If you like duck I’m about to share one of the best ways to cook it. How do I know it’s good? Well, I have this on good authority from my family. Why should you trust them? Well, there are several PhDs among them so you can trust them as experts. And they’re experts, not because they are smart (which they are), but mostly because academic culture is a culture of food vultures who only go to conferences and meetings for the free scoff.

But before we get to the recipe I’d like to throw some irony into the ring.

You know those sanctimonious laborious preambles just before recipes about how joyous the author’s life is, and how she discovered this amazing recipe…?

Por exemplo…

I was on holiday in Sardinia the first time my fiancé Clayton and I tried North Peruvian pate de fois gras and Venezuelan Beaver Cheese. It was a sultry day and the crisp Sauvignon Blanc was the perfect foil to cut through the richness of our lunch platter. Clayton and I met at the Royal Society for the Association of Cheese Knaves in 2016 and our love for traditional methods of cheese making led us to completing not one, not two, not three, but four cheese pilgrimages. I made Venezuelan Beaver Cheese after our experience in Sardinia and I tried many recipes before I found the perfect one. [Insert pop up ad.] [Insert another pop up ad.] After months of trial and error here are the recipes that I tried that didn’t work. Scroll through them they’re pointless. Now enjoy the photos of Clayton and I in Sardinia with captions such as “say cheeeese” and “meant to brie”….

Recipe Blogs Can Fuck Off.

Don’t you just want to punch recipe bloggers in the choux buns for this kak? And the problem is that these preambles are part and parcel of the recipes that have 4.8 star ratings. So you have no choice but to engage with “Candy Floss” and her utterly naff parochial writing if you want a decent recipe. People like Candy Floss need to be told that no one cares about anything other than the ingredients and basic directions. Seriously how do you think Betty Crocker made her fortune? Not by inserting a copy of her memoirs into every blueberry muffin box. So apologies “Candy Floss” but just give us the recipe and go back to watching Cupcake Wars and creating an aura of “happiness lives here”… You really deserve it.

I’m all for recipe sharing… this is one of the main reasons why I collect cookbooks that I never cook out of. I just like to have unfettered access to recipes. I’ve yet to use Manifold Destiny and roast a chicken under my car bonnet. However, I really like that I have that option available to me if I ever feel like making something enticing out of the roadkill I find on the Heidelberg stretch of the N3 towards Joburg. Imagine the sheer delight of presenting a welcoming hostess with the gift of manifold genet just as loadshedding kicks in. I’ve also never trussed a chicken even though Thomas Keller tells me that only assholes neglect this absolutely vital process. Who even knows where their household string is? Seriously Thomas, get a life. Also what’s with calling it the French Laundry… do you even know how to use your washing machine?

This is why I don’t understand “Secret family recipes”. As far as I’m concerned they can piss off. Here’s the thing… I’ve shared loads of recipes and then had them served up as “Jaqui’s apple pie” or “Jaqui’s Yorkshire puddings”… And trust me when I say I wasn’t exactly jazzed that the shit being served up had my name attached to it. Anyone who watches cooking shows or cooks, knows that recipes don’t guarantee shit. So all I ask is that if you make this banger of a duck pie and fuck it up, please attach your name to the recipe and leave me out of it. Obviously if it’s a roaring success then I’m happy for you to take all the credit. I would.

So annoying “called it ironic to try get away with it” preamble over… let’s get you to where you belong… in the kitchen.

OK so the deal is I don’t use recipes but for the benefit of helping you create the best bloody duck you’ll ever eat… I tried really bloody hard to be accurate.

