Spring is in the air - at least for now!
"She dances to her soul's beat, with springtime's spirit and bare feet." – Angie Weiland Crosby
What a gorgeous day to be alive! And oh, the pure joy of slipping into a colorful floral top and flip-flops because the weather finally allows it.
Now, let’s talk about an unexpected craving that hit me like a warm summer breeze - boerewors.
To the uninitiated, boerewors is South Africa’s beloved spiral of spiced sausage, a must-have at every braai (barbecue). The name itself tells a story - "boer", meaning farmer, and "wors", meaning sausage. No-nonsense. No frills. Just pure, meaty goodness. Pair it with a golden, cheesy braaibroodjie (grilled sandwich), a fresh salad, and voilà! You’ve got a meal fit for a king, queen, or a South African expat dreaming of home.
Now, I have a complicated relationship with raw meat. It rarely inspires me. In fact, I usually breeze past the meat aisle thinking, "Too pricey!" or "This doesn’t look like something I’d want to turn into dinner." But this craving would not be ignored.
And it’s not just boerewors I miss. Oh no, let’s not forget the English banger! Back in South Africa, I could take or leave them. But in Ireland? Oh, those glorious, plump bangers won my heart. Fried onions, rich gravy, a fluffy pile of mashed potatoes - pure comfort on a plate. The English take it up a notch with mushy peas, but honestly, I never fully embraced that part.
This weekend, I decided it was time to thaw out from my self-imposed culinary exile. Life’s too short to live without the taste of home!
First mission: Find boerewors.
In Ireland, I had two ex-rugby players who made their own boerewors, and let me tell you, it tasted just like back home. Here in the U.S., the sausage selection is overwhelming - so many varieties, yet none quite right. But after some detective work, I tracked down a place that promised to have the good stuff.
Attempt #1: Failed. They were closed on Mondays. Rookie mistake.
Attempt #2: Success!
Today, I marched in with high hopes and was immediately hit with a wall of meat. Racks of sausages, steaks, patties (or burgers as its called here) wheels of cheese, spices galore - a proper boucherie! I took my sweet time, scanning every shelf, feeling a bit like Indiana Jones in search of a lost relic.
Just as despair started creeping in, an employee asked if I needed help. She waltzed right over, opened a door, and ta-da! There it was - boerewors! I nearly hugged her.
I couldn’t help but share a little nostalgia, telling her how we’d eat pap en wors growing up - simple maize porridge (pap), served with juicy, flame-grilled wors and a rich tomato-onion sauce. A humble, heartwarming meal. Here in America, they call pap “grits,” but so far, my quest for a proper bag has been fruitless. I’ll keep searching, though. You’ve got to try everything at least once before deciding it’s not quite right.
As I left the store, I felt a little lighter, a little more connected - to home, to Ireland, to the simple joy of finding a taste of the past in a new place.
Today was a day that fed my soul. I’m beginning to feel like a wildflower - allowing myself to grow in places no one, not even me, expected me to grow.
And tonight? Boerewors is on the menu.