Memorable moments: The institution of lumpy custard

Our family used to go round for dinner at Gran and Gramps on a regular basis. It remains one of my favorite memories. Gran was an absolutely awesome cook, a woman who could navigate a kitchen with effortless grace, consistently producing amazing meals that anchored our family life.

But there was one singular, recurring flaw in her culinary repertoire: the custard.

For some reason, the smooth, silken sauce of the professional chef always eluded her. Her custard was invariably lumpy—filled with those strange, sweet islands of undissolved powder that defied every stir of her wooden spoon. It was the one thing she didn't make perfectly.

We turned it into a family institution. We’d sit around the table and make fun of it in the kindest way possible, poking at the "treasures" hidden in our dessert bowls. Gran would just smile, unfazed by the teasing.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that while we admired her for her "perfect" roasts, we truly loved her for that custard. It was a reminder that excellence is impressive, but it’s people’s imperfections that we actually bond over. Those lumps weren't a failure of cooking; they were the texture of home.

Memorable moments: The invisible procession

In her later years, Gran’s driving slowed to a pace that could generously be described as “contemplative.”

One Saturday morning we were making our way along Claremont Main Road—normally a chaotic, bumper-to-bumper affair. Shops buzzing, taxis darting, people everywhere. Except, according to Gran, it wasn’t.

She peered out over the steering wheel and said, with genuine wonder, “Gosh… the road is almost empty. I wonder where all the cars are.”

I had a quiet look in the rearview mirror.

“They’re not lost, Gran,” I thought. “They’ve just… formed a respectful procession behind you.”

Memorable moments: The slow-motion comb

I have always struggled with a deep-seated phobia of making people wait. If I’m even a few minutes behind schedule, a familiar, prickly anxiety begins to bloom. For years, I wondered where this frantic need for punctuality came from, but looking back at our family trips to Muizenberg beach, the source is clear.

Muizenberg was a local institution, and on a good day, the parking lot was a battlefield. Dozens of cars would circle the asphalt like sharks, or as my father would mutter under his breath, "Vultures!"

After a day in the sun, Jo, my mum, my dad, and I would troop back to our cream-colored Volkswagen Variant. Inevitably, a "vulture" would spot us packing our gear and pull up alongside, indicator blinking with predatory expectation. Most people, sensing the pressure, would hurry.

My father was not most people.

We would climb into the car, the waiting driver idling just inches away, ready to pounce on our spot. Instead of turning the key and vacating the space, Dad would reach into his pocket and slowly, deliberately, produce a comb.

Then, he would begin a performance that felt like it lasted a lifetime. In extreme slow motion, he would meticulously comb his mostly bald head. He wasn't just grooming; he was savoring the power. He would check his reflection, adjust an invisible stray hair, and enjoy every agonizing second of making the "vulture" wait.

In the back seat, Jo and I would catch each other’s eyes and roll them toward the ceiling in a silent plea for the earth to swallow us whole. It was excruciatingly embarrassing, a masterclass in petty defiance that Dad absolutely relished.

I think I spent the rest of my life running five minutes early just to compensate for those few minutes in the Muizenberg parking lot. While my dad was finding his bliss in the slow-motion stroke of a comb, he was inadvertently hard-wiring me to never, ever be the person holding up the line.

Memorable moments: The Birkenhead legend

When I was a child, I was the grandson of a living legend—a man of quiet reserve and an incredibly enormous appetite. One of our greatest family traditions was traveling to Hermanus to stay at the Birkenhead Hotel with Granny and Grandpa. It was a magnificent place, perched right by the crashing Indian Ocean, and it was renowned across the Cape for its culinary indulgence.

Every night, we would process into the dining room. Grandpa was always greeted by name by the staff; despite his reserved nature, he was a local celebrity in those halls.

The menu at the Birkenhead was a masterpiece of choice: there were always seven starters, seven main courses, and seven desserts. The portions were healthy, the food was delicious, and the hotel policy was dangerously encouraging—you were allowed to order as many dishes as you wanted. In fact, they practically dared you to explore the limits of your own hunger.

My grandfather was the only man in the hotel's history to accept that dare in its entirety. In a single sitting, he quietly made his way through the entire menu—all twenty-one dishes.