• 2 ducks (I get mine from my mother-out-law Her ducks are the best)
• 250ml-300ml decent/drinkable dry red wine
• 1.5 tbl spoons sugar (no one cares what kind you use or if it has a few coffee granules left behind by that heathen in your household)
• 2 tbl spoons of my secret ingredient for everything… Chinkiang Vinegar (photo below)
• 1 tbl spoon (make it generous) soy sauce
• 1/2 cup gravy powder (only Woolworths or Ina Paarman will do)
• 4-5 ClemenGold yuppiefruits from Woolworths (If you can afford tinned mandarins congratulations on your success in life and in that case you’ll need a tin) Okes, you can also use cherries if you aren’t paying off a bond or have school fees to think about
• 1 roll of puff pastry (if you’re the type who makes their own then you’ll have lost interest in this recipe after reading gravy powder)
• 1 egg for egg wash
• Water. It’s free

So you may think that this must be lank fancy because there’s some boujie shit on the list. Well try order duck pie at a restaurant and see how your overdraft facility looks. The other thing is please don’t try to use naartjies or oranges. You want fancy sweet fruit for this… and hard pith is the actual devil. Have some self respect and put that naartjie you’re holding into your child’s lunchbox, not in this epic pie.

So here’s what you do.

1. Roast the two ducks side by side on a wire rack placed in a big ass roasting tray. Pat the ducks dry. I often give them a good go over with a hairdryer (if it’s not loadshedding). Season the ducks with salt. Pour water in the roasting tray. The idea is to slow roast and steam. It’s a low slow cook so start with a hot preheated oven and then reduce the temperature to about 170ish. It takes about 3-4 hours.
2. While the ducks are roasting you make the luscious sauce. You need a big pot.
3. Reduce the red wine with the sugar. About half way through reducing the wine you add the vinegar and the soy sauce. Then you reduce some more. You’re looking at reducing by about half. Don’t make a sticky syrup or burn it. I can’t help you if you do that.
4. So a note on the vinegar. It’s the one vinegar I cannot live without and you can buy it from Asian supermarkets and online. You could probably use red wine or sherry vinegar if you can’t find it but honestly love yourself more and hunt it down because it makes EVERYTHING taste better.
5. OK now you make a gravy paste with the gravy powder and about 1/4 cup water. Then add the paste to the red wine story. Whisk so there aren’t lumps and add about a litre of water. This is the part I didn’t measure out. You want a nice sauce the texture of blood or whipping cream if you’re squeamish. You’ll need to whisk the gravy and adjust the thickness with more water or more reduction. Make sure you can’t taste raw gravy powder.
6. You’re going to need to taste it and adjust the seasoning.
7. OK so now for the mandarins. Peel them and de-pith. You want minimal pith. I cut some of the mandarin segments in half and left some whole.
8. I then squeezed in the juice of one mandarin.
9. When the duck is done this is the annoying but necessary part (and it’s so worth it). You need to strip the duck. Flake and peel off as much duck as you can and add in some of the crispier skin. I don’t like too much fat so I go easy on the skin.
10. Taste the magic you deserve it. Does it need more soy? Does it need more vinegar, more sugar, more citrus? This is your pie it has your name on it.
11. Right pie filling done. Stick the filling into whatever pie receptacle you fancy. I use Mauviel because have you seen it? Now you roll out the puff pastry so it’s a bit thinner. Then you chuck it on your pie filling as a lid.
12. You might be thinking I’m a heathen for not having a pie bottom… and usually I’d be right alongside you nodding my head and detaching a retina, but this pie is so rich and saucy that you won’t miss its panties/underpants. Trust me. Or don’t.
13. Egg wash next. If you don’t know about egg wash then I’m not sure I trust you roasting anything other than a Woolworths Chicken Schnitzel.
14. Bake at about 200 until it’s done. You’ll know it’s done because the pastry won’t be raw and it won’t look like Boo Radley.
15. I serve it with a smug face and whatever potatoes my ass fancies.

This may be controversial but this is better than a garage pie after a night at Crowded House.

I think Woolies must have had a pre-lockdown special on stones, and my hunch is that there was some serious white level hoarding going on. I’m just sad that I missed that particular SMS informing me of this breathtaking special…

“WRewards: Don’t let imminent lockdown prevent you from exercising your right to self-righteous indignation. We have perfect deals for great deep level finger pointing. 40% OFF offer on ALL stones, along with the regulation 30% OFF Country Road. Valid until 28 March 2020. Shop safely in store”

Because the thing is, when I throw stones, I like my neighbours in their glass houses to see just how fucking suburban chic I look in my linen slacks. Jeff in marketing really nailed this “Country Roading Stones” campaign; he may just get his job back after the apocalypse. And elsewhere, I know Yuppiechef sold out of Le Creuset kettles (in black) well before the lockdown began.

