The lure of danger in the Towerwater kitchen

With an abundant harvest of sun-ripened apricots from the Towerwater orchard, not even the December heat could deter us from making our 100-apricot chutney. Looking at the bowl of apricot pits, I decided to find out how one can use the apricot pits instead of just throwing them away.

De White Industries in Montagu, where we buy our broken apricot pits for surfacing our pathways, must produce large quantities of apricot kernels, and I am sure that it does not go to waste.

Broken apricot pits at De White Industries in Montagu

The kernels from broken pits can be repurposed into high-value products rather than wasted. They can be processed to create oils for cosmetics and cooking and used as a marzipan-like flavouring in liqueurs.

A marzipan-flavoured liqueur is what attracted my attention. I discovered that liqueur made from apricot kernels is called Noyaux (pronounced nwoy-oh), and the word comes from the French term for “kernel” or “pit.”

Crème de Noyaux is a traditional French liqueur where fruit pits impart a distinctive almond-like flavour to the alcohol due to compounds also found in bitter almonds. Even though it comes from fruit pits, noyaux tastes like almond. This is because both contain benzaldehyde, the compound responsible for that flavour.

It seems that throughout the centuries, we humans lived a dangerous and experimental life, discovering what can be eaten and what should be avoided. I prefer to learn from other people's mistakes where dangerous foods are concerned. Apricot kernels can be dangerous because they naturally contain compounds that can release cyanide in one’s body. Apricot kernels contain a substance called amygdalin. When you chew or digest the kernel, your body breaks down the amygdalin and produces hydrogen cyanide, a highly toxic chemical.

This process is a classic example of a natural plant defence mechanism. Inside an apricot kernel lies a quiet but powerful defence. The seed stores amygdalin and enzymes separately, harmless on their own. But when an animal bites into the kernel, these components mix and trigger a reaction that releases hydrogen cyanide. This toxin quickly interferes with the body’s ability to use oxygen, discouraging the predator from eating more. This clever system, known as cyanogenic glycoside defence, allows the plant to protect its seed only when it is under threat, ensuring its survival in the next generation.

The rule is that one never consumes Noyaux or Crème de Noyaux in large quantities. Always use it sparingly to add that seductive almond-like marzipan flavour to cocktails, drizzle over vanilla ice cream, add to whipped cream, or incorporate a small amount into custards, panna cotta, or almond-flavoured pastries for added depth.

To add to the living-on-the-edge feel of making noyaux, it was historically coloured pink with cochineal, a natural red dye derived from the dried bodies of female scale insects that live on prickly pear cacti in South and North America. The insects produce carminic acid to deter predators, which is harvested to create brilliant red, crimson, or scarlet shades for food, cosmetics, and textiles.

One would think that if plants and insects produce toxins to deter predators, humans will take notice and say, “Thanks, we got the memo; we will leave you in peace.” Instead, we rush to make extracts and liqueurs containing cyanide-producing kernels and then look around for some other deterrent to colour the liqueur with.

Finding a reliable recipe for noyaux was not easy. It seems everyone uses a recipe that suits their available number of apricot kernels. After cracking the 100 pips, I had the generous amount of 100 apricot kernels. The kernels did not look dangerous at all, but being forewarned is to be forearmed, I believe, and I needed to find the right ratio of pips to alcohol.

Most recipes I found used 80-proof alcohol. Proof is calculated as exactly double the alcohol by volume (ABV) percentage (e.g., 40 x 2 = 80). I decided to use a local witblits with 55% alcohol by volume; 55% alcohol by volume (ABV) is 110 proof in the United States. Apparently, using 110-proof (55% ABV) alcohol to make noyaux (apricot kernel liqueur) can produce a better, more robust extract compared to standard 80-proof (40% ABV) vodka, as it is a more effective solvent for extracting the essential oils, aroma, and volatile compounds from the kernels.

The charm of traditional French homemade noyaux lies in its "snout-to-tail," no-waste philosophy, transforming discarded stone fruit pits (apricot, peach, or cherry) into a sophisticated, almond-scented liqueur. This old-fashioned, rustic process evokes a sense of country living, where patience, foraging, and artisan techniques create a deeply fragrant product far superior to commercial alternatives.

A popular, charming method in French households was not just to make one batch, but to keep a jar of alcohol on the counter, adding fresh kernels as they became available throughout the season, creating a continuous supply of liqueur.

Despite noyaux being made in households all over the world for centuries without recorded fatalities, modern food safety authorities advise extreme caution. Because the concentration of amygdalin varies significantly between different fruits and even individual pits, it is difficult to ensure safety in a home kitchen environment.

