It’s time, the old girl decreed, for a gathering of the clans. Now in our family, with its motley heritage, which mother best describes as detribalised Englishmen, it usually means a ‘bring and braai’ at her place.
I’m on the salads, sister is on the pot bread and mother is on everything in between. As for the meat, that’s for the men to marinade and braai.
It’s all systemss go for Saturday afternoon. I’ve done the usual ‘duel at dawn’, traipsing around the local supermarket buying the salad items and meat, not forgetting the red plonk, of course, working myself into a fine old lather about my fellow shoppers. Why is it that the entire family unit of mum, dad and truculent teens in tow have to take to the aisles to shop?
Whilst the adults bicker about their budget, the teens inevitably loiter around prodding, poking and picking at the merchandise in boredom. “It’s not a bloody family outing folks,” I witter away to myself as I trolley ram (yes, I am one of those dastardly people) my way to the checkout.
ALSO READ: Sue’s Views: Aisle arguments
But I digress, for the partner you see has as always opted to stay at home and do ‘manly things’ around the house after a particular aisle argument, a couple of years back, saw him stalk out of the store to wait out my purchases in the car. It didn’t help that it was a healthy 30 odd degrees outside which had him nicely roasted to medium well-done by the time I was finished.
Back home, I lug the shopping from the car to the kitchen, where he takes to poking through the bought items. “It’s a family braai woman, we don’t need all this stuff,” he humphs as he continues to dig through the shopping looking for ‘a sweet little something’ to eat.
As the afternoon progresses, I whip up the salads and prep everything required, way before the time. The only item left is the marinating of the meat, which is a sacred ritual undertaken by the partner, who is currently in the coffin position on the couch watching old Formula 1 re-runs. “I’ll get to it now, stop nagging, there is plenty of time,” he says as he adjusts the volume.
Now at this juncture, I should point out that the partner and I are renowned for arriving late at functions and take much flak for it. Not of my making, I might add. Come 5pm, and I’m like a cat on a hot tin roof. “For crying out loud have you made the marinade yet?” I ask him.
‘Alright, I’ll do it now,” he sighs as he rips himself away from the TV. And so it begins. A marvel of salting, spicing and dicing. With the last pinch of chipotle powder added to the mix he declares “There all done and dusted, don’t know what you were so impatient about, it’s not even 5.30pm yet. I’m catching a quick shower.”
And then it dawns on me, the kitchen looks like a bomb’s hit. With a sickening heart, I just know we are going to be late, AGAIN. As we pull into the old girl’s place the usual chorus by the rest of the family begins “Oh look they have eventually graced us with their presence.” The partner, shaking his head in my direction says “Blame her, she’s always fossicking around with something.”
As I stand there, mouth open with indignation, I am comforted by the thought that I am not alone in this. My friend’s hubby, who after she has locked up the house upon their exit, almost inevitably decides he needs a “nervous number two” as she calls it – which could take anything from 20 minutes to half an hour.
HAVE YOUR SAY
Like the South Coast Herald’s Facebook page, follow us on Twitter and Instagram
