Melkkos, making you homesick
Years ago, as a young wife, my cooking skills were... well, let’s just say they were a work in progress. I mean, when your husband announces at your wedding reception that guests shouldn't take too much food because “my wife can’t cook,” you know you’re in for an interesting culinary journey.
We settled into our new home in Kathu. Where? A tiny mining town in the Northern Cape—far from everything. Back then, the only grocery store was run by the mine, and apart from a petrol station, there wasn’t much else. Schools, churches, homes, sure—but no shops.
In Kathu, you were either employed by Iscor or SA Railways. We were lucky enough to have a lovely house, albeit sparsely furnished, and soon took in a boarder—a young Afrikaans lad named Koos. He came from a fishing village on the West Coast and had grown up in a large family with a mother who could really cook.
One evening, reminiscing about home, Koos sighed and said he missed his mother’s cooking—especially his favorite dish, Melkkos. I’d never heard of it before, but eager to do something kind, I decided to surprise him by making it.
It was a Friday—the era of petrol restrictions—meaning petrol pumps shut down on Friday evenings and reopened on Monday mornings. Kathu was a solid 10-hour drive from the coast, so once you were here, you stayed put.
With my mission set, I studied the recipe carefully. The ingredients were all in the pantry—no problems there. It seemed simple enough: make a dough, cut it into strips, prepare a thin custard, and cook the dough in the custard.
Easy, right?
I mixed the dough, and to my delight, it turned out beautifully. Rolling it out, I carefully cut it into finger-sized strips, proud of my efforts. These neat little dough ribbons looked perfect.
What I didn't anticipate was how much they’d expand. By the time they were ready for the custard, they had puffed up significantly thick, doughy snakes ready for their bath. But I pressed on.
By the time Koos arrived home, I was bursting with excitement. He’d had a terrible day at work, and I was thrilled to lift his spirits with a taste of home.
I called the guys for supper, proudly dishing up my creation in big porridge bowls.
Imagine: thick, swollen dough snakes floating in custard.
Koos stared at his bowl for a long moment before cautiously asking, “What is this?”
“It’s Melkkos!” I beamed.
He was not impressed.
Without another word, he excused himself, went to his room, packed his bags, and announced he was leaving for the coast. What he forgot, however, was that he had no petrol.
For hours, he sat at the closed petrol station, blaring his hooter, hoping someone would open the pumps for him. He didn’t come back to our house that night. He slept elsewhere, and by Monday morning, the second petrol flowed, he was gone—for good.
Moral of the story? Never let me cook Melkkos.
What it should have looked like.
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