Carol’s Column

Battle of the boerewors

I SHOULD have known better — but then I suppose some people never learn.

"Let's have a braai," my husband said gaily. "A good, old-fashioned braai."

I shuddered inwardly and outwardly at the thought of this great South African tradition.

Charred chops, wrinkled wors and burnt baked beans floated across my mind in unappetising sequence.

Enthusiasm, however, is infectious.

"The garden's looking lovely at the moment," continued my spouse, the end of his nose twitching as it always does when he gets excited.

It is, of course, a family trait. He comes from a long line of nose twitchers.

But he was right.

The garden was looking particularly spectacular.

There was a wild profusion of slugs, snails and bugs such as I'd never seen before and the compost heap looked most colourful covered in discarded paw paw, potato and orange peels.

"We'll ask a few friends, buy a lamb or cow, and have a braai this Sunday," said my husband, always a man of action.

"There's nothing to beat a braai, the cooking over hot coals, the fragrant smell of woodsmoke."

Mind you, he was a little dismayed when he discovered he had to mortgage the house to buy the meat.

"I had no idea that meat was so expensive," he muttered to himself as he lovingly dipped the chops in his special home-brewed marinade of brandy, garlic and vodka.

They say the vodka breaks down the sinews, you understand.

He'd also acquired a kilometre of boerewors which he tenderly laced with beer.

Sunday was a sparkling day.

The sun shone through the compost heap and the smell of decaying vegetation blended with the newly-spread chicken manure on the daisies and dahlias.

"I told you we should have fertilised tomorrow," I grumbled loudly.

"Rubbish," muttered my husband, adjusting his gas mask, "it's a wholesome, healthy smell. Our guests will love it."

In true, traditional manner our visitors — invited for lunch — arrived at 11am, settled into the beers and shortly were heard remarking on the somewhat pungent smell of the meat.

"It's the marinade," said my husband jovially.

At noon we built a small fire.

"Don't you think it's too big?" I asked as the flames shot five metres high.

"The trouble with you," said my husband as he threw on more wood, "is that you're conservative and dull.

"You have to have a good strong fire to make plenty of coals."

Just then the oak tree caught fire and the fire really was good and strong.

Unfortunately, by the time the fire brigade had departed, the coals were too wet to use.

Undaunted, my husband built a second fire.

Then, fortifying himself with yet another beer and with much oohing and aaahing from our happily inebriated friends, he placed the meat on the grid.

Adjusting his chef's hat and his 'Eat, Drink and be Merry' apron, he wiped his brow and looked longingly at a reclining chair.

To which he then retired.

Have you ever fought with a dead cow and a kilometre of boerewors?

I did not enjoy the experience.

I did not find it pleasant to inhale the smoke that issued forth in great clouds.

"Braaing is hard work, isn't it?" yelled my husband as he lay back and sipped his beer.

Fortunately, the marinade did the trick. Nobody noticed that the meat and the hostess were charred.

Many hours later, when our last visitor had staggered out of the front gate, my husband fondly placed his arm around me.

"What a grand way to spend a day," he said smilingly. "There's nothing quite like a braai."

Thank goodness.

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