Gwynneth Louw – A Sunday Memory, Recreated by Hand

Gwynneth never planned to make koesisters.
For most of her life, she didn’t need to. Her mother always made them. And there was always enough. Enough to collect, enough to share, enough to satisfy the craving that lived quietly in the background of every Sunday morning. But then Covid arrived. Life shifted. Distance grew. The familiar drive to fetch a warm batch became too far, and the longing for a really good koesister had nowhere to go.
So, she tried…

Gwynneth had never made a koesister a day in her life. But the first attempt led to another, and then another. With every batch, she got better. Until one day, she was confident enough to take her koesisters back to the woman who started it all — her mother. When her mother gave her stamp of approval, she knew she had done something right.

Her foundation came from watching the late Fatima Sydow — a proudly Cape Malay cook she admired deeply and lovingly “snatched recipes” from. Those videos gave her the base, and from there, she built something that suited her taste, her hands, and her memory of what a koesister should be.
Selling them wasn’t about ambition. It was about necessity. Her husband had been retrenched, and she needed to supplement her income with what she already had in front of her. The ingredients were there. The recipe was there. The nostalgia was already alive in her heart. So, she asked herself: What if I could recreate the feeling of childhood Sunday mornings? And with that, she began without pressure, without grand plans, just a delicious koesister and the courage to try.

Koesisters, to her, are pure memory. She remembers rushing out early on a Sunday morning, grabbing the biggest bakkie she could find from the messy Tupperware cupboard, and buying the family’s share. Sitting with that first cup of coffee, biting into a warm koesister felt like the sun kissing your face. It’s a memory etched so deeply that even now, every time she does it, it still feels just as satisfying.

What makes her koesisters different isn’t a secret ingredient — it’s technique. Texture. Knowing when to add what, and how. Soft but fluffy, with a slight chew. Coated, not soaked. Just enough syrup. Just enough coconut. Balanced spice and salt. A little ball of love, made thoughtfully, every time.
In her home, Sunday koesisters are serious business. Her youngest insists on his own share — plus testers, of course. Her oldest proudly sells them at school for pocket money. The tradition isn’t just alive — it’s active, noisy, and full of joy.

To anyone who hasn’t tried her koesisters yet, she smiles and says: There is a koesister for everyone out there — if you haven’t found yours, you just haven’t found mine.

She knows exactly who will carry this tradition forward. Her mother already bakes and sells. Her youngest son has helped her in the kitchen many times and will surely take what he’s learned with him. And her oldest? He’ll sell them. Because this is how traditions survive, not through perfection, but through memory, love, and the simple decision to begin.
One Sunday at a time.