Towerwater Crème de Capucine

Last year I received some special nasturtium seeds in exchange for some Hereboontjies. The leaves are a blue-green colour, while the flowers are a deep red and nearly double. I eagerly watched the first five plants come up in the sunflower bed. With their dark blue-green leaves, they looked exotic compared to the abundant standard-issue colourful annuals.



To my horror, I found them lying in one of the compost bins one afternoon, after the gardener had cleaned the vegetable beds of weeds. The five plants clearly did not match the rows of sunflowers that were coming up in the bed and had then joined the ranks of weeds that day. I tried to rescue them by planting them and watering them in the hope that they would survive. Three plants survived but were clearly in shock and did not initially develop into the mad abundance of their orange and yellow cousins in the orchard.

The flowers were a surprise of double, deep-red blooms and more fragrant than I knew nasturtiums to be. It seemed right that a flower of that hue and display should have a scent to match.



In the winter season, I did not plant any winter vegetables, and the vegetable beds lay fallow because I planned to change the irrigation in the vegetable and herb beds to reduce the mist caused by the sprinklers, something that caused a lot of problems with fungal diseases on the vegetable plants as well as the vineyard. The new irrigation arrangement is more focused on watering closer to the ground and reducing water wastage.

The only colour in the garden was some red lettuce that came up as volunteer plants in one of the beds and a profusion of red nasturtiums whose deep blue-green leaves echoed that of the lettuce. The profusion of the plants is a joy to behold, and if I were an artist, I would probably have painted several canvasses trying to capture their beauty.



I wanted to capture that colour, and the spirit of these flowers, before it disappeared with the season. I decided to gather the blooms from our garden and infuse them in a locally distilled witblits, allowing the flowers to slowly give up their colour, perfume and character to the spirit. What I captured in the bottle is that garden moment made tangible, the deep, rare red of the nasturtium suspended in an artisanal floral liqueur, made here at Towerwater.

I was inspired to revive the old French practice of preserving garden botanicals and translating it into a modern flower liqueur. The end result captured the colour of the flowers and some of the fragrance, evoking the memory of the abundance of the plants at the bottom of the vegetable garden.



In the absence of a history of nasturtium liqueur, I opted for the name Crème de Capucine, as a vibrant, artisanal French-style flower liqueur made by infusing edible nasturtium blossoms into a neutral spirit and sweetening it with sugar syrup.

The name comes directly from capucine, the French word for nasturtium, so named because the trumpet-like shape of the flower resembles a Franciscan monk’s hood or cowl (capuchon). The word “crème” suggests a sweet, syrup-like liqueur. I use it here in that sense rather than as a claim that the liqueur meets a particular legal definition for the designation “crème de”.



Apparently, nasturtium pigments aren't necessarily stable during processing and storage. I also have to keep in mind that one modern nasturtium-wine experiment specifically notes that the flowers lose their colour as the infusion sits, even though their flavour remains.

It is also important to note that I only macerate the flowers for two to four days, tasting periodically. In my experience, the short maceration is important; a longer extraction of the flowers can push nasturtium towards its more aggressively green, vegetal side. One might end up with Crème de Cabbage instead of Crème de Capucine because nasturtiums, like cabbages and other brassicas, contain glucosinolates that can break down into pungent compounds.



How to Make Crème de Capucine

I could not find evidence of a commercially available nasturtium liqueur. The following recipe is my own, and I have no long-term experience of how the liqueur will react to light or how long it will retain its flavour. I used a locally produced witblits (a clear, potent, traditionally unaged South African raw spirit, usually distilled from grape by-products) with an alcohol content of 55%. Vodka would be a good alternative because it is neutral and highly accessible.

Ingredients:

2 cups fresh nasturtium flowers, about 30 large flowers (tightly packed, thoroughly rinsed, and checked for garden bugs). Note: The colour of the flowers will determine the intensity of the colour of the liqueur. Avoid stems, as I prefer to keep the infusion focused on the flowers rather than the more vegetal parts of the plant.

750 ml of high-quality witblits or vodka (a clean, neutral spirit acts as the best canvas).

