– Leaving the Kloof was hard. I’m not even going to pretend otherwise. It was blissful and beautiful and it pulled at my heartstrings a little to leave. Driving away, it felt like it was the last day of camp, or the morning after a really great slumber party (you know, the ones where no…
Going through my photos from South Africa, I noticed that a large number of them featured our friend Kurtis. Sometimes this was intentional. Other times, it was not: –
– When I first starting dating Rand, during my junior year of college (for those of you keeping track at home, it was approximately a lifetime ago), I lived in a windowless apartment. I may be exaggerating slightly. It wasn’t exactly windowless – it had three, to be precise. But each and every one of…
– In high school, I had to be at school by 7:25. IN THE MORNING. I know, I know. It sounds positively inhuman, doesn’t it? I’m fairly sure that in most parts of Europe, it would constitute child abuse (like Spain. Seriously, next time you have to get up early, think WWTS –What Would The…
– We first arrived at Bushman’s Kloof in the late afternoon. It had been an absurdly hot day, and the sun was now inching back towards the horizon. It was the sort of weather that makes you swear that you will never eat anything again that isn’t presented to you in popsicle form. Still, when…
– When Rand first told me that Bushman’s Kloof had not one, but several infinity pools, I promptly freaked out. “How is that even possible?” I squealed. “It’s a luxury resort,” Rand explained. “That still doesn’t make sense. They are messing with THE VERY FABRIC OF SPACE TIME.” With that statement, my husband paused, and took a…
– Rand often tells me that it takes a lot to please me. I argue that this isn’t exactly true. I require very few things to be happy. I’ve explained time and again that I require little else in life than a cupcake or four, his undivided attention, and a really comfortable couch. The problem is…
– I don’t really know how to begin telling you about Bushman’s Kloof. Words don’t usually fail me. In fact, I often have them in excess. They dribble out of my mouth at particularly inopportune times. Like when I’m telling a story at noisy party, and I find myself shouting the gory details in order…
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
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