bovril schmovril

I have always been the one to poo-poo those South Africans who run to the SA shop every five minutes for something from home.  "What's wrong with Aussie biscuits and cereal?"  I would ask.  They would come out of Kalahari (yes, I kid you not - that is the name of the local stockist) armed with everything from Pronutro to Oros and Corenza C's. 

And then suddenly in my eighth migrant month I wanted biltong so badly it hurt.  I braced myself for the onslaught of Afrikaans country music and crossed over the boerewors threshold for my supply.  And I have to say, it was damn good.  The boys tucked in with relish and really enjoyed the taste of home.  I could even do the Rand conversion without sucking in air between my teeth at $45 per kilo.  After that little detour I felt quite back on track for Australian life and headed to the Anzac biscuit isle with new confidence.

Then I hit the ninth month and my craving for Mavis' samp and beans became my constant companion.  Back I went for the dried out samp (no beans) from Kalahari and after one false start and a burned pot, I cooked up a storm.  Given that I had really never made gnushi before I thought it was pretty good but all it did was make the boys miss Mama Mavis.

"This is absolute nonsense," I told myself two days ago and well into our tenth month.  Then a mum at school mentioned that she had just eaten Bovril toast!  I all but attacked her to find out where she had bought that pot of black gold.  As it turns out Bovril has been lurking in the supermarkets all this time just hiding with the gravies and stocks.  As my friend, Gail (an ex Zimbabwean), pointed out:  it is just us colonials who got it wrong and spread it on toast.  Bovril is actually a stock.  Well, my life has gone on in fits and starts since that moment with the taste of Bovril cloying at my brain and saliva.  I gave in this morning and acquired a little glass tub.  It was sheer heaven!  Who would have thought that Bovril could taste so good after a year of deprivation?

So I confess to needing some home comforts.  It is strange what brands and flavours are part of your very fibre because of your past.  It's an unravelling process that may never reach the end of the rope.  It's a taste of yesterday, a glimpse of youth.

And I am not even pregnant.