He didn't make a scene or demand attention; he simply sat there and methodically etched his name into the hotel’s history books. As the waiters shuttled back and forth, bringing plate after plate of starters, mains, and sweets, the room seemed to hold its breath. He was revered by the staff and fellow guests alike for his silent, gastronomic stamina.

I remember sitting there, a small boy in the shadow of this quiet giant, feeling a surge of immense pride. I wasn't just related to a man who liked his food; I was the grandson of a man who could conquer a hotel menu like a mountain. It taught me early on that you don't need to be the loudest person in the room to become a legend—sometimes, you just need a very steady fork and an unstoppable resolve.

Memorable moments: The middle way

When I was seventeen, my family flew to Mauritius for a holiday. We touched down at the airport in Port Louis and boarded a bus to be transported to our hotel. Almost immediately, the journey took on a life-threatening quality. The driver operated the vehicle like a bat out of hell, hurtling down the center of the road with terrifying speed.

My mum, who has never been a calm passenger at the best of times, was visibly shaken. We were all sitting right at the front of the bus, giving us a panoramic view of what appeared to be impending doom. As we gripped our seats, we noticed that we weren't alone; many of the other cars were also straddling the white lines, treating the two lanes as one giant suggestion.

My dad, trying to make sense of the chaos, finally spoke up. "Wow," he said to the driver, "everyone seems to drive right in the middle of the road here!"

The driver let out a hearty laugh, not even slowing his pace.

"Yes!" he shouted over the engine. "You see, when the French colonized our island, they forced us to drive on the right. Then the English came and they forced us to drive on the left. Now that we are independent, we drive in the middle!"

It was the perfect lesson in post-colonial logic. While the diplomats were busy drafting constitutions, the bus drivers of Mauritius had found their own way to express their freedom: by occupying every inch of the asphalt at ninety kilometers an hour.

Attention is love

In many ways, Gran and Gramps could not have been more different. To my young eyes, Gramps was the undisputed hero—an extroverted, charismatic powerhouse who had been a respected amateur actor in his youth. He was the man who held sway as the MC at the annual bowls club, a storyteller who lived for the spotlight and the punchline. He was physically effusive, showering us with praise and affection. As a shy, introverted boy, I idolized him. I wanted to be that eloquent, that funny, and that confident.

In many ways, I took on his mantle. I found myself in school plays, losing myself in roles, and eventually becoming a skilled public speaker—though, unlike Gramps, my "performance" always came with a side of anxiety. I learned from him how to express admiration and how to hold a room with a well-timed story.

Gran, however, was the steady, background presence. She was never the center of attention and far less demonstrative with her affection. But if you got her into a one-on-one conversation, the world shifted.

Gran was an incredible listener. She didn't just hear you; she held what you said. She had a memory like a carefully curated archive; if you mentioned a small detail in passing, months later she would present you with a newspaper clipping perfectly relevant to that thought. Her love wasn't a loud performance; it was a quiet, non-judgmental space.

I’ve realized as I’ve grown older that love, in its purest form, is exactly that: spacious, affirming, and attentive. Attention is love.

While I idolized the "Toucher Tony" version of life when I was young, my appreciation for Gran has grown until she stands as a role model equal to Gramps. She is the bar I set for my own relationships. If I can show a genuine, loving interest in others the way she did, I know I’m offering something truly special.

I was remarkably lucky to have them both. They represent the two halves of my personality: the part of me that wants to tell a great story to a crowd, and the part of me that knows the most important thing I can ever give someone is my undivided, loving attention.

Family stories: Toucher Tony

Later in life, well after Gran and Gramps had emigrated from the UK to Cape Town to be with us, Gramps took up bowls. It wasn't just a hobby; he had found his true calling. While Gran played and enjoyed the social aspect, for Gramps, the green was sacred ground.

He was famously gregarious, a frustrated actor at heart who finally found his stage. Every year at the Annual Bowls Christmas party, he would hold sway as the MC, regaling the club with stories and jokes he had meticulously collected throughout the year. He was the lifeblood of the club, a man whose energy and humor could turn a simple game into a theatrical performance.

