ons wors gebraai en met mieliepap en ‘n tamatie-en- sampioensous geëet. Hy eet te heerlik met die bygeluide wat dit beaam. Nou en dan sal hy vir my kyk en sê: “Lekker.” Of “Kan ek nog kry?”

Vanaand eet ons vetkoek. Terwyl ek die deeg afknie en in ‘n oondpan deel om uit te rys, dink ek aan hoe hy al hierdie dinge gedoen het. Kosmaak was vir hom baie lekker. Sy suurlemoenhoender legendaries en die brode, met fyn kruiesprietjies gerangskik in die bo-kors, klein kunswerke. Hy is steeds ‘n fynproewer wat geure en kombinasies betref. Ek kan my voorstel hoe bleek die vaste spyskaart by die aftree-oord vir hom moet wees. Soms sê hy hy eet lekker daar, ander kere trek hy ‘n gesig.

Ek wou vandag krummelpap maak. Omdat hy so lief daarvoor is, maar dit is nie iets wat ek leer doen het nie. Ek vra hom om my te vertel hoe. Hy probeer. Hy sê dis mos maklik. Ek begin volgens instruksie maar as ek hom roep om my te sê of ek al kan begin roer, is hy onseker en benader die pot asof dit vir hom heeltemal vreemd is. Hy sê dis jare laas wat hy dit gemaak het.

Ons eet stywepap op die ou end. En hy “hmmm” soos wat hy sou vir krummelpap, ek is seker. Waar is die dae toe ek gevoel het ek doen niks goed genoeg in sy oë nie? Al wat ek nou daar lees is liefde en dankbaarheid. Liefde vir my, sy “oudste”. Dankbaarheid vir iets so eenvoudig soos vetkoek met botter en Marmite op ‘n kuiernaweek. En ek voel weer klein. Maar op ‘n ander manier.

Matilda



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