Carol’s Column

A fishy tale with a bite

HAVE you ever been on intimate terms with an alikreukel? No. Then you have missed one of the great experiences in life.

An alikreukel is one of those endearing, turban-like shells that trips the sea shores of South Africa, along with his mates the perlemoen, the oyster and mussel.

In fact, before this holiday, I’d never really got to know one of these little creatures either.

And then, the way these unexpected things happen, I fell in love — with an alikreukel.

Oh, I guess you could blame Lannice Snyman. I mean, she really started the whole thing.

There I was, relaxing and suntanning my navel and knees at St Francis Bay on that first sunny day, when Barry crouched down besides me.

“Hi, Ma,” he said, which gave me a lot of pleasure. It’s always nice when your kids talk to you.

Usually it’s just a monosyllabic ‘uh huh’ or ‘uh uh’.

I adjusted the bags under my eyes, removed the suntan lotion from my ear tips and sat up straight so as not to miss a word.

“Ag, Ma,” said Barry. An articulate number-one-son, as you might have observed. “We’ve brought you a present.”

“You have?” I was overwhelmed. For a moment.

And then I began to worry.

Why had they bought me a present?

He handed me a gaily-wrapped package. “We thought it would be particularly appropriate because we’re on holiday at the sea,” he said in that devastating way of his, the dimple on his cheek daintily dimpling.

My mind boggled. Could it be the new designer bikini with the gold safety-clips at the sides, I’d been longing for. Perhaps it was an exquisite diamante beach bag for my suntan oil, comb and tissue.

No, the shape was all wrong.

I unwrapped the present, and there, nestling inside was Lannice Snyman’s book ‘Fresh from the Sea’.

“Ma,” said Barry, “we thought that this would be an adventurous holiday.”

“But isn’t every holiday?” I answered indignantly. “I remember last time we were in Mocambique and got arrested by a Frelimo roadblock because they wouldn’t believe our Monopoly money was play money. Wasn’t that an adventure?

“And then they thought my box of Tampax was gelignite — now wasn’t that an adventure?”

Barry nodded his head slowly. Patiently. The way kids do.

“Ma, we thought this holiday would be a culinary adventure,” he said. “We are going to bring you all sorts of things from the sea, and then we thought, with the help of Lannice Snyman, you’d cook them for us.”

And that, briefly, is how I became intimate with an alikreukel.

Oh, it wasn’t as simple as that.

I paged through the cookbook and discovered that we were swimming in a sea full of the most mouth-watering delicacies.

Why, just below my floundering toes and kicking calves were schools of mussel peperonatas, pickled octopus, nutty-crusted oysters and crispy-fried perlemoen not to mention barbecued alikreukels or garlic-kissed periwinkles.

When it finally came to the crunch, I discovered if I wanted to eat, I’d have to do some food-gathering myself.

Oh, the boys were full of good intentions, but somehow, they were continually distracted by other things in the sea such as nubile, bikini-clad, long-legged maidens.

Alikreukels are not difficult to acquire, complete with an operculum (a cunning little gateway), they crawl slowly among the rocks and on the sea bed.

Immediately one is plucked from his lair, his trapdoor slams shut, and only gentle grilling or broiling in beer will open it.

Now perlemoen are a different kettle of shellfish.

Known elsewhere in the world by such unattractive names as abalone or ormer, when carelessly approached, they cling to whatever they were clinging to, with a fierce and formidable suction.

Indeed, only a gentle bop on the outer shell, dislodges them.

We’d swim complete with gages to measure these delicious morsels and the small ones we’d leave safely in the deep.

A geriatric perlemoen takes 15 years to mature, indeed, I felt guilty every time I actually caught one. But it was a guilt tempered by delight at the succulent taste of crumbed perlemoen steaks.

And the kids — all budding Ernest Hemingways, fished with a vengeance and brought me their results.

I scaled rock cod, kabeljou, dageraad, geelbek and juicy galjoen until I looked like the Christmas fairy, glittering with scales from head to foot.

Added to this was the fact that I was not fragrant to be near. Gone was the Dioressimo aroma, only to be replaced by something a lot more fishy and a lot less aromatic.

I only realised how acute the situation was when I awoke one morning to discover seven cats sharing my bed.

Our holiday was indeed a culinary adventure.

Limpets, clams, even sea urchins — we tried them all. And then, on the last night, I served the ultimate.

Gently coated in a golden batter, spiced with garlic, parsley and paprika, the small, bite-sized pieces of fish, nestled on a bed of lettuce and seaweed jelly flavoured with lemon and cinnamon.

Hungrily, my family consumed every morsel, until eventually, the plate was empty.

“Ma,” said Ralph, “that was an experience. What actually were we eating?”

“Guess,” I said coyly, “take a guess. I promise you it’s something totally different.

Of course, they never did guess.

In retrospect, all I can say is that never, ever before, and probably, never ever again, will a hammerhead shark be loved and enjoyed by so many.

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