Assimilation Never Tasted So Good

Township. They're different from anything I've ever experienced. They're not the Barrios in Mexico. Not the East Bay of San Francisco. Not the South Side of Chicago. They're not Skid Row or Midtown. As best I can figure, townships were set up under the Apartheid government as a way of locating persons who were different from one another. In that respect, they remind me of the Warsaw Ghetto and how people were told where to live based on ethnicity. But as far as that comparison, that's where the analogy ends. There are black townships, Coloured, Indian and the list goes on. And then, within each group, there are sub-groups. Afrikaans coloured, Xosa black and so on. Each group has its own culture and many languages. We have chosen a church that is near Soweto (SOuth WEstern TOwnships). We're in the section known as Eldorado Park and it's essentially an Afrikaans-speaking coloured community("coloured" is the politically correct term here). We love it. We love the singing, the people, and the culture. We love that we can make enormous cultural blunders or ask inappropriate questions, and we are lovingly laughed at and called "Ameri-qua's". It's a term of endearment and we've grown accustomed to hearing it. We're called that when we accidentally curse trying to say a new word in Afrikaans that we have heard others saying (don't judge...we're not the first missionaries to do it and we won't be the last). We're called that when I say that my baby can't suck on a lollipop to keep quiet and we're called that when we show up to church with a newborn (there's often a 3-month grace period for the new moms at our church).

Every year, our church has a potjiekos (potjie) competition. I've always assumed that this type of cooking came from the years of cooking over open fires, but I've honestly never asked. All I know is, there's a cast-iron pot, lots of meat and veggies, and it takes HOURS, but oh is it good! We had our first taste a few months after we arrived here when we were camping with a group from church. I was pregnant and thought food had never tasted so good in my life. It was like a Sunday pot roast from Heaven. That same September, big of belly and appetite, someone (God bless them!) realized that we were still quite fresh off the "boat" and had no idea how to pronounce potjiekos, let alone cook the stuff, so we were asked to be the judges. So we went, not realizing how serious and competitive the competition was, and learned very quickly that as the judge you are definitely in the hot-seat. Todd swore he would never do that again and vowed he'd learn just to avoid being a judge again. The next year, we entered and the food was edible, but I'll leave it at that. This year, Todd was determined. His goal: Have people come back to HIS pot for seconds. We bought a pot. Researched recipes and tried them out and at the last minute, ditched all those ideas and decided to do a Texas White Bean Chili. Todd figured he'd never have a good result with 'home advantage' until he'd had longer to learn under someone who KNEW how to do a traditional potjiekos. The end result? People did come for seconds... and thirds! He even won 3rd place and I tell you, I've not seen my husband so proud of himself since he managed to get a very large piece of furniture up our death-defying insanity-of-a-staircase. 3rd place. I guess you could say, we've assimilated :)

Some of the plates for judging.

The judges savoring the spoils of all our labour.

Our 3rd place, prize-winning white chili chicken potjiekos.

The unsung potbellied hero of the day.