I’ve lost count of the number of Tone Deaf Rangers I’ve seen galloping around. Someone actually told me “Lockdown isn’t a thing in KZN, the taxis are still running”. I know KZN can sometimes seem like the Wild Wild West, but I promise it is still part of South Africa, and Cyril is still your president. I promise guys, I know I live in Cape Town and I’ve changed (must be the wind). Then there have been the people cruising around their neighborhoods as vigilante pitch-fork operators, “Boet I’m just doing my bit to name and shame these okes who aren’t taking lockdown seriously”. Here’s the thing Charl… you’re under lockdown too… cruising the strip in your white Fortuner is not abiding by the rules. But sure, we get that you’re doing your civic duty to police “those people” who aren’t taking lockdown seriously.

And “those people” appear on WhatsApp family groups in videos and pictures… usually with comments like “We’re doomed”. And “They just don’t care”. And then in some of these places where “they” live, the army and police get sent in and people die. There’s a figure going around that 8 people have been killed at the hands of the police since lockdown… and fun fact they’re not white people in the suburbs. And let me tell you there are a lot of white people with very creative interpretations of what “stay the fuck at home” means.

When I look outside my window I’m not seeing an army presence… And you chaps and chapettes cruising the neighbourhood and doing your “social distancing” chats in the Spar and Woolies, and at your gated community recycling centres… the army aren’t watching you. The army aren’t watching the people who are sneaking across the lawns of their manicured estates to have a quick “social-distancing” beer or glass of wine. “It’ll be fine babe, we just won’t hug”. The virus arrived in the places that are getting policed and monitored the least… our kettles are boiling.

So perhaps we  should all adjust our attitudes and realise how fucking lucky we are to have unfettered access to Internet, running water, electricity (Inshallah), and comfort… while others can’t do social distancing that well because they have to queue for fucking outside toilets and money to stay alive. And let’s maybe think about all the medical workers, shelf packers, cashiers, and, and, and who wish thay they could fucking stay home in their jimjams and bake banana bread.

But my favourite Tone Deaf Ranger, who is up for “Best Minister in a Comedy Role” at the Rona2020 Awards, goes to Stella Ndabeni-Abrahams who needed no coaxing from Marlon Brando to come outside. In the most dazzling twist of irony “Stella!”, the fucking minister of communications, telecommunications, and postal services was caught attending a bloody lovely luncheon in a mate’s kiff house. But apparently she wasn’t there to enjoy the vibe, oh no she was picking up essentials… masks and other necessary accoutrements. The story went viral on socials… cos you know Minister of Communications…

What a fucking time to be alive guys.

This morning I had my “Truman Burbank moment” as I was brushing my teeth. I looked in the mirror and I realised that it’s just me… I am at the centre of my increasingly small universe. I am alone in my house and despite brief moments during the day where I connect with other people, it’s just me. This is my show. As I looked in the mirror I saw myself as the only physical company that I have. It’s just me in here. I quoted a line from the movie…

‘I hearby claim this place Jaqsmania… of the Hiltermann galaxy.’

In the moment where I acknowledged my shrinking world, I realised that as humans we all think that this is about us as individuals, not as us a collective. I think for people who live alone, this is even more so because there’s no one around us. And, aside from what we see on social media, television, and our limited shopping trips, we really have no fucking clue what’s going on outside our bubbles.

And, because conspiracy theories are trending, because I have an overactive imagination, and because I absolutely adore The Truman Show it got me thinking. What if this is an elaborate plot to trick me into staying at home? What if this is some crazy experiment that some social scientist cooked up? What if I’ve been specially selected as the guinea pig? What if this is a reality show? What if I am Truman Burbank?

