Celeration Feast and Willi van derGoot's funeral

Last night we had a feast to celebrate the visit of Danette and Lynden - with nephew Simon and young(ish) friends Alex, Tara and Gerard.

It was one of our better feasts, beginning with a mediterranean platter of olives, artichoke hearts, marinated (by me) feta, smoked salmon, chorizos, cherry tomatoes, cucumber and I've forgotten what else. Good thing about not starting with soup is getting the wine bottles cracked at the start of the meal - though we were doing OK on the magueritas served earlier.

Then leek and potato soup, whitebait fritters & asparagus, chicken liver pate, an orange sorbet, then thrice cooked pork, cheeses and grapes, and a variety of desserts.

Thrice cooked pork is a great dish. Pork belly steamed, then roasted, then cut into 6cm squares ad refrigerated. Deep fried just before serving - the skin balloons out like expanded polystyrene. Served on a sweet potato and ginger mash with a plum based sauce.

For dessert Jean made dried cranberry truffles dipped in chocolate, cherry madeleines, little lemon creams, and meringues stuffed with whipped cream enriched with bannana, muscat soaked raisins, slivered almonds and lemon juice.

Tara and I who don't want to die, had instead orange and strawberry slices jazzed with rasberry absolut.

An night of fast and furious humour as these bright young people bounced the issues of the day back and forth with a wonderful disregard for reverence.

That reminds me of Wily van der Goot's funeral a few months back. Willi was the psychology department secretary for many years and ran the office with great efficiency and compassion for students in distress and for our professor, Alan Crowther who was gradually succumbing to depression and alcoholism. Active in the Dutch resistance during the war, Willi was great in a crisis. When Alan had a bout of illness just before the promotions exercise got underway, the second and much unloved professor Robin Gregson announced he was going to front up to the promotions committee. Willi got wind of this so for three days she locked herself in Alan's office with all the staff files until Alan got back to take over.

We knew that Willi was active in the Dutch Reform church in Christchurch but we never discussed this side of her life. The only clash came when I took to work a copy of Raoul Dahl's My Uncle Oswald to lend to I've forgotten who.

This very funny book (about the proprietors of a sperm bank who specialise in sperm samples gained from eminent men without their knowledge) was definitely not written for children. Willi saw the book on my desk and pounced on it for she said she loved to read Dahl's stories to her Sunday school class and she didn't have this book. I spluttered and tried as best I could to dissuade Willi but her resistance training came to the fore and refusing to belief it could not be suitable she whisked the book away. It appeared back on my desk two days later and we never mentioned it again.

But back to why I remembered her funeral. I couldn't help contrasting the intellectual hilarity of last nights gathering with the awful gathering of the faithful which celebrated Willi's life in the Christchurch Reform Church. Held in a bleak, unadorned building, the service was a cold and grim with no comfort whatsoever for friends and family. Willi died after a long and painful illness but we were told that been ordained as her fate by God. Straight from Calvin. I felt so sad that Willi, such a kind, thoughtful person to work with, returned to that milieu when she left work.