Carol’s Column

Oh boy, mom remembered the blatjang

There's chaos and pandemonium in my life and it's lovely. The reason? I'm off to America tonight to see my eldest unmarried son whom I haven't seen for nearly two years. Will I recognise Barry? Will he look the same? Will he still have a dimple and a mop of black hair?

Just as important. Will he recognise me?

I looked at myself critically in the mirror and saw a short, plump, undistinguished-looking woman with drooping ankles, knees and chin. Terrible. Barry's vibrant bouncy mother of two years ago has become a blob. And worse, I was as white as a piece of unripe Camembert cheese.

America's hot at the moment, which means summer clothes. "Don't worry," said my good friend Betty as she surveyed my flab. "Go have a haircut, don't eat for three days and buy some instant tan cream. You won't recognise yourself."

So I shot off to Daphne who cut my hair beautifully short. Really chic, I thought. Waiflike, like Naomi Campbell. From the back it looked wonderful. If you removed my face, the front would look great too.

"You look like a pineapple," said my husband, almost complimentarily.

Then I stopped eating, dropped 2 kg and invested in some Jet Bronzer tan lotion. I applied the lotion to my body and legs last thing before I went to bed. And, for good measure, rubbed it well into my face.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed my husband the next morning. "I went to bed with a wife and woke up with a zebra crossing. They won't let you into America."

Orange stripes

He was right. The Jet Bronzer had streaked and my face was striped orange, as were my arms and legs.

"Well, it's different," I said defensively. Who says all South Africans have to look the same?

I phoned Barry in Buffalo, USA. "Can I bring you anything?" After all, that's what mothers are for.

"Ma, don't worry," said Barry. "I've got everything I need. But, if you have time, I'd love some blatjang, some mango atchar, a blue-striped kikoyu, some peppermint crisps, biltong, dried wors and a king-size navy blue duvet cover for the duvet you sent me last winter. And, you know those Basotho blankets they sell in Diagonal Street, one of those would look great thrown across my couch.

"Perhaps you can buy a dozen mixed samoosas from the Delhi Palace and freeze them, and if you can smuggle in a fresh mango or two, that would be bliss. I suppose it's not practical to lug a melktert across the Atlantic," he sighed.

"Don't they have duvet covers in America?" I asked.

"Ja, but they're the wrong size. Nothing fits my South African duvet."

Who said the USA was the ultimate consumer paradise? I mean, what kind of a country doesn't have biltong, melktert and mixed samoosas?

"Oh, and can you bring the latest copies of Vrye Weekblad and the Weekly Mail and a picture of an aardvark so that I can show Americans exactly what an aardvark is," Barry said.

So now I'm packed and ready. My suitcase is bulging with chutney, wors, biltong, blankets and things.

Will Barry be happy to see me with my pineapple hairdo and orange-striped face?

"Of course he will," said Betty. "So what if you look like Telly Savalas in a skirt. He loves you. You're his mother and you're bringing him food."

True. I can't wait. America here I come.

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