Braai the hell not, or, hey, you get off of braai cloud, or, the braai who loved me

And now I am cooking on yet another braai. A braai is like a barbeque, but better. It is better because it is in South Africa.

Sweetcorn. Kim has always been a freakish follower of sweetcorn, but I shy away from the tins and will not accept it on a pizza or in a Subway sandwich (though I take everything else on my Subway sandwich). But when it is charred on a braai, is there anything more perfect? When you melt a knob of butter on it and crunch into the black bits first, can the taste be surpassed? And can I think of any other ways to bang on about sweetcorn? No, on all three counts. No.

Don’t start me on the thin and delectable barbeque steak. The sauce they put on it...

Suffice to say I am having a beer.

And then I put on two potatoes, lovingly wrapped by Kim in tinfoil (the potatoes, not Kim), and put them directly onto the coals. Get out of here. Go home right now and get out of my sight! No, I am not even joking.

The chicken drumsticks here taste better than they do in the UK. Part of it is the sauce that is already on them and part of it is because they are in South Africa.

And the funniest thing is that I am finding it impossible to overcook any of this stuff. You whack it on and leave it there for ages and then take it off and eat it up. Bingo.