500 ml granulated sugar

500 ml water

Instructions:

Infuse the Alcohol: Place your cleaned nasturtium flowers into a clean mason jar. Pour the witblits or vodka over the flowers until they are completely submerged. Seal the jar tightly and store it in a cool, dark place.

Steep: Let it steep for 2 to 4 days. Taste-test it daily. I found that nasturtium infuses incredibly fast, and a longer extraction can shift the flavour from a peppery bite towards a more aggressively green, vegetal character.

Strain: Once the spirit tastes distinctly peppery and has absorbed the flowers' pigment, strain the liquid through a fine-mesh sieve or cheesecloth to remove all organic matter.

Sweeten: In a small saucepan, combine the sugar and water. Bring to a gentle simmer until the sugar completely dissolves to create a simple syrup. Let it cool completely.

Blend and Bottle: Stir the cooled simple syrup gradually into your infused spirit. Adjust the sweetness to your liking. I used about half of the syrup. Pour your finished Crème de Capucine into a glass bottle.

The Towerwater Crème de Capucine is a welcome addition to the Towerwater drinks trolley in the Lounge. To celebrate our latest artisanal liqueur, I made a Botanical Gimlet as follows: shake 60 ml gin, 25 ml fresh lime juice, and 15 ml Crème de Capucine with ice. Strain into a coupe glass for a complex twist on a classic. Garnish with a nasturtium flower.

Twelve Years of Towerwater aan de Breede

It is difficult to believe that twelve years have passed since I wrote the first post about life at Towerwater aan de Breede.

When I look around me now, the place feels much as it did then, and yet every season brings something new. Perhaps that is the secret of an old place. It may seem unchanged at first glance but look a little closer and there is always something different happening.

The fruit trees are in blossom, their branches suddenly covered in delicate flowers, and the gardens have that wonderful feeling of anticipation that comes just before everything bursts into green. The birds seem to know that spring is coming. Everywhere there is activity: birds courting, calling to one another, choosing nesting places and carrying bits of grass and twigs in preparation for the season ahead.

From the vineyards comes the steady rhythm of tractors and farm implements moving up and down the rows as the vines are pruned and sprayed. In the fields, the plough turns the earth, followed by a choreography of white egrets, rising together as their wings flash in the sun before settling again behind the next deep-brown furrow.

Engines start and stop, machinery rattles, and somewhere in the distance a tractor makes its slow journey along the road. It is a soundscape that has become so familiar that I hardly notice it anymore, until I stop and realise that these everyday sounds are such an essential part of what makes Towerwater what it is.

The birdsong is not heard in silence. It is accompanied by the distant drone of a tractor, the rattle of an implement and the sound of machinery working the land. The natural and the agricultural exist side by side, each part of the other. Somehow, that combination has become one of the sounds of home.

Standing among the blossoming fruit trees this year has taken me back to that first post, and I could never have imagined then that I would still be writing about Towerwater all these years later, or that I would still be finding things to say. But that is the wonderful thing about an old place, it is never quite the same.

The seasons return, but they never repeat themselves exactly. A tree flowers a little earlier or later. A particular bird chooses a different place to build its nest. The vineyards change with the seasons. The fields are ploughed, planted, harvested and rested. Old buildings weather, are repaired and cared for.

Something is always happening, and so I am still trying to record it—not necessarily the grand events, but the ordinary things that make up life on a traditional Klein Karoo homestead: the morning light on an old wall, the first blossoms on the fruit trees, a flock of birds suddenly appearing in the garden, the sound of a tractor working in the distance, the smell of freshly turned earth, a vineyard being pruned, a nest being built in a tree, or the new trellises in the herb garden to contain the profusion of salad tomatoes. These are small things, perhaps, but together they create the sense of place.

When I started the blog, I simply wanted to record something of life at Towerwater aan de Breede. I wanted to capture the character of an old Cape homestead and the rhythms of the seasons, partly for myself and partly because I felt that these ordinary details were worth remembering.

What I never expected was that people from all over the world would become interested in these small, everyday glimpses of life at Towerwater. Perhaps that is the most extraordinary part of the story, that a life on a traditional Klein Karoo homestead, which can feel so ordinary when you are living it day after day, has found an audience far beyond the Breede Valley.