Scared half to death by visions of my homemade noyaux dispatching most of my family and friends and, on the other hand, seduced by the nostalgia and tradition of this loved ingredient for food and drinks, I allowed myself to be seduced by the prospect of the flavour of almonds and marzipan filling the Towerwater kitchen.

 

Towerwater Crème de Noyaux or (Nou-ja laat ek maar die kans vat)

Ingredients:
80 apricot kernels (the inside of the pips)
750 ml witblits (55% alcohol by volume)
1/2 to 1 cup simple syrup, to taste.

Instructions:

Crack open the hard outer shells of the stone fruit pits to remove the soft inner seed (the kernel). I also crushed some of the kernels, as suggested by some recipes.

Some recipes also recommend roasting the kernels to reduce the amygdalin. You can give the kernels a light to medium roasting (300°F–350°F / 150°C–180°C) for 10–15 minutes to avoid burning.

Place the crushed/whole kernels in a large, clean glass jar and cover with the witblits or vodka. Seal the jar tightly and store in a cool, dark place for 2 to 3 months. Shake the jar every few days.

After maceration, strain the liquid through a coffee filter or fine muslin (chinois). Add simple syrup (sugar dissolved in water) to reach the desired sweetness.

Bottle the strained liqueur and let it rest for another month before use to allow the flavors to mellow.

Note: To make a simple syrup, mix 1 cup of water and 1 cup of granulated white sugar in a small saucepan. Heat over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the sugar completely dissolves. You do not need to bring it to a rolling boil; just make sure the liquid is clear. Remove from heat and allow it to cool before adding it to the noyaux.

If it seems as if I like living dangerously by venturing into making potions containing cyanide, rest assured that I have done extensive research about the safety of homemade noyaux. I would probably not recommend it to an overcautious food lover, but the secret is to use it moderately; a small amount of homemade noyaux can go a long way.

After waiting three months for the kernels to macerate in the witblits, I could bottle my own Towerwater Noyaux, or as I would say in Afrikaans, Nou-ja, laat ek maar die kans vat. The homemade noyaux possesses a seductive, complex flavour profile often described as a "forgotten" luxury, balancing intense sweetness with a sophisticated bitter edge. It is characterized by an intoxicating marzipan aroma and a rich, velvety texture, making it an essential, yet assertive, addition to cocktails and desserts.

Now I only need to let it rest for a month before using it, and it is killing me not to use it immediately (nudge-nudge, wink-wink).

Towerwater and the art of Cooperage

Old houses often reveal their histories in small and unexpected ways. Sometimes it is not the grand architectural features that speak the loudest, but rather the quiet details that have survived the passing of time.

During a family visit one weekend, such a detail revealed itself on the kitchen door at Towerwater. Beneath several layers of old paint, an oval brass plaque slowly emerged. Its inscription was simple: “FB Bruwer Maker.”

The plaque was left exactly where it was found. It had clearly been there for many years, quietly witnessing the daily rhythms of the kitchen. Yet the identity of the man behind the name remained a mystery.

The answer would only appear many years later.

The "FB Bruwer waterbalie" on auction 

Nearly twenty-five years passed before another reference to the name surfaced. At the October 2016 auction of Strauss & Co, lot number 351 caught my attention. The catalogue described it as “A Cape teak brass-bound waterbalie and stand, F B Bruwer, Robertson, late 19th/early 20th century.”

Another example of a FB Bruwer made "waterbalie" with his name plaque on the front

In that moment, the small brass plaque on the Towerwater kitchen door began to make sense.

For the first time we knew what F.B. Bruwer had made. He was a cooper from Robertson — a craftsman whose trade was to shape wood into the barrels, tubs and vessels essential to daily life in the Breede River valley.

A collection of antique brass bound containers made by a cooper

The discovery raised another question: why would a cooper’s maker’s plaque appear on the kitchen door at Towerwater? Was there perhaps a deeper historical connection between F.B. Bruwer and the property?

To explore that possibility, I turned to the genealogy of Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer.

 A Dutch ship entering Table Bay circa 1700

The Bruwer story in South Africa reaches back to the late seventeenth century. The family’s progenitor, Estienne Bruere, boarded the VOC ship Voorschoten on 31 December 1687 at Delftshaven in the Netherlands. The vessel reached Saldanha Bay on 13 April 1688, after which the Huguenot settlers were escorted to Table Bay by the ship Jupiter.

