I am at the opposite end of the world, and there’s no mistaking it. Freezing my bits off at -26 degrees celcius (Ouch!), one cannot deny they are nowhere near the vicinity of watermelons. I am colder than I have ever been, and can’t help but think that Africans were not made for such temperatures.
But, today, as always, I found moments of wonder, such as discovering a drive-thru post office, and bags of shoveled snow piled for collection, like trash at the end of driveways.
In the midst of all this, I feel quite blessed to live in a global village, where Alan can impress his folks with an Asian dish he shopped for in Kansas City this snowy afternoon. I was thrilled to scoop up bright red pregant crackers, and Quality Street choccies for the Christmas dinner table. Alan retrieved a shamefaced, crushed pannetone cake from his carry-on to add to the nostalgia feast. I will gorge myself come Thursday, stroking that one sense that is so heightened in matters of the heart.
When people walk into my home in San Francisco, they are only slightly less excited to see the African masks, tribal paintings, and street crafts than are my South African brethren. I shop regularly to top up on Ouma rusks, Provitas and Bovril paste, down in San Bruno, alongside the cardamon, ghee and English toffees. We turn up the Mafikizola on Sundays while our neighbours are at Starbucks, and Tivo movies like Ghandi and Cry Beloved Country. My bookshelves are groaning with the wise words of Pamela Joost and Andre Brink. When I get truly nostalgic I whip out the Melk Tert recipe, or give in to my friend’s demands for bobotie. But for now, I’m happy to toast my American family with a French wine, while nibbling on a sugary mince pie. Happy Holidays!