People in different countries have taken the time to read about our old buildings, our gardens, our seasons, our birds and the daily life and activities of the homestead.

They have followed along as the years have passed. They have watched spring return, winter arrive, vineyards change colour, fruit trees blossom and the old buildings continue to weather the seasons.

And now the blog has passed 1,150,000 pageviews, a number that is almost impossible for me to comprehend, one million, one hundred and fifty thousand views of stories and photographs about a small corner of the Klein Karoo.

When I think back to that first post, I realise how little I knew about where this journey would lead. What began simply as an attempt to record life here has become a remarkable connection with people far beyond the valley. For that, I am deeply grateful.

To those who have been reading for years, and to those who have only recently discovered Towerwater, your comments, messages, questions and continued interest in this rather old-fashioned way of life mean more than I can say.

It is a strange and wonderful feeling to know that the small, everyday details of life here have travelled so far.

This morning, as I write this, the fruit trees are flowering again. The birds are busy courting and building nests. The vineyards are being worked. There is machinery moving somewhere beyond the garden. In the fields, the plough continues its slow work, with its little procession of white egrets following behind.

The valley is choreographed in its familiar seasonal rhythm as spring approaches, and I am still here with my camera, my memories and my words, trying to capture another small moment in the life of Towerwater aan de Breede.

Perhaps that is the real reason I have kept writing. There is always another season, another story, another small thing worth noticing, and as long as there is, I hope there will be another post. For now, it is enough simply to pause and look around.

The old walls are standing. The fruit trees are flowering. The birds are building their nests. The vineyards are being worked, the fields are turning brown beneath the plough, and the familiar sounds of the farm carry across the valley.

Life continues here, much as it always has, following the familiar rhythm of seasons, work and the changing landscape. And somewhere in the world, someone is taking a moment to read about it, sharing in a small glimpse of life at Towerwater aan de Breede. For that connection, and for everyone who has followed along on this journey, I am truly grateful.

Previous Birthday Blog Posts

What Price Paradise? - 2025
Packing up yesterday - 2024
Days like this - 2023
Our marmalade malady - 2022
Still life with oranges - 2021
Almond trees in August -2020
Of birthdays and blossoms - 2019
A life imagined - 2018
Looking back to the future - 2017
Reflections - 2016
Happy birthday blog - 2015
Heading for spring -2014  

Celebrating Tradition, Limewash and History

There is something about limewashing an old house that makes you feel you are participating in a ritual rather than simply doing maintenance.

As winter begins to loosen its grip and the first promise of spring appears along the Breede River, we find ourselves looking at the old buildings of Towerwater with a slightly different eye. The winter rains have left their marks. The walls have softened in colour, the edges have gathered a little dust and weather, and here and there the old limewash has begun to show the years beneath.

It is time to limewash, and it is not glamorous work. There are buckets, brushes, splashes on the ground and white fingerprints everywhere. There is the particular smell of wet lime, earthy and clean, and the constant business of stirring the mixture because limewash has a mind of its own. It settles, separates and demands to be woken up again.

But once the first brushful goes onto an old wall, something happens. The building begins to come alive.

At Towerwater, this is especially moving because the walls are not merely walls. They carry the marks of the people who built them, repaired them, leaned against them, swept their floors and opened their doors to the seasons. They are made in the old Cape way, of earth, clay, stone, lime and all the imperfect materials that belonged to a time when a building was made from what could be found nearby.

You can feel that history in the surface. A modern wall wants to be smooth and perfect. An old wall has no such ambition. It bows slightly in the afternoon light. It carries a little unevenness beneath the brush. There are places where the plaster is thicker, places where the earth beneath seems almost to breathe through the surface, and small repairs that tell their own quiet story.

Limewash suits such walls. It doesn't try to conceal them. It settles into their imperfections and makes them beautiful.

There is something wonderfully old-fashioned about watching a white wall appear beneath a brush. The colour is almost startling when it is wet, grey and cold, but as it dries it becomes softer, chalkier and warmer. The rough places catch the light. The old pebbledash takes on a new life, each little stone showing itself for a moment before becoming part of the whole again.

