Mom brings out the big coil of boerewors and Max tells me it looks like a poo. Hansie laughs. ‘Ha! Poo! Massive poo!’ ‘I bet it doesn’t taste like one,’ Max’s father says, and Hansie laughs even more. ‘Most of us aren’t in a position to make the comparison, Craig,’ Max’s mother says. ‘Moving on, boys . . .’ Mom lifts it onto the braai and pokes it into place with tongs. ‘It means farmer’s . . . snag. Boere wors.’ She lifts the cling film off a plate that’s sitting nearby and holds up a skewer with cubes of marinated lamb and peppers on it. ‘Now, what do you call this? We call it sosatie.’ ‘Just skewers mostly,’ Max’s dad says. ‘Put me down for a few of those.’ Mom looks happy that, for Max’s parents, South Africa seems like it might be interesting. They want to find out new things, in a good way. As long as this doesn’t end in roller derby, everything should be okay. We don’t need Mom getting about in lycra with Joltin’ Josie written on her back.
