Ouma se VoorskootGranny’s Apron

Ek is nie sommer enige lap nie. Nee wat! Ek is Ouma se voorskoot — ’n egte een, met kolletjies, ’n vlek of twee van koekies bak, sjokolade-handjies afgedruk en sakke propvol geheime.
“Ek het al meer stories gehoor as wat daar krummels op Ouma se vloer lê. Vandag, liewe kind, vertel ék vir jou ’n storie.”
Ek is Ouma se Voorskoot.I am not just any old cloth. Oh no! I am Granny’s apron, a real one, with little dots, a stain or two from baking biscuits, chocolate handprints pressed on, and pockets chock-full of secrets.
“I have heard more stories than there are crumbs lying on Granny’s floor. Today, dear child, I am the one telling you a story.”
I am Granny’s Apron.

Ek hang nou al jare aan dieselfde ou spyker agter die kombuisdeur.I have been hanging for years now on the same old nail behind the kitchen door.

My nate is ’n bietjie los, en my een sak het ’n gaatjie waar ’n lepel al deurgeglip het — maar o, my liewe kind, moenie my afskryf nie.
As jy mooi kyk sal jy ’n paar vlekke raaksien wat vertel van lekker “tjips” en tamatiesous.
Ek was daar toe Ouma haar eerste konfyt gekook het.My seams are a little loose, and one of my pockets has a little hole where a spoon once slipped through; but oh, my dear child, do not write me off.
If you look carefully you will spot a few stains that tell of yummy “chips” and tomato sauce.
I was there when Granny cooked her first jam.

Toe sy huil oor ’n boodskap; en toe sy lag vir daardie een koek wat soos ’n hoed gerys het!When she cried over a message; and when she laughed at that one cake that rose like a hat!

My lap is dalk oud, van Ouma se ou gordyn gemaak; maar ek is vol stories. Stories van liefde, van krummelpadjies vol kinderstappies, en van gebede wat stil in kolwyntjiemeelstof gefluister is...My cloth may be old, made from Granny’s old curtain; but I am full of stories. Stories of love, of crumb paths full of children’s footsteps, and of prayers whispered quietly in cupcake flour dust…

Ek was daar toe Ouma vir klein Diané leer koekies bak het; die eerste keer het die meel tot teen haar wenkbroue gesit!
Ek het lag-lag die melkdruppels opgevee toe sy haar glas melk omgestamp het. Ouma het net geglimlag en gesê: “Dis hoe ons leer, my lammetjie.”I was there when Granny taught little Diané to bake biscuits; the first time the flour went right up to her eyebrows!
Laughing, I wiped up the drops of milk when she knocked over her glass of milk. Granny just smiled and said: “That is how we learn, my little lamb.”

Ek het ook al trane gesien. Soms drup hulle sag op my lap as Ouma ’n briefie van ver lees. Of as sy voor die stoof stil raak en aan Oupa dink, wat áltyd vir haar ’n roos uit die tuin gebring het.
Ek hou daardie trane veilig. Dis mos kosbare druppels, daardie — opgevang in ’n skotteltjie van gebede.I have seen tears too. Sometimes they drip softly onto my cloth when Granny reads a little letter from far away. Or when she grows quiet in front of the stove and thinks of Grandpa, who always brought her a rose from the garden.
I keep those tears safe. They are precious drops, you know, those; caught in a little bowl of prayers.

En weet jy, partykeer gebruik Ouma my sakke om lekkertjies in weg te steek. Sommer net, omdat sy hou van verras.And do you know, sometimes Granny uses my pockets to hide sweets in. Just because, because she loves surprises.

Ek’s soos ’n skatkis; jy weet nóóit wanneer ek ’n toffie, of ’n gebed vir jou uit my voue sal haal nie.I am like a treasure chest; you never know when I will take a toffee, or a prayer for you, out of my folds.