And then there is the sun. The Cape sun has always had a way of making white buildings glow. On a late winter morning, freshly limewashed walls can seem almost too bright to look at. By afternoon, the light has softened and the buildings settle back into the landscape: white against the green, old walls beneath blue sky, the whole place looking somehow both freshly renewed and exactly as it ought to be.

Perhaps that is what I like most about limewashing. It is renewal without erasure. You don't scrape away every trace of the past. You don't try to make an old building look new. You simply give it another coat, another season of protection, another chance to face the weather.

And underneath the new limewash are all the earlier layers. Somewhere beneath our brush are the coats put on by hands long gone. There may be limewash from decades ago, perhaps repairs made by people whose names we will never know. The wall has been whitened before, and before that, and before that.

We are only adding our own thin layer to the story. There is a rhythm to the work, dip the brush, let the excess run back into the bucket, brush across the wall, step back, look, move the ladder, start again.

After a while, you stop thinking about the work itself. You notice the sounds around you: the birds, the wind moving through the trees, perhaps a tractor somewhere in the distance. You notice how the morning becomes warmer. You notice the smell of the earth after rain.

And occasionally, you stop altogether. Because standing in front of an old Cape building with a brush in your hand is a curious way of understanding time.

The people who built these places knew that buildings needed looking after. They did not expect walls to remain untouched. Limewash was part of the life of the house. It was maintenance, protection and appearance all at once.

The walls are renewed, ready for a new cycle of seasons. In a world increasingly obsessed with making things permanent, limewashing reminds us that some things are meant to be renewed.

The old walls don't resist it. They accept the fresh lime quietly, just as they have accepted the rain, the dust, the heat and the years. By the time we finish, the brushes are tired, our clothes have acquired their own white decorations, and there is lime on places where lime was never intended to be. But the buildings look wonderful. Not new, never new, just cared for.

The late-winter light catches the freshly whitened walls, and for a little while Towerwater looks as though it has stepped out of an old photograph: white gables, rough walls, green trim and that particular Cape brightness that seems to belong to another age.

Then the wind comes up from the river. The trees move. A bird calls from somewhere beyond the buildings, and we put the buckets away until next time. Because that, too, is part of the tradition.

The old buildings endure, not because time has left them untouched, but because generation after generation has taken the trouble to care for them in the traditional way. And there is something rather comforting in knowing that, for one small part of their long history, we have done the same.

Towerwater Guava Liqueur

Guava time is preserving time, because there are only so many fresh guavas a person can eat. A fresh guava doesn’t like lying around, and it certainly doesn’t like travelling. You only have to look at it sideways and it’s bruised. The best thing is to eat it straight off the tree, before it even knows it has been picked.

By late autumn, the whole kitchen and house smell of guavas ripening further in the bowl on the kitchen table. It has become a ritual to go out in the late afternoon and pick the guavas before the mousebirds, Cape white-eyes and bulbuls get to them early the next morning. Guava time in the Towerwater orchard is competition time, with every bird and bug vying to get its beak, pincers or ovipositor into this exotic fruit first.

The harvest in the bowl on the kitchen table grows quickly with every evening’s picking, and before you know it, you have to find a way of dealing with them so that the goodness lasts a little longer than late autumn.

The old favourite is to preserve them in syrup, because what could be better than preserved guavas with custard? You eat them cold in summer and warm in winter, with just a little hint of cinnamon for that cosy feeling.

Guavas and custard are such a simple South African treat, but somehow the nostalgia settles right there, just this side of your heart, before you’ve even taken the first bite. You can almost feel your eyes start to swim when you see that bowl of pink and yellow coming towards you, because you’ve already tasted it in your mind.

No guava season at Towerwater goes by without making a few jars of preserved guavas. It is an unpretentious dessert that asks so little and gives so much. This year I wanted to try something a little different as well, so I decided to make a guava liqueur based on a recipe I came across in my book Maak Jou Eie Likeur by Jean Dickson.

