Carol’s Column

A little home cooking to soup-up Zola

WHAT would you do with a mother-in-law who wants to send Zola Budd home-made chicken soup?

“Ma, how can you send chicken soup to Zola? She's in Los Angeles? Do you know how far away Los Angeles is?” I asked despairingly.

“So, I'll airfreight it express,” she replied.

“Ma, Zola's on a strict athlete's diet. Her every bite is monitored. There's no way that your chicken soup features in that diet.”

“Huh, diet.” She twitched. “Listen, just one spoon of my chicken soup and she'll leave Mary Becker standing.”

“Mary Decker.”

“Yes, that's what I said. “Mary Becker.” She bristled. “And, she'll leave those hairy Russians standing, too.”

“Ma, the hairy Russians aren't running. They've decided not to come — they're scared of lack of security.”

“Yes, that's right,” she said with great satisfaction, “of course they're scared — everyone's scared of Zola Budd, even Mary Becker.”

It is not possible to win with my mother-in-law.

So, lucky Zola. Along with all the good wishes from South Africa, she will be receiving my mother-in-law's chicken soup. It will give her strength and it will also have at least one feather floating in it to prove it's the real thing.

Zola fever is everywhere.

“I will not put on my shoes,” said my third youngest-unmarried-son the other day as I caught him zooming away on his skateboard. “Zola Budd doesn't wear shoes, so why should I?”

“Because you are not Zola Budd. Because it is so cold this morning that the egg froze on the way to the frying pan and because, anyway, Zola does wear shoes. She's just been paid a fee of R400 000 to promote some running shoes.”

“Well, I'm prepared to negotiate,” said Jamie. “For a flat rate of R10, I'll wear shoes.”

It will suffice to say that I did not take him up on his offer. Neither did he catch the slap aimed for his rear. He ran, barefoot, far faster than I did.

“Who do you think will win?” asked my local café owner, alias the bank of Cyprus, when I popped in to buy bread.

“Oh, Zola,” I said.

“Wanna bet?” he hissed with a glint in his eye. “The odds are 4 to 1 in Decker's favour.

“You're on, put R2 on Budd.”

“Huh! The last of the big spenders,” he muttered as he wrote down my name.

Even at my knitting club, speculation is rife. “There's no doubt it's Zola for the gold,” said my good friend Betty as she clicked away at a pair of thermal underpants.

“Never,” said Marion, “Decker's got the legs, the weight, the stamina, the experience.”

But it was Agnes who put things into perspective. “Listen, build is nothing — it's inner strength that counts.”

A petite asparagus of a girl who's on her fifth husband, we could only agree.

Meanwhile the richest South Africans have flown direct to Los Angeles to watch the Olympics. The merely rich are in London to catch the Olympics on TV. The almost-rich have flocked to Swaziland to watch on Swazi-TV.

And the Lazars? We're out on a limb with most of SA. Holding thumbs for our Zola.

Which brings us back to my mother-in-law's soup. It performs miracles.

Used to cure everything from back-ache to constipation, it even started my jalopy on September 10, 1980, the day it snowed.

If the soup does reach her, she'll definitely win. She'll be running so fast to avoid it.

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