Elke oggend, nog voor die voëltjies begin fluit, word ek van my hakie gehaal. Ouma se hande is sag en ruik altyd na seep en kaneel.
Ek vou so lekker om Ouma se lyf, sag om haar heupe waar haar nat hande sommer so op ’n drafstap afgevee kan word. Ek was daar wanneer Diané vir Ouma help skottelgoed was; dan sing ek hartlik saam!Every morning, even before the little birds start to sing, I am taken from my little hook. Granny’s hands are soft and always smell of soap and cinnamon.
I fold so nicely around Granny’s body, soft around her hips where her wet hands can be wiped quickly on the go. I was there when Diané helped Granny wash the dishes; then I sing along heartily!

Ouma hou van bak en brou, daarom is sy elke dag in die kombuis voor die koolstoof. Elke vou van my ken sy, en dan weet ek; vandag gaan ek weer deel wees van iets besonders.Granny loves to bake and brew, that is why she is in the kitchen every day in front of the coal stove. She knows every fold of me, and then I know; today I am going to be part of something special again.

Soos elke oggend, stap Ouma stadig hoenderkampie toe. Sy stap oor die dounat gras. Haar voete laat spore agter terwyl die dou op haar skoene spring.
In my sak is daar baie plek vir vars eiers.
“My wêreld,” sê sy sag vir haarself as sy by die kampie kom, “die hennetjies het weer hard gewerk.”Like every morning, Granny walks slowly to the little chicken run. She walks over the dewy grass. Her feet leave tracks behind while the dew jumps onto her shoes.
In my pocket there is plenty of room for fresh eggs.
“My goodness,” she says softly to herself when she gets to the run, “the little hens have worked hard again.”

Een vir een haal Ouma die eiers versigtig onder die henne uit. En dáár, in die sagte voue van my lap, lê die eiers; wit, roomkleurig en warm soos die sonnetjie self.One by one Granny carefully takes the eggs out from under the hens. And there, in the soft folds of my cloth, the eggs lie; white, cream-coloured and warm like the sunshine itself.

Maar wag, ek moet julle vertel van Antjie, die Rooibruin Hen...
Sy is ’n stuitige ding. Sy wip met gemak en fladder-fladder oor die draadheining, met haar rooi vlerke waaiend soos ’n klein stormwind, reguit tuin toe.
Sy is reg vir haar tuin-avonture. Reg vir haar skrop, met skerp tone tussen die laventelbos en pietersielie.
“Ag, Antjie,” sug Ouma met ’n lag, “jy soek alweer na wurms tussen my pietersielie!”
Maar sy laat haar begaan, want selfs die stoute hen het ’n plekkie in Ouma se hart; net soos in haar voorskoot.But wait, I must tell you about Antjie, the Red-brown Hen…
She is a cheeky thing. She hops easily and flutter-flutters over the wire fence, with her red wings waving like a small storm wind, straight to the garden.
She is ready for her garden adventures. Ready for her scratching, with sharp toes between the lavender bush and the parsley.
“Oh, Antjie,” sighs Granny with a laugh, “you are looking for worms in my parsley again!”
But she lets her be, because even the naughty hen has a little place in Granny’s heart; just like in her apron.

Ek mag maar net ’n stukkie lap wees, maar ek dra duisende herinneringe.
En al hang ek nou stil teen die agterdeur; ek was deel van liefde.I may be just a little piece of cloth, but I carry thousands of memories.
And even though I hang still against the back door now; I was part of love.

En as die dag stil raak en die son sak, hang Ouma my terug aan die haak.And when the day grows quiet and the sun sets, Granny hangs me back on the hook.

Maar as jy mooi kyk, kan jy nog die sagte buiging sien waar die eiers gelê het, en die sagte vuilmerke van ’n kind se hand wat vasgehou het aan die liefde van daardie warm, bekende lap.
“Hulle noem my net ‘Voorskoot’,” fluister ek, “maar ek was daar — vir elke traan, lag, koekresep en kombuiskuier wat jy jou kan indink.”But if you look carefully, you can still see the soft curve where the eggs lay, and the soft grubby marks of a child’s hand that held on to the love of that warm, familiar cloth.
“They just call me ‘Apron’,” I whisper, “but I was there, for every tear, laugh, cake recipe and kitchen visit you can imagine.”