I replaced the cane spirit with witblits to give it that extra bit of local flavour. Because I used witblits, I decided not to peel the guavas because the skin holds the highest concentration of the fruit's natural aroma, giving one a bolder, more authentic guava flavour. I reasoned that, because witblits has a very high alcohol percentage (55% ABV) and a fiery, rustic character, leaving the guava skin on was actually the better approach.

What could be better than a sweet little tot of guava on a cold winter’s evening, or a guava spritz over ice in summer?

Towerwater Guava Liqueur

Ingredients:

500 g guavas

4 whole cloves

1 piece of cinnamon stick

750 ml witblits or cane spirit

500 g (625 ml) sugar

600 ml water

Method:

Peel the guavas and cut them into small pieces for cane spirit, but consider leaving them in the peal for witblits.

Place the guavas, cloves and cinnamon stick in a clean, dry glass or earthenware container with a lid. Add the witblits, seal tightly and shake well. Leave to infuse for two weeks in a warm place. Shake at least twice a day.

First strain the mixture through a clean, dry sieve and then strain it again through two layers of fine cheesecloth. Set aside.

Mix the sugar and water in a heavy-based saucepan and stir until the sugar has dissolved. Bring to the boil and boil for one minute. Remove the syrup from the heat and allow it to cool. Add the infused witblits to the cooled syrup.

Pour the liqueur into a dry, sterilised bottle, fit the stopper, seal and label. Store for one month.

And so I could add a tropical fruit liqueur to the ingredients for the unique Towerwater cocktails.

Some cocktail suggestions using the Towerwater Guava Liqueur,

The Karoo Sun (Refreshing & Tropical)

This is a bright, easy-drinking cocktail where the lime and passion fruit complement the intense guava aroma.

40 ml Guava-infused Witblits

25 ml Fresh lime juice

15 ml Passion fruit cordial (or fresh granadilla pulp)

15 ml Simple syrup (1:1 sugar and water)

Method: Shake all ingredients vigorously with ice, then double-strain into a glass filled with fresh ice. Top with a splash of soda water if you want to lengthen the drink.

 

The Witblits Mule (Fiery & Bold)

The natural spice of ginger beer perfectly matches the rustic, fiery character of the witblits while letting the earthy guava notes shine.

50 ml Guava-infused Witblits

20 ml Fresh lemon juice

Top up with a fiery, high-quality ginger beer (Think classic Stoney Ginger Beer, approx. 150 ml)

Method: Build this drink directly in a tall glass or copper mug filled with crushed ice. Stir gently to combine and garnish with a lemon wheel or a slice of fresh guava.

🥂

The Boland Blush (Elegant & Spritz-Style)

A sophisticated option where the sparkling wine opens up the heavy aromatics trapped by the high-proof alcohol.

30 ml Guava-infused Witblits

15 ml Simple syrup

Top up with dry MCC (Methode Cap Classique) or sparkling wine

Method: Pour the infused witblits and simple syrup into a champagne flute, stir gently, and top slowly with the chilled sparkling wine. Garnish with a twist of lemon peel

The Memory of Guavas

 There are two guava trees in the Towerwater orchard, one pink and one white. I planted them when I planned the orchard in 1992. I wanted the orchard to feel as though it belonged here, to fit with the old buildings and make sense of the place historically.

The two guava trees are next to the pathway on the left of the old front of the house

Guavas have always felt familiar to me. As far back as I can remember, there were guavas growing in the gardens of my older relatives, particularly those of my grandmother’s generation. They were just part of the landscape of my childhood. I never really thought about their origins.

The history of fruit interests me. Perhaps because fruit seems so ordinary, yet behind almost every familiar fruit there is a story of journeys, cultivation and chance. Explorers carried plants across oceans. Seeds found their way into gardens. People took cuttings from one place to another. Sometimes a fruit travelled halfway around the world long before anyone thought of it as belonging to the place where it eventually took root. That is what happened with the guava.

View of the Dutch East India Company (VOC) settlement at the Cape by François Valentijn

It is recorded that the Dutch had introduced guavas to the Cape before 1685. When I came across that date, I wanted to know more. François Valentijn visited the Cape of Good Hope in 1685 and recorded what he saw in the Company’s Garden. Among the fruits growing there were guavas, which he noted “grow very well”.