And then I started thinking about all the ways that this could be true. Anyone who knows me will know that I only really shop at one specific Woolworths. I only ever go to the Checkers nearby if I need an emergency hangover coke (with my limited booze supply this isn’t fucking likely), cleaning supplies, or random items for a specific recipe. And sure I do grocery shopping elsewhere, but people who know me would know that in a lockdown situation there’s only one place I’d go- plus they’ve “coincidentally” introduced Free Parking as an added bonus. Hence, tracking my movements is pretty simple. On my weekly or bi-weekly shopping days it would be pretty easy to orchestrate a lockdown simulation… And the more I think about it the more I realise how many red traffic lights I sit through. They’re there to stall me. While I’m waiting at the red light, cashiers are putting on masks and the shops are temporarily closing. Hand sanitizer is being spritzed around for added authenticity. People are hiding. It’s the fucking Truman Show.

Social media is easy to infiltrate, as anyone with even the most basic understanding of Cambridge Analytica will tell you. And I’ve just been informed that the SA government is tracking our phones and our cars so basically I’ve been primed to accept that tracking and surveillance is the new normal. I’m not even questioning the ethics of it. I’m just like, “Sure, whatever, in for a penny in for a pound”. So I’m OK with being surveilled and I’m OK with the government snooping up on me… because I’ve been told it’s happening to everyone. “Well OK then, in that case…” Next thing I’ll be giving away my CVV code. It’s 142 by the way.

The bit that concerns me is how did they infiltrate my friends and family? Was this set up as an elaborate April Fools joke? Has any money changed hands? Is this being broadcast as a reality television show? Come to think of it some of my friends are suspiciously quiet… are they conscientious objectors to this charade? And then there are those friends who I haven’t heard from in bloody ages who are suddenly all over me like white on rice. Family members are also really crawling out the proverbial word work… my phone has never been hotter. This is unnerving. I’m beginning to have phone paranoia.

So in response I’m starting to change my behaviour. I am developing ways to be more entertaining and dazzling in case people are actually watching me. I don’t want people to think that I’m fucking boring and uninteresting. To make a start, I’ve upped my “compulsory dance parties” to four times a day and my “grapevine” to Rosemary is a fucking treat. I’m singing a lot. Ron Moss and I make quite the celebrity couple. A lot of my dialogue is now spoken out loud. We talk out loud a lot, and, now that I have an excuse I may abandon silent thoughts forever. I’m thinking of making pizza from scratch because no one has a YouTube video on “spreading almond butter on nice cakes”… Seriously no one wants to watch that shit. I might even start to take part in this fucking baking frenzy that all of you people doing “fake lockdown” are partaking in… You chaps are obviously doing all of these projects to inspire me. After all everyone knows that I’m fucking competitive so if I see a homemade ciabatta you just know I’m going to hop on board. And I won’t use a fucking bread maker either.

Just so you know, I see all of you dangling all of these challenges in my face just hoping I’ll jump on them and become lank interesting to watch… Fun Fact I am not doing the half marathon in my driveway challenge that can go fuck itself. But yes I will try the “Make your own Hunter’s Dry”.

And Cyril… if you’re listening, which you are, please lift the fucking booze ban. Everyone knows that in the Big Brother House shit escalates when you inject some booze. But just know that under no circumstances will I take a shit in the garden… I have my limits.

So I guess there is just one question… “How’s it going to end?”

For the first time in over two weeks I went out into the world to buy food. I’d been putting it off for a few days and living off rice cakes, which I’ve nicknamed “nice cakes” in order to Emperor’s New Clothes my taste buds. Fun Fact, they still taste crap but they’re a suitable vessel for almond butter and one step up from a teaspoon or finger. Actually screw that, give me the jar and my finger any day..

‘Introducing new Almond Butter licked off a Finger- it’s the Covid-19 version of Fugu… it’s the “near death experience” that makes it so tasty.’

Shopping during an apocalypse is a completely different experience to pre-apocalypse (PA) shopping, because there’s a general tendency to favour the canned food section. But you know me, I like to live dangerously so I went ape shit for the lettuce. I went fucking bananas because I feel like I’m getting scurvy and even though lettuce is basically crunchy water I just couldn’t help myself. Italian mix, Romaine, baby gem, you name it I bought it. And, this is Woolworths lettuce, so it’ll survive longer than most of the cans you’ve got stashed in your walk-in pantries. Grapes? 2 for R60 “Yes Please!” Broccoli? “Come at me!” Butternut, onions, potatoes? No chance, this is the apocalypse and the whole butternut is the new avocado.

