Last words from Karin Brynard

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Late at night, in a horribly messy kitchen, Karin Brynard came to understand life just a little bit better. Imagine there was such a thing as the kitchen police? Those tired old things would definitely send the virus police into Paula Dubois • Translation Hettie Scholtz The virus and a virtuous kitchen The thought suddenly struck me late one evening while turning off the lights in a very deurmekaar kitchen. We were at the end of the second month of lockdown and I had just watched the evening news, witnessing that ridiculous cabinet minister with the little goatee threatening us with jail time if we hysterical Hitler-fits. However, every now and then I do give them a hearty shake, and then hang them out on the sunny side of the kitchen. Germs hate dry environments. To them, it’s like a party without booze. They hit the road for... wherever. The floor, perhaps. Illustrations dared to buy summer plakkies. The idea of a kitchen police was I shrugged and turned off the lights. by no means far-fetched. Mine looked as if all four horsemen of But then I switched them on again, suddenly mortified. the apocalypse had just trudged through it. It was germ heaven. This wasn’t me! Normally I’m a Nazi in the kitchen.

So, what sort of crime would land you in jail, I wondered. The Tupperware cupboard is just so. The canned section is

What would be worse, a grubby kitchen floor or dirty dishes? organised with military precision, the cups regimentally arranged, To my mind, dirty dishes won hands down. A dirty floor was all facing north. Shiny taps were once my pride and joy. surely less dangerous. Unless your mask fell to the floor, of Now you’d need a GPS to locate them in this hellhole of filth. course. That would be deadly. But then again, you could easily What had this damned virus done to me? It had robbed me of argue the five-second rule: if a fallen item is scooped up in five something vital. Decency? seconds, it’s considered still clean. Check it out, people My mom used to say that a decent person never goes to bed worldwide know this. with a dirty kitchen. She always ended her day with rinsing the

So I was fine in the floor department – unless spots counted. cups from our late-night tea session. She’d be humming softly, But would all spots be equal? If a coffee spot got you a fine, soapsuds on her wrists and the comforting sound of her voice what about soup spots then? Undoubtedly a much heavier lulling me towards bed. I thought of the life I shared with my late transgression, methinks. Maybe up there with drunken driving. husband: us in the kitchen before bedtime, me giving the You’d have a criminal record, right there. stovetop one last wipe and he folding his newspaper away.

But the question of dirty dishes kept worrying me. Dirty plates A kitchen, it dawned on me, isn’t just some space in the should be passable after a quick wipe with some kitchen towel, house. This is where you celebrate the attachments in your life provided they haven’t gone dry and crusty. Dirty pots, on the – a family circle, your girlfriends exchanging jokes, preparing a other hand, now there’s a different kettle of fish. One dirty pot meal for your loved ones. A kitchen is even more. It’s a condition might merit a light sentence; some community service, like – of belonging. And nurture. And caring – not only for others, but sweeping streets. But for the whole caboodle of pots and pans... also yourself. On this very fragile point, I realised, the virus had We’re talking a life sentence, man. pinned me down. It had condemned me to solitary confinement,

Lucky for me, I live alone. So I don’t cook at all (thanks to not only of body but also of mind! Woolies’ zap-it-in-the-microwave range). But I do have my No ways, Mister Corona, I decided then and there, switching standards – my teacups must be reasonably clean. And I on my stereo and cranking up “ Jeremiah was a Bullfrog”. appreciate nature by saving water, so I only wash up once Defiantly, I started on the dishes, bellowing heartily along to everything is dirty. “ Joy to the world! Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea, joy to

OK, so I was relatively safe in that department. But then my you and me.” My mind was free, I decided. And it was set on eye caught the sad, tattered rags I call dishcloths. Hell’s bells! hope. Hope for a new world. And also for me.