It is only a passing remark, really. But I like those little remarks in old records. They can tell us things that people at the time probably didn't think were worth mentioning. Valentijn wasn't trying to tell the future that guavas would become part of the Cape landscape. He was simply noting what was growing in the garden in front of him.

A guava blossom in the Towerwater orchard

And yet, there it is. By 1685, the guava was already growing successfully at the Cape. That made me wonder from where it had come.

The guava is native to tropical America, so by the time Valentijn saw it growing in the Company’s Garden, it had already travelled a very long way. Exactly how it got to the Cape is less certain. It may have moved through the Portuguese and Dutch networks that connected the Americas, Africa and the East Indies. Perhaps it came as seed, or as a cutting, or as a living plant carried from one colonial garden to another.

What we do know is that by the late seventeenth century it had taken root here. And suddenly the two guava trees in my orchard seemed to have a much longer story behind them. That sent me looking in another direction.

Bananas, Guavas and Other Fruits by  Albert Eckhout, circa 1640

I started looking at old paintings, wondering when guavas first appeared in European art. Paintings can sometimes preserve things that written records don't. A painter might carefully record a fruit simply because it was unfamiliar or beautiful, without realising that centuries later someone would look at the painting as evidence of what was growing in a particular place. That is how I found Albert Eckhout.

Eckhout was working in Dutch Brazil in the 1630s and 1640s, during the time of Johan Maurits van Nassau-Siegen. Among the paintings associated with his time there is Bananas, Goiaba e Outras Frutas—Bananas, Guavas and Other Fruits. It was painted before 1640, and the guavas are there among the other tropical fruits. I find the painting fascinating.

Eckhout was interested in recording the unfamiliar world he encountered in Brazil—its people, plants, animals and landscape. The fruits are painted with a remarkable amount of attention. You can see their shapes, colours and textures. They aren't simply there to fill a space or make the picture look pretty. They tell you something about this strange and abundant tropical world that European viewers had never seen for themselves. And the guavas caught my attention.

Close up of the guavas in the painting, Bananas, Guavas and Other Fruits by Albert Eckhout

Here was the same fruit, growing in Brazil more than three centuries ago, before it travelled to the Cape, before there were guava trees at Towerwater, before I ever thought about planting one.

Eckhout's painting is also very different from the Dutch still lifes I tend to think of when I think about seventeenth-century fruit paintings. There is no dark room with an elaborate table, silverware, porcelain and a collection of carefully arranged objects. The bananas, guavas and other fruits sit outside, on a simple ledge, with the sky behind them. It feels almost as though you are looking at the fruit where it actually grew.

And sometimes I wonder about our two guava trees. Do they somehow carry the memory of where they came from? Brazilian trees, carried across oceans and centuries, now growing beneath an African sky in the Klein Karoo. It sounds fanciful, I know. A tree doesn't remember the way we do. But still.

There is something about them that makes me think about belonging. Their roots have settled into this soil. Their branches have learned this sun, this dry air, these seasons. They have become part of Towerwater, and yet the fruit they bear is the same fruit that once grew in a completely different world.

Perhaps that is what a plant does. It carries its history without knowing it. The guava on our tree is a small, living record of all those journeys, of people carrying plants, of gardens and empires, of seeds and cuttings moving from one continent to another. Somehow it has travelled all that way and ended up here.

So when I pick a guava from one of our trees, I sometimes think I am holding something that has travelled much further than I have. A little piece of Brazil, rooted in the Klein Karoo. And perhaps that is why these trees feel as though they belong here, they do, but they also remember somewhere else.

Sources:

Oud en Nieuw Oost-Indiën (Old and New East-India), Volume 5, by Francois Valentijn published between 1724 and 1726.

Wikimedia Commons, File:Albert Eckhout - Bananas, goiaba e outras frutas.jpg

Die geskiedenis van Boerekos 1652–1806. DPhil thesis, University of Pretoria, 2003, Claassens, Hester Wilhelmina.

