Looking on the Tripe-side of Life

Now that winter has finally decided to grace Cape Town with its moody presence, I am reminded of one of the great dividing lines of humanity: those who eat offal, and those who gag at the mere mention of it. There’s no middle ground here. For some of us – moi, for instance – tucking into slow-cooked sheep or cow guts, brain and stomach-lining is a deeply emotional, nostalgic, downright glorious experience.

The offal-phobes? They avert their eyes in horror, wondering how supposedly civilised people can bring themselves to eat animal parts that, unlike chops and steak, look and smell so disconcertingly close to death.

But in Afrikaans, “afval” isn’t just any old offal. We’re talking about a very specific beastly blessing: sheep tripe, trotters, and heads. Hours of slow simmering in their own juices and fats, the house filled with an earthy, feral aroma. For me, this smells like home and like the heart: like the farm, the family, the forefathers. Yet we respect the sensitive types so affronted by the scent and thought of offal, clutching their pearls (and their smelling salts), flinging open windows and doors, and playing aloud Buddhist monk chants in an effort to lower their blood pressure.

Boere-afval. That’s the real offal deal. Pale and visually insipid, but with the glistening  organ fat giving the tongue, feet, and tripe a sexy bright sheen. Or offal curried into a vividly turmeric-yellow feast fit for an exotic banquet – the delicate sheep brain is particularly divine in this context.

Boere-afval. It is one of South Africa’s most distinctive, uniquely fragrant, proudly rustic dishes. And if there are any offal-loving Afrikaners among the recent batch who’ve bolted for the USA courtesy of Don T, this is one of the first things they’re going to miss. Trust me – I know.

Back when my parents were living in England decades ago, their cravings got so out of hand that I was conscripted to smuggle an entire frozen sheep offal through Heathrow. Their need for boere-afval, you see, had reached psychologically concerning levels.

Enter Tannie Annatjie Melck – a true Karoo grande dame and head of Stellenbosch’s offal aristocracy. She handed me a pristine, frozen Karoo set: full head, sheep feet, and a few extra tongues tossed in for good measure. The whole unholy bundle of organs and trotters and skull went into a plastic bag, deep frozen, and then into my backpack for the flight to London.

Of course, it had to happen. The next morning at Heathrow, a very polite customs officer asks me to please step aside and open my bag.

He rummages around, then pauses. With both hands, he lifts the frozen lump out and lays it gently on the metal inspection table. The sheep’s head stares back at him with a wide Karoo grin – all teeth. Its trotters poke out past its pale, iced belly.

The officer looks at me. Calm, but clearly unsettled.

“What is this, sir?”

I look down at the offal, trying to figure out how to explain this to a British civil servant. He was peering at the sheep-head, trying to identify the frozen stumps of sheep’s feet.

“Sir,” I say, “I really don’t think you want to know what this is.”

He gives the frozen contraband one last look. Then shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “I don’t think I do.”

Back in the bag the offal-package went, and he waved me through the gate to the arrivals hall, and onto the Tube I went, down to Kensington and my family. It was a good homecoming.