So, I meandered from the bountiful Woolies salad bar, past the barren wastelands of hardy “cupboard” veg, and reached the aisle where the long-life milk used to be. Unfortunately, suburbanites seemed to have got my memo about “nice cakes” because there were only two really fucked up packs of those, which I reluctantly drop-kicked into my trolley because I felt sorry for them. Plenty bread though; as my dad would say, “Plentch!” People obviously aren’t aware that you can freeze bread, or that we haven’t actually gone back in time to the “old days” where you had two days to eat your weekly loaf. Maybe okes around here are still banting? Who knows?

Toilet paper for days. Literally days of toilet paper. I hate all of you bastards for making me spend the last two weeks with 1Ply. It was kak. I do not recommend. 0 Star Rating.

It’s absolutely no surprise that there had been a “clean up in aisle four” and the shelves were completely devoid of canned food. A lot of kids are going to be really chuffed with another night of “tuna surprise” I’ll tell you that for free. “What’s the surprise mum?” “The surprise is it’s crap!” No jokes though, “the great can shortage of 2020” did upset me because I really fancied making that Sweetcorn Bake I read about in the Your Family magazine of May 1994. Never mind, when the apocalypse is over canned foods will no longer be a luxury item and I’ll be able to treat all of my friends to a nice plate of hot slop.

Fresh milk- 2 litres, and again it’s Woolworths milk so it’s as long-life as it gets. I should be concerned about how long Woolies food lasts but I’m not. I survived the 80s as a Tartrazine kid I’m basically bullet-proof. And, as it turns out cheese is no longer a hot item in the suburbs either… Seriously what the fuck are you people eating? You do know that cheese is basically frot milk right? It doesn’t go off… you just scrape off the manky bits and you’re good to go for at least another week. People are giving up on cheeses… bunch of heathens and sinners. Repent! So, after twenty minutes of not very careful shopping I was ready to join the social distancing queue and avoid those horrible healthy snacks in the gauntlet of financial ruin. FYI on the Woolies Snack Pack of Mixed Nuts Index, the economy is thriving.    

There’s an unwritten rule at supermarkets where you’re allowed to check out other people’s baskets and trolleys and pass judgement. It’s kind of like Vampire Rules, but you have to be a little bit discreet, you can’t point or be too obvious about your snooping. Yesterday I got some serious judgement and I could tell that people thought that I’m definitely not taking lockdown seriously at all. Not only was I wearing my “Not Today Satan” t-shirt, not only did I have way too much fucking lettuce (I think I may have buyers remorse), not only did I have the makings of one helluva cheeseboard (“What the fuck is this asshole celebrating doesn’t she know we’re in the midst of a pandemic?”), not only did I have zero canned or frozen items (not my fault), but I also wasn’t wearing a face mask (make up doesn’t count).

It’s weird that even though the shops are still open for business, and we’re told not to stockpile, there’s this mentality that we need to embrace the “Apocalypse Menu”. It’s wartime, and we have to go back to austerity cooking in order to show that we’re doing our bit for the war effort. And while I was musing about apocalypse cookbooks, as luck would have it, my friend “Jeff Goldblum” sent me an absolute clanger of a message.

‘So for some strange reason my diet is reverting to the mid 90s. Is it OK to crave Ultramel custard? It’s like Mandela is about to be released and we’ll never eat again. Buy Ultramel and toilet paper.’

‘And let’s not mention brown onion soup in a sachet…’

And then it happened… He sent two photos of “that chicken dish” and the potato bake made with the help of our friend Royco.

And as I looked at Jeff’s throwback to the bad old days it reaffirmed my belief that food is political. The Apocalypse Pantry has become a window into how we feared hunger and rationing in the past. And all of those fears come with a wave of nostalgia for the foods that we associate with “national lockdown”. Our long-lost friends Knorr, Royco, and Maggie are invited back to our dinner tables, we slip back into familiar conversations with them, and it’s like we’ve never been apart.

“Can someone please pass the Aromat.”      