The Philosophy of Milk Tart

There is something quietly philosophical about a Melktert. Perhaps it is because it asks so little of us. Milk, eggs, sugar, pastry, ordinary things brought together patiently, transformed not by extravagance but by care. In a world that constantly celebrates excess, milk tart remains modest. It does not announce itself loudly. It waits on the table, dusted with cinnamon, asking only that we slow down long enough to enjoy it.

Food has always carried memory, but milk tart carries something more delicate: continuity. Recipes survive grandparents, old kitchens, changing towns, and difficult years. One generation folds cinnamon into warm milk; the next does the same almost without thinking. The tart becomes less about dessert and more about inheritance, proof that comfort can survive history.

There is also something deeply South African about it. Not polished or complicated, but generous. A tart made to be shared. One slice cut for a guest who arrived unexpectedly, another for someone staying too long at the kitchen table while the tea grows cold. It belongs to the kind of hospitality that asks for nothing in return.

And perhaps that is why milk tart endures. Not because it is impressive, but because it reminds us that the simplest things are often the ones that anchor us most firmly to one another: sweetness, warmth, conversation, and the familiar smell of cinnamon drifting through a house.

Milk tart (melktert) is a quintessential South African comfort food. Known for its delicate, milky custard and generous dusting of cinnamon, this classic treat connects generations through nostalgia, reminding one of family gatherings, Sunday teas, or church bazaars.

There are few things more comforting than a homemade Melktert cooling on the kitchen counter. Soft custard, a dusting of cinnamon, and a cup of tea, or coffee nearby, it is the sort of tart that belongs to slow afternoons and family tables. At Towerwater, like in many South African homes, milk tart is not saved for special occasions, it is simply part of life.

If one does not bake milk tart yourself there will be a bakery, supermarket or home industry store nearby that will have a milk tart on the shelf.

When Laurens van der Post reminisced about milk tart in his book First Catch your Eland published in 1977, he captured the essence of what milk tart is for South Africans. He wrote,

” The melk-tert in South Africa is not so much a dish as a national institution, almost a fundamental prop of such democratic constitution as we have left in the land. It is to us what apple-pie appears to have been and remains to America. It is produced without apology at all hours of the day and night. Wherever one travelled when I was a child, some house on the road would produce the melktert it always had ready for any guest who might appear. Every housewife had her own recipe and would have been insulted if she did not have a fresh melktert handy for the most distinguished occasions. In the ample and uncomplicated days before politicians became the demi-gods they are today, one of the greatest of these occasions was the visit by the local priests, or the dominies as ministers of the Dutch Reformed Church are known, so that the melktert from early on acquired the nickname of dominie's tert, not to be confused with the more pompous Predikant's tart. No politician who valued his career would risk declining a portion of the melktert offered to him during electioneering by the wife of a potential voter any more than he would have dared to refuse kissing their babies. To this day I think that melktert carries a grave responsibility for the tendency of politicians in southern Africa to run to fat. However, all these considerations apart, there is no doubt that the melktert of the interior is as good a long distance tart, cake or sweet, eaten hot or cold, as a kitchen could produce.

It was made in the proportions of one pint of milk to two table- spoons of sugar, a tablespoon of finest maizina, two eggs, a stick of cinnamon and a tablespoon of butter. The milk was boiled with the sugar and the cinnamon, a roux made of the butter and the maizina and a little milk added, to make it liquid before it was joined by the boiling milk. It was then boiled for about five minutes before being poured into a basin and, when cold, the two eggs, well whisked, were folded into it. It was then poured into a tart dish lined with pastry made as thin as possible and baked for twenty minutes, to be served with a sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar on top. It could be eaten hot or left to cool.”
Source: L. van der Post, First Catch Your Eland: A Taste of Africa, Page 203 and 204.

Serving meltert was also a measure of moral standing if one takes the anecdote about milk tart recorded by Hastings Beck, in his book Meet the Cape Food, 1956,

“During the war a general who is, in the grand phrase of Izaak Walton, now with God, visited a school in the Cape, somewhat suspect of subversive activities. On his return he declared, 'There is absolutely nothing wrong with that school. Why! they entertained me with milk tart!'
This, said in all seriousness, indicates the symbolic significance of the milk tart in the Cape cuisine. Milk tart is more than a pastry. It is a gesture, like the breaking of bread or the offering of salt in other times and places. When judges go to circuit or Important Persons open bazaars, they must be served milk tart. To fail to do so would be social solecism if not an actual affront.”  Source:  H. Beck, Meet the Cape Food, page 47.