Gramps even had a specific, cinematic dream for how his life would conclude. In his mind’s eye, he would sidle up to the edge of the green, supported by his zimmerframe. He would take aim, throw his final "wood," and as it rolled toward the jack, he would suffer a swift, painless heart attack. As the world faded to black, the last sound he would hear—the ultimate validation of a life well-played—would be the cry: "Toucher Tony, Toucher! Well done!"

In the physical world, reality was less poetic. Peripheral neuropathy eventually claimed the strength in his legs, forcing him to give up his beloved sport. He spent his final year in a care home, passing away exactly one year after his "darling" had come to get him.

But in my mind, the physical ending doesn't count. When I think of him now, I see him on a super-vivid, ethereal celestial bowling green. He isn't hobbling; he is galloping along with vital abandon, throwing his woods with perfect precision. Gran is there, watching with that sixty-year-old look of love, the clubmates are roaring at his latest story, and the air is filled with the constant, triumphant cry: "Toucher Tony, Toucher!"

Family stories: The piano hiders

Once upon a time, many years ago, a party was held in a house crowded with teenagers. The game of the night was "Murder in the Dark." The lights were killed, the house was plunged into a predatory blackness, and as the "murderer" began to stalk the corridors, the guests scattered into the shadows, shrieking and scrambling for safety.

When the lights finally flickered back on, two complete strangers discovered they had chosen the exact same refuge: the cramped, dusty space beneath an old piano.

As they untangled themselves and looked across at one another, the impression was instantaneous. She was taken by his cheery smile and an optimism that seemed to vibrate off him; he was utterly smitten by her long, lithe, gorgeous legs—legs that he maintained, for the next sixty years, were the most beautiful in all of England.

Their connection was immediate, and four years later, they were married. What followed was a romance that survived the brutal separations of the Second World War and spanned well over half a century. They were, quite simply, inseparable.

In their later years, when Gran developed dementia and moved into a care facility, Gramps’ devotion only deepened. He visited her every single day, wheeling her out into the sunlight of the garden and holding her hand for hours on end. He was a man possessed by a single, noble mission: he was determined to outlive her, purely so he could ensure she was never alone.

Gran passed away at the age of eighty-two on September 16, 2002.

Following her death, Gramps’ own health began to falter, and he eventually moved into care himself. On September 15 of the following year, he looked at the nurses and made a quiet, certain announcement: "My darling is coming to get me."

He was right. The very next day—September 16, 2003—exactly one year to the day after Gran had passed, Gramps went to join her.

And I’ve often thought about that moment under the piano.  Two people, hiding in the dark, not knowing what was about to find them.

It turns out it wasn’t the murderer. 

It was a lifetime of love.

Memorable moments: Thick as Tina

Growing up, we had a beloved dog named Tina. I have never, in all my years, seen a dog who could wag her tail with such violent, sustained joy. It didn't matter if you’d been gone for two years or two minutes; Tina’s tail was her primary mode of communication.

Eventually, her enthusiasm became her undoing. She wagged so hard and so often against the walls that her tail was constantly injured, the scabs breaking open and spraying blood everywhere in a rhythmic, joyful massacre. It lasted for months until it became untenable. With heavy hearts, my parents had the vet remove it.

Tina returned home wearing a pair of female panties for a few weeks to protect the healing stump. But the loss of the tail didn't dampen her spirit; it just forced her to find a new medium for her delight. From that day on, when she saw you, she would emit a low, rumbling hum of pleasure through her nose while her entire hindquarters swung from side to side in a rhythmic "butt-wag." If the excitement reached a certain threshold, she’d punctuate the moment by widdling with pure joy.

Tina lived for the driveway ball-toss. We had another dog, Meg, and the competition between them was nothing short of existential. For Tina, getting to the ball before Meg wasn't just a game—it was her life’s work. If Meg won, the heartbreak was visible.

When she wasn't competing for tennis balls, Tina was hunting shadows. She was particularly obsessed with the moving silhouettes of butterflies, chasing them across the grass for hours, barking at the ground, and occasionally stubbing her nose on the dirt in her pursuit of a dark spot. At night, she’d transfer that intensity to torchlight, sprinting after a beam of light as if it were a tangible prize.