Estienne was originally a wagon-maker by trade but, like many Huguenot arrivals encouraged by the Dutch East India Company, he soon turned to farming. In 1692 he was granted the loan farm Rust-en-Werk in Daljosafat in the Drakenstein valley. By 1712 he had moved his family to the farm Voorkeyker near present-day Wolseley in the Land van Waveren region.

A water brass bound water container made for wagons

Over time the family also received grazing licences along the Breede River, firmly linking the Bruwers to the region that would eventually include Robertson.

The generations that followed continued this agricultural tradition. Johannes (Jean) Bruire, later known as Bruwer (1722–1767), settled in the Drakenstein region and married Johanna Maria van der Merwe. Their son Daniel Bruwer (1765–1852) lived during a formative period in the Cape Colony as the descendants of the Huguenots gradually integrated into Dutch colonial society.

From this lineage came Herculaas Philippus Johannes Bruwer (1824–1898) and eventually Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer (1856–1932).

On his marriage record, Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer is described as a “Kuiper” — the Dutch word for cooper. A cooper was a highly skilled woodworker who crafted staved wooden vessels bound with iron or wooden hoops so that they remained tight and durable. In rural agricultural communities these containers were indispensable. Wine, brandy, grain, water and dairy products all relied on barrels and tubs for storage and transport.

The marriage record of FB Bruwer recording his profession as cooper

In wine-producing districts such as Robertson, coopers played an important role in the rural economy. A cooper’s workshop in the late nineteenth century would have produced a wide range of vessels: wine barrels for fermentation and storage, large casks for shipping, smaller kegs for spirits, buckets and pails for water, washing tubs and troughs, butter churns and the sturdy waterbalies used in households and on farms.

Making wine barrels - David Teniers the Younger (1610–90), The Wine Harvest

It is one of these waterbalies that appeared in the 2016 Strauss & Co auction catalogue. The vessel was made in Robertson and carried the brass maker’s plaque of F.B. Bruwer — a later example of the one discovered on the Towerwater kitchen door.

The remaining question was how his name became attached to Towerwater.

The answer may lie in the intertwined histories of local families. The first clear references to buildings on the property appear in the title deeds of the farm Bosjesmansdrift. On 13 June 1873 the six portions of the farm were finally transferred in full and freehold title. Portion 4 — the section that includes the core of the farm and its cluster of buildings — was transferred to the Steyn brothers on 30 June 1873.

An 18th century "teebalie", brass bound water bucket and a pickle barrel

Although it might seem modest on paper, the property measured an impressive 1290 morgen and 211 square roods. Interestingly, the deed specifically excluded two houses that remained in the possession of Jacobus Le Roux.

The Le Roux connection becomes significant when the family history is considered.

A member of the Le Roux family had already held a portion of the farm under perpetual quitrent lease in 1843. After several subdivisions, the land eventually became Lot 75 and was transferred in 1928 from the church council to Gabriel Petrus Jacobus le Roux as Erf 608 — land that today forms part of Towerwater.

Gabriël Petrus Jacobus le Roux, born in 1872 in the Robertson district, was himself a wagon-maker — a respected rural craft at the turn of the twentieth century. He married Anna Elizabet le Roux and lived most of his life in the area, passing away in 1962.

"Botterkarrings"or brass bound butter churns

His older sister, Aletta Johanna le Roux, born around 1860, married Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer on 18 October 1881.

Through this marriage two long-established Breede River families became linked — the Le Roux wagon-makers and the Bruwer coopers. In a rural economy shaped by farming and craft, these trades were closely connected.

It is therefore quite possible that Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer was already associated with the Le Roux household before the marriage in 1881. A vessel he produced — perhaps a water barrel or waterbalie — may have found its way onto the property. The small brass maker’s plaque attached to it may later have been fixed to the kitchen door, where successive coats of paint quietly preserved it for more than a century.

In this way, a modest oval plaque connects Towerwater not only to a local craftsman but also to the intertwined histories of families, trades and farms along the Breede River. The mystery of the words “FB Bruwer Maker” was finally resolved.

The buyer of the waterbalie at Strauss & Co in 2016 acquired not only a fine piece of Cape craftsmanship, but a piece of provenance that reaches back through generations to the Breede River valley.

The Kitchen door at Towerwater and the plaque seen through an original screen door

And so the brass nameplate on our kitchen door, once a gentle mystery, now speaks of continuity: of Huguenot roots, of skilled hands shaping wood and metal, and of the quiet ways families and trades wove themselves into the fabric of this old place.

Note: Some images of cooperage sourced online as examples of Cape Cooperage 

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