Carol’s Column

What every good wife should know - or how to have a happy marriage

WHEN I got married it was a shock. Not for the obvious reasons, they were also a shock, but that's another story.

No, it was the talk my grandmother gave me just after I'd pledged my troth, that caused my bridal veil to stand up in horror.

She was a wise woman. She came from a long line of old wise people. Her brother Boruch was reputedly 103 when he died, and even today, the small Stellenbosch cemetery is full of the remains of old and wise Shulmans — my maiden name.

Anyway, to get back to my grandmother who, when I married so many moons and suns ago, was still freelancing as a Turkish belly dancer even though she was at least 78, possibly even 79.

"Carola," she said, Carola being the diminutive of Carol, "there are things of great importance I must tell you on this very special day. Secrets of your ancestors that I must impart to you to ensure that you will be a good Jewish wife."

I remember, I felt the burden of wifedom settle heavily on my shoulders. And then I squared them and stuck my cleavage out resolutely. Those were the days when my cleavage still cleaved.

"I'm listening, Ouma," I said, all ears. And those who know me well will know that is not an understatement.

"Carola," whispered my grandmother confidentially, "you are on the brink of womanhood now and it is only fitting that I pass on the family secret that has been passed on from generation to generation when a young girl marries."

I nodded sagely, almost dislodging my orange blossom and tuber rose tiara.

"I am going to tell you ..." she paused dramatically, "about herrings."

Herrings? My veil boggled.

"To be a good Jewish wife," she continued, "you have to master the art of herrings. Chopped herring, pickled herring, Danish herring, herring in cream, herring with pineapple and onions, herring in aspic, there is no limit to how your marriage can be enhanced by herrings. A happy herring makes for a happy marriage."

"First," she said, "you must acquire a big barrel in which to salt your herrings because the shop-salted herrings are inferior and no good wife should make her husband chopped herring from an inferior fish."

I was astounded. I'd always imagined that herrings were naturally salted and that they inherited their great salt content by the process of osmosis. According to my grandmother, this was not so. Fresh herrings had to be plucked from the sea and then immediately salted and placed in a barrel where they would remain for a while.

I won't bore you with the ins and outs of herring cuisine, but finally, my grandmother concluded by saying that the worst sin a good Jewish wife could commit was to buy chopped herring instead of making it herself.

I listened carefully and, over the years, have spent more hours salting, pickling, chopping, aspicking and creaming herrings than I could count. In fact, one of these days, I intend writing a doctorate called "The Intricate Preparation of a Herring Prior to Creating a Fishy Masterpiece".

And then, only yesterday, I had my first disaster. For three days I had been preparing a particularly delicious consignment of chopped herring intended for a formal dinner party. At 3 pm, I tasted my chopped herring. It was dreadful.

Sometimes it is important to act courageously. I climbed in the car and shot off to the local supermarket where I purchased a large plastic carton of chopped herring. Then I dashed home, popped it on a plate and dressed it with lemon, parsley and hardboiled eggs. No one would know I'd committed the ultimate sin, I told myself as I surveyed the final result.

That night, we sat down to dinner, the crystal sparkling, the silver sparkling. "Mmmm," said my husband as the herring arrived on the table, "that looks good."

I watched the herring-filled fork enter his mouth, and then he paused, to savour the flavour. He looked at me knowingly and I mentally started filing for divorce.

"This is without doubt the finest herring you have ever made," he said.

I am still mentally filing for divorce.

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