My grandfather, never one to mince words, used to use her as the family benchmark for intelligence. If my sister or I did or said something particularly dim-witted, he’d shake his head and say, "Don’t be as thick as Tina."

He wasn't entirely wrong about her IQ, but I loved her with all my heart. She was the kinetic, shadow-chasing soundtrack to my childhood and teens—a dog who might not have understood how light worked, but who understood exactly how to love a family with every fiber of her (short-tailed) being.

Memorable moments: My Himalayan organ

In my final year at university, reality hit me in the form of a searing, localized agony at two in the morning. I managed to get into my car to drive to my parents' house, but the journey was a stop-start nightmare; at every red light, I had to abandon the steering wheel and curl myself into a fetal ball until the light turned green.

My parents took one look at my translucent complexion and rushed me to the emergency room. I was whisked into surgery for an emergency appendectomy.

My first memory of waking up was the surgeon standing over my bed, looking less like a clinical professional and more like a proud fisherman.

"My God, Mr. Myburgh!" he exclaimed. "You have the hugest appendix I have ever seen! It’s truly impressive—look, here it is in a bottle." He held up the jar with a flourish. "Getting this sucker out of you was a genuine challenge. Do you mind if we keep it? It honestly belongs in a museum."

Droggy and recovering, I looked at the "sucker" in the jar and felt a strange, misplaced sense of pride. I remember thinking, Wow, I only wish certain other of my organs were built to the same magnificent proportions.

With my parents heading off on a trip, I went to stay with my beloved grandparents to convalesce. It was during this recovery period that I discovered a side of my grandfather I had never suspected.

One morning, unable to sleep, I crept into the kitchen at dawn for a glass of milk. There sat Gramps at the kitchen table, intensely focused on the morning crossword. He was entirely, unapologetically nude.

"Gramps," I whispered, clutching my surgical stitches, "you’re... you're nude."

He didn't even look up from the clues. "Yes," he replied matter-of-factly. "For some reason, it makes me more inspired at thinking up words."

I considered this in silence.

Between his approach to crosswords and my record-breaking appendix, it was becoming increasingly clear that subtlety was not a dominant trait in our family.

Memorable moments: The wrong foot

We were gathered for a proper family meal—Mum, Jo, Antony, Gran, Gramps, and my girlfriend (and future wife), Ally. The atmosphere was warm, the conversation was flowing, and I was feeling particularly romantic.

Deciding to share a private, flirtatious moment with Ally, I quietly slipped my shoe off under the table. I reached out with my foot, searching for hers, and began a gentle, rhythmic game of "footsie." I was quite pleased with myself; it felt like a sophisticated, silent connection in the middle of a busy Sunday lunch.

Suddenly, I noticed a change in the atmosphere above the mahogany.

Gran looked up from her roast potatoes and locked eyes with Gramps. A beautiful, radiant smile spread across her face—a look of absolute, rekindled love that I hadn't seen in years. It was the kind of look usually reserved for silver wedding anniversaries or wartime reunions.

Gramps looked back at her, smiling kindly, but he had a look of profound and utter confusion in his eyes. He clearly had no idea what had prompted this sudden outburst of grandmotherly affection.

In a sudden, startling flash of realization, the physics of the seating chart hit me. I wasn't playing footsie with Ally at all. I had overshot the mark by about twelve inches and was currently massaging Gran’s support stockings with my big toe.

I sat there, frozen, realizing I had accidentally become the most romantic thing to happen to Gran’s feet since 1954. I gently retracted my foot, put my shoe back on, and spent the rest of the meal staring very intently at my gravy, while Gran continued to beam at a bewildered Gramps for the next forty-five minutes.

Sheila's memorial

The family held their memorial for Sheila this weekend at Alphen Way. Lots of beautiful shared memories and tributes to a wonderful person and a life well lived. 

Jo's beautiful tribute

Sheila, this is for you — to honour your 92 years and the incredible life you lived before being reunited with your beloved Henk.

When I think of you, I think of all the small, meaningful things that made you so uniquely you. Your love of ironing, darning and mending, always taking such care with everything. The colourful bottles that stood in cheerful rows along your kitchen shelf, and the little treasures and teaspoons you collected on your travels — each one with a story.

