THE BIG READ

Bread isn’t the only thing you can break to find community

It was quite apparent that we were different. Growing up in Bloemfontein from the early 1990s as Taiwanese immigrants wasn’t exactly the smoothest childhood, even as a privileged middle-class family. We are a minority and stood out, even if we didn’t intend to, from our skin tone, facial features and language to our culture, our beliefs and, of course, our food.

We’d make trips to the stores as a family. These trips were a fun treat for me, especially the grocery shopping. I loved browsing the aisles, discovering produce and products, and reading labels as an exercise while learning the English language. If I behaved badly, my parents would say to me “no Pick ‘n Pay, no Hyperama” — an awful punishment.

“We need to spend less” — this phrase was uttered every time my parents had to pay for anything, and became a motto for every spending mission. One of the ways my parents tried to save was through bulk buying when there was a special.

I remember the outings took up the entire morning, and after walking around for a few hours and not eating in the store, we’d walk out with our trolley and there it was: that scent of boerewors grilling on the braai — the char of the beef and fat, hints of coriander seed and nutmeg. Along with the sausage was the sweet and fragrant caramelised onion.

The smell is captivating and you find yourself unconsciously drifting towards the boerewors stall to place an order that never takes longer than five minutes before you burn your tongue on the juices inside the sausage casing.

Even though the point of wholesale was to save, it was an important part of the routine to get one of these to satisfy our grumbling stomachs.

“Yes, with onions, tomato sauce and mustard please,” even though in the back of my mind, I knew I’d end up suckling on my T-shirt on the ride home since I always seemed to mess on myself. I still do.

I always offered to be the one to order. I loved hanging out by the stall while waiting, watching the vendors flip the sausages effortlessly, and I’d gawk in amazement when a spot of fat caught fire — foodie fireworks.

There we were, black, white, coloured and Asian, flocking around the boerewors stall, smiling, swapping a comment or two about how amazing it smells while we drool and wait. I felt the connection and the warmth. I felt like I belonged and that I, too, was a South African.

Today, I’m 30 years old, living and working in Cape Town as a food writer ... and I still feel that connection and warmth, and I reminisce over this memory while my husband and I wait for our boerewors rolls when we leave after the occasional trip to Makro.

And, yes, with onions, tomato sauce and mustard please.

I felt like I belonged and that I, too, was a South African