What They Put in Chakalaka Wors

Dear Piet Kengelzi, thank you for writing to me and sharing the few questions that have been bothering you.

You’re asking the questions no one wants to ask, the ones that hover in the back of your mind. You ask: What exactly is in chakalaka wors?

Huh?

You’ve hit the rusty nail on the head.

We all love the mystery wrapped in a pig’s intestine – there’s just one little problem with the fat.

I’m talking about that pale, waxy stuff that solidifies faster than a politician’s promise.

You take a chakalaka sausage out of the pot, and before you can even say “ag sies man”, that fat has turned into a little mountain range of white goo on your plate.

You’re right, it’s not like the fat from a proper chop. Real fat melts and stays melted.

This chakalaka fat has a mind of its own. It’s like it’s trying to get back to its original state, whatever that state may be.

And you’ve put the theory out there: small intestines.

It’s a bold claim, but it makes so much sense now. We already know they’re using the intestines as the casing, so what’s to stop them from mincing up some of the . . . omandjandja [insides].

And then there’s the colour. That pinkish hue. You’ve said it looks like lungs. Now, I’m not a butcher, and I don’t pretend to be, but I’ve seen a few things in my time. And you’re not wrong.

It’s not the vibrant red of fresh mince, is it? It’s got a grey-pink that makes you wonder what kind of life the thing had before it ended up in your pot. It’s a sausage that looks like it needs a good lie-down. It’s a sausage that has seen some things. And those things, my friend, might just be its own internal organs.

But let’s move on before we all lose our lunch. Let’s tackle that can of corned beef. You pull the key, wind the lid off, and you’re met with a slab of something that resembles meat, but feels . . . just a little different. It’s a little jelly-like, isn’t it? You say it’s 25% beef.

That’s a generous estimate, my man. I’d wager it’s less. And the rest? You’ve already got it right there on your list: “mechanically processed poultry”.

What in the name of all that is holy is that?

It sounds like something a robot would eat. It’s the leftovers of the leftovers, the stuff that gets scraped off the bones after the good stuff has been taken. It’s chicken parts that have been put through a machine so violent it has forgotten what it was in the first place.

And then we have your other suggestions: cow hoof gelatin and clean, shaven cow hide.

Now you’re just being ridiculous . . . or are you? I mean, think about it. Gelatin is a thing. We use it in jelly and sweets. And where does it come from? Hooves and bones. So why not in our corned beef?

It’s the perfect way to bind everything together to give it that wobbly, slightly disturbing consistency.

You’re right, we need better labels. Even fat cakes aka vetkoek should be labelled with its true ingredients.

“Flour, yeast, salt, water, Holsum fat, very little sugar and the drive to feed a family.”

That’s the most honest food label I’ve ever heard. It tells you everything you need to know. It tells you about the struggle, the hope, the pure unadulterated need to put something, anything, in your child’s tummy. It’s not just a vetkoek; it’s a statement. It is the ultimate struggle.

The truth, dear Piet, is that you don’t really want answers to all your questions, and especially about those lollies. We don’t want to know what’s in those lollies. We just want the relief they bring on a hot summer’s day.

It’s a trade-off we’re willing to make. The price of ignorance is a clean tongue.

So you see, you’ve started something here. I did not expect these types of questions when I said readers can write to me and ask anything.

But it is good to know you’re reading and sharing what’s on your mind.

Unfortunately, because of you, we’ll never look at a chakalaka sausage the same way again.

We’ll see that pale fat and we’ll remember the intestines.

We’ll open a can of corned beef and we’ll think of “mechanically processed poultry”.

You’ve ruined our appetites, and for that, my friend, we both thank you and hate you a little bit.

Ag sies man.

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