The author presents the act of serving Melktert as warm, trustworthy, respectable, and deeply hospitable. In the anecdote, the general immediately assumes that a school capable of serving milk tart could not possibly be “subversive” or dangerous. This suggests that milk tart symbolizes decency, tradition, and social respectability.

 
The author goes further by saying that milk tart is “more than a pastry”, it is “a gesture.” By comparing it to “the breaking of bread or the offering of salt,” the author gives the act of serving milk tart a ceremonial and almost sacred quality. The baker or host therefore becomes someone who welcomes others, honours guests, and upholds community values and social harmony.

Overall, the character associated with serving milk tart is one of kindness, cultural pride, generosity, and moral respectability.

In her poem “Familieverse” Antjie Krog writes the following verse,

“wat was daar in die hand van my оuma
wat pasteikorse eierwitlig kon vou
melkterte kon vul met die heilgenot van manna
wat brode oornag smuls kon laat uitboud uit haar vaal panne”
Source: A. Krog, Otters in Bronslaai, page 37.

“What dwelled within my grandmother’s hands
that folded pastry crusts light as beaten egg white,
that filled milk tarts with the sacred sweetness of manna,
that through the night could coax rich loaves to rise
from her pale and weathered pans?

In this verse by Antjie Krog, the philosophy lies in the admiration of the grandmother’s ordinary domestic work, which is elevated into something almost sacred. The speaker is essentially asking: what was there in my grandmother’s hands that made them so special? Her hands could transform simple ingredients into food filled with comfort, love, and meaning.

The image of “pastry crusts folded light as egg white” and “milk tarts filled with the holy delight of manna” turns everyday baking into something spiritual. The reference to “manna”, the heavenly food from the Bible, suggests that the grandmother’s cooking nourished not only the body, but also the soul. Her hands create more than food; they create warmth, belonging, and emotional security.

The bread that could rise overnight “out of her pale pans” also symbolizes patience and creation. Through time, care, and quiet labour, something living and sustaining comes into being. The grandmother becomes a symbol of feminine creative power, someone who makes life possible and meaningful through humble acts of care.

The deeper philosophy of the verse is that true value does not lie in grand achievements, but in love, nurture, tradition, and the ability to sustain others both physically and spiritually.

Across these writers, Melktert becomes far more than a simple dessert, it becomes a way of thinking about belonging itself. In Laurens van der Post’s account, it is elevated to the level of a national institution, something woven into the fabric of social and even democratic life, present in roadside homes, political encounters, and everyday acts of hospitality. It is offered without ceremony yet carries the weight of ceremony, a quiet requirement of welcome that no guest, whether priest or politician, could easily refuse. In Antjie Krog’s family verses, it turns inward, becoming intimate and ancestral, the food of grandmothers whose hands transform ordinary ingredients into something that feels almost sacred. And in the Cape anecdote, it becomes a social language of trust, where serving milk tart signals decency, warmth, and cultural belonging.

Taken together, these perspectives suggest that milk tart lives in the space between the personal and the collective. It is at once recipe and ritual, memory and message. To serve it is to extend more than food, it is to extend recognition, of history, of home, of shared humanity. Its simplicity is precisely what allows it to carry such weight across generations and contexts.

Ultimately, milk tart endures not because it is elaborate, but because it is foundational. It speaks to a quiet philosophy shared across these writers: that culture is not only preserved in monuments or institutions, but also in the everyday gestures of care that repeat themselves in kitchens, in passing visits, and in the gentle act of offering something sweet to another person.

There are things that do not ask to be explained, only noticed. A bowl left to cool on a kitchen table. The soft settling of cinnamon on pale custard. The quiet certainty of something made, not performed. Melktert belongs to this category of things, ordinary at first glance, but persistent in the way it stays with you long after the last slice is gone.