Woolies Dean Street really is the gift that keeps on giving. And, now that they’ve revamped they’re really killing it from the perspective of attracting a new class of wanky shoppers. I’m a wanky shopper. I love Woolworths and I have been known to buy quinoa and haloumi from there. Bullshit, I do all my shopping there. Literally all of it. I use Woolies toilet paper.

Anyway I was there a few weeks back because I was making dinner for my folks. It was a real Southern Suburbs shit festival from a weather perspective, so the onslaught of black puffer jackets was at fever pitch. Black Puffer Adders with their piercing eyes and Cath Kidson carrier bags were out with a real sense of damp and furious purpose. They wanted more than the regulation midweek chicken schnitzel. They were after the butternut soup. Luckily I didn’t have to break a nail fighting for the last pouches of bland soup (yes Woolies, your butternut soup sucks) because I was after fish.

Being midweek the fresh fish selection was thin on the ground. I guess it’s a metaphor for the state of our oceans, but I don’t want to linger on that clusterfuck because I’m on a helluva Game of Thrones come down as it is. Back to the fish. I procured frozen hake because “cheap”, a few tins of tuna because I’m really into mercury these days, and the last package of fresh smoked trout fillet that was on special, which is why I bought it. I felt guilty for being so miserly towards my mum and stepdad, so grudgingly went in search for some prawns. I gazed at the prawns. I weighed up my options. Maybe the smoked trout could go, and I could get away with just hake, tuna and prawns? Decisions.

Just as I was about to return the very last smoked salmon trout from whence it came, in marches, let’s call her Ruth, and her delightful three maybe four year old (I can’t tell I literally have no understanding of children), who, for the purposes of this narrative is Gwendolyn. Ruth does a precursory scan of the fresh fish and her nose wrinkles, she shifts from one Birkenstock to the next. ‘Where’s the salmon trout? WHERE IS the salmon trout!’ I wait to see how this plays out, reaffirming my newly emerged cavalier “fuck the budget” we’re having salmon trout AND prawns, in what is now a luxury midweek middle finger to Ruth fish pie.

Ruth is not convinced by the absence of product above the barcoded ‘salmon trout’ label. She is white, and therefore smoked trout appears if you will it to appear. No luck. ‘Gwendolyn, there’s none of the smoked trout fillets that you like!’ Gwendolyn is resolute. Passive. Ruth, panicked by Gwendolyn’s nonchalance goes head first into the refrigerator scrambling for options… she retrieves fishcakes, oak-smoked Norwegian salmon ribbons, chili flavoured poached salmon fillets, and fresh hake. In a frenzy she reads each label to Gwendolyn asking her ‘will you eat this my darling?’ Gwendolyn manages a withering ‘yes’ when the chili salmon is thrust in front of her.

Ruth abandons all of the dead fish. ‘This won’t do. You must have the smoked trout.’

What happens next won’t surprise you…

‘I must find the manager…’

At this point I believe it prudent to interject and say, ‘I believe I have the last of the smoked trout… I got the last one…’ I want to crouch down on my haunches and marvel at my preciouses but I wasn’t confident that I wouldn’t get a Birkenstock to the forehead. Ruth didn’t hear me of course, because she was too busy monologuing with herself. ‘Manager, yes he will know… maybe…’ Just then one of the uber-over friendly shelf packers appears. He is too nose deep in those new fangled pretzel crackers to show any interest in Ruth’s dazzling performance of ‘Mother Courage and Her Children’. Ruth says loudly, to darling Gwendolyn, ‘I shall ask him!’ Pause. ‘Actually no, he won’t know what lightly smoked rainbow trout fillets are.’

Absolutely Ruth, the guy whose job it is to stock this aisle won’t know what you’re talking about because only managers (white), know what you’re after. Smoked trout is, after all for white people and their spawn.

At this point I wave the package of smoked trout in front of Ruth and say, ‘So I got the last one,  and I’m going to make fish pie.’

I don’t know what her face did. I’d like to think her head exploded. When I look back on this perfunctory Wednesday afternoon I am certain I heard sobbing.

And FYI, Fucking best fish pie I’ve ever made… if you’d like to follow my  recipe it calls for lightly smoked rainbow trout fillet (the very last one in the store).