Your home and garden were a reflection of you — warm, cared for, and full of pride. There was never a plate left in the sink, and everything had its place. And of course a “Sheila” salad was never complete without its signature touches: Little cubes of cheddar, chopped onion and sliced mushrooms.

I will think of the quiet, special moments too — how Sam would melt with contentment from your arm tickles in the back of the car, purring with happiness. How you were always on hand to look after her so I could get some sleep after Matt was born. How, on your walks together, you planted seeds of wonder and magic in her heart, filling her world with fairies and imagination.

It is about the family you loved cherished so deeply. How you loved Mathew with such pride, and how that same pride extended to each of your eight grandchildren. Not a single Sunday morning call with Antony passed without you asking about them — what they were doing, how they were, what little stories there were to share. You were always interested, always present.

It is about your love story with Henk — a love so deep and constant. You did everything side by side, a true partnership in every sense. Your strength during his illness and the fierce, protective love you showed him will never be forgotten.

Plett won’t feel the same without you and our family gatherings will always have a space where you should be — our matriarch, at the centre of it all.

It is about your spirit of adventure — your love of travel, of road trips in the Musso with Henk. Skydiving at 87 says everything about your bravery! How incredible it was for one last spin in the boat in Plett - the delight on your face is something I will never forget.

It is about the little things that made us smile — how you and Henk were always five minutes early to everything, how your cheeks would turn pink after a glass of wine, how you loved your pretty lights, sitting with your chair with your cross word puzzles, your weekly You adiction, your love of Binnelanders and the Grand Pree.

Your belly laugh when something tickled you! The incredible garden you created, drawing much admiration from all who walked past. How much you loved your tea and always had your cup and saucer ready at the kettle for the next brew.

You were beautiful, inside and out — you looked gorgeous wearing pinks and purples, never without your earrings and pearls. How you never missed your weekly hair appointment, and how, in all the years, not a single grey hair ever showed — always so perfectly, gracefully you.

But more than anything, we’ll remember your generosity and your love. How you spoiled us — at restaurants, at Christmas, on birthdays. Always thinking of others. And how no one ever left your house after a visit to Bloem without chocolates, Rolo’s, smarties and later on bags of Checkers mixed choccies to pass on to the other family members who could not have been there.

We will miss you deeply. But we will carry you with us — in the way we care for others, in the stories we tell, and in all the little things that will always remind us of you.

Jason passes away

Beloved Jason always greeted me, when I arrived in South Africa, with such love and excitement. He spent many a night on my bed, all snuggled up.  He loved his food with a hungry passion. He adored walking in the Greenbelt and around the block, trotting, sniffing and peeing on many a bush. He was a loyal member of the Boting clan, always watching other members of the family with loving curiosity. When he or we were truly excited, he barked with abandon in his distinctive high pitched tone.  He was a truly beautiful little being and we will all miss him terribly. 

 

How wondrous that you can see Jason in his paw print, done by Sam.

Sam saying goodbye

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Jo and the family in 2024

Jo and the family had a very full year with lots of trips, outings and milestone's including Matt's 21st.  Here for posterity are some of the beautiful photos Jo took to record their special moments.

 

December

Kayak in Simonstown

Xmas

Antony birthday in Langebaan

Walk at Sandy Bay

Sunday morning swim

November

Greenbelt race 

World Preemie Day

Zoe Project brunch

Fynbos Trail

October

Meiringpoort Race

Flower show at Stanford

September

Kirstenbosch

Rookwood Farm

Matric dance photos of Meg's daughter

August

 Roadtrip to see the flowers

Tankwa Karoo

June

Sunrise swim

Father's Day

Swim

Kirstenbosch

Sam off to Greece

May

Mother's Day

Stanford

April

Fernkloof Hike in Hermanus

Tidal Pool Party

Sam birthday

Two Ocean Marathon

Kalk Bay storms

Hysterectomy

Easter

February

Mum's birthday

Constantia Nek Hike

Kalk Bay harbour

Zoe Project Valentine's Day

Flower photos

Silvermine hike

Llandadno

Waterfront cruise

January

Matt's 21st

All annual reviews

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