After lighting enough braai fires to trigger a municipal fire warning in his burning quest to claim bragging rights as the ultimate braai master, my husband’s brain is now slightly charred and more than a little smoke-addled.
I could have a bone to pick with him about his obsession, but hey, he loves braaiied meat so much that they have all been picked cleaner than an impala carcass after a vulture feast. It all started when he joined Braai en Pot, a WhatsApp group a friend started in November. Since then, he’s been fired up to ‘win - whatever that means, because there’s no prize - just endless smoke, fire and testosterone. His nemesis?
A guy named Wynand, though my husband has a few spicier names for him. He swears Wynand’s a fraud for posting fire-only shots: “Where’s the meat?
“You can’t just show your fire!” His fury crackles every time a ping signals another meat-barren braai.
Of course, my husband’s no angel - he cheats too. An oven dish gets plonked onto the coals for ‘the photo’, as if it’s been braaiing away for hours. He has even pulled over on the side of the road and braaiied a piece of wors on his way to work, just to keep up appearances.
The real proof of his obsession? He’s well past Braai Number 160 on the Braai en Pot group.
