Oxtail – A Taste of Home
Image description: Melusi’s hands serving oxtail stew out of the bowl to someone at the table. Photograph: Jun Gil Park.
Words by Melusi Zwangobani.
In the years since I left Zimbabwe in 2005, I’ve missed a lot. Friends, family, the natural beauty of it all. I’ve missed weddings and birthdays. I've missed the amber-glow sunsets and the apocalyptic, sky-is-falling thunderstorms. But most of all, the one thing that fills my soul with a deep and unfulfilled yearning, is the food. Man, I miss the food.
In Zimbabwe, meals are rarely eaten alone. In my childhood, winter nights were spent huddled around the fireplace. As we passed the cold nights watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air or Family Matters, the bambaira (sweet potato) roasted slowly in the cooling embers of the once-roaring fire. Warm, familial laughter, interspersed with the sounds of Dad cracking his fresh-roasted peanut shells, is a sound as familiar and sweet to me as birdsong.
Conversely, the long summer days dripped lazily by. Under the gentle warmth of the African sun, friends and family would gather and fire up the braais (barbecues) to celebrate birthdays, weddings, Christmas, or, let’s be honest, anything at all. Crowded on the scorching hot grill would be flank steaks, chicken, boerewors (a type of spicy South African sausage), and more. Vast cast-iron cauldrons of sadza (a cornmeal porridge similar to the ugali of Eastern Africa and the fufu of West Africa) would be churned heartily but exhaustingly by mothers and aunts. Kids, all scabbed knees and cheeky grins, would be creating chaos wherever they roamed, snatching cobs of char-blackened maize off the braai and swiftly ducking between legs to make their gleeful escape.
The smells, oh man, the smells. The aromas of a Zimbabwean braai are truly mouthwatering and an experience I have yet to discover anywhere else. As the meats roast over the open fire, the smoky aroma curls through the air, inviting all within its reach to "come closer, have a whiff." A delicious combination of savoury and sweet flavours. The spicy scents of carefully prepared marinades and rubs are accompanied by the sizzling sounds of the meats as they drip their delectable juices onto the waiting bed of hot coals beneath, creating a symphony of sensation. An orchestra of olfactory and auditory goodness with the braai master as the conductor.
The vegetables on the grill, tender and caramelised, contribute to the burgeoning feast, their natural sugars and flavours intensifying as they cook. It's safe to say that the aromas of a braai are not to be missed. If your mouth doesn’t water, you should get your saliva glands checked, because this is eating, Zim-style.
However, amidst all the deliciousness of my childhood, I’ve missed one dish in particular—my mum’s oxtail.
Oxtail is a popular dish in Zimbabwe, and it's not difficult to see why. Oxtails are relatively cheap and are generally considered "offal," or throwaway, undesirable cuts of meat. However, Zimbabweans, along with other African and Caribbean peoples such as Ethiopians, Jamaicans and Trinidadians, recognised the value in this criminally overlooked cut. Oxtails have a significant amount of collagen, which, after long hours of braising in flavourful liquid, breaks down and becomes tender and succulent, resulting in that signature "stickiness" that oxtail is known for. The meat, which, as its name suggests, comes from the tail of a cow, and, once slow-cooked over low temperatures to fall-off-the-bone perfection is packed with rich, savoury flavours. In true Zimbabwean fashion, it's often served with a side of vegetables, such as carrots and potatoes, or muriwo (the sautéed leaves of a plant such as kale), and a hearty serving of sadza.
Eating oxtail was a special occasion in my family. It was a dish that was reserved for birthdays and holidays, and it was always cooked with love and care. My mother, a fantastic cook (as much as she might like to deny it), would spend hours preparing the oxtail, carefully seasoning it, and slowly simmering it until the meat was so tender it practically melted in your mouth.
In the years since leaving Zimbabwe, I have grown in appreciation for just how difficult it must have been for my mum to prepare this dish, alongside everything else she did for us, our extended family and our friends. Cooking oxtail isn’t just chucking it in the oven, and hoping for the best. It is a labour of love.
The process of cooking oxtail is an art in itself, requiring hours of preparation and attention to detail, and as with any braise, the key ingredient is time. The meat is rubbed with salt, pepper and allspice and left to marinate overnight, then carefully browned until an even crust of concentrated flavour has formed on all sides. Once in the oven, the braise is low and slow. The flavours are enhanced by the addition of various herbs and spices, such as parsley, paprika and cumin, and a touch of acidity, like tomatoes or lemon juice. The meat is given the time it needs to gently break down all the collagen richness, and the succulent flavours of the herbs and spices, wine, carrots, celery and garlic are given time to intermingle, bond and intensify, complementing each other and becoming the best of pals.
If there’s one thing my mother taught me, it’s that cooking and sharing food is an expression of love. In many African cultures, including Zimbabwean culture, it is traditional for the host to provide a hearty and welcoming meal for their guests. Hospitality is highly regarded back home, and the act of preparing and sharing a meal is considered a way to show respect and honour to one's guests. The host will often go to great lengths to ensure that their guests are well-fed and comfortable and that the meal is accompanied by lively conversation and storytelling.
Oxtail is not meant to be eaten alone, and perhaps the most important ingredient is the act of sharing the meal. It's a way for me to share a piece of myself, my culture and my childhood through the medium of food.
Image description: Melusi’s hands serving a plate of oxtail stew and sadza to someone at the table. Photograph: Jun Gil Park.
In this respect, when I myself take the time to cook oxtail, it is a special experience for me. It's a dish that embodies my culture and my mother's love for cooking. Every time I prepare it, I try to channel my heritage and share it with those close to me. Oxtail is not meant to be eaten alone, and perhaps the most important ingredient is the act of sharing the meal. It's a way for me to share a piece of myself, my culture and my childhood through the medium of food. It's a reminder of the love and care that went into the meals I enjoyed with my family, and it's a way for me to pass that same love on to my friends.
Love is expressed through satisfied smiles and exchanged glances. Love is in the stories we tell and the secrets we share. Love is found in laughter, communion, friendship, and the bond of family. Love is in the care taken to prepare a meal over hours, knowing it’ll nourish and sustain but also delight those eating it.
Love is the act of cultural exchange—sharing a piece of myself and my personal history with those closest to me. The love, culture and tradition evoked in cooking and sharing oxtail—this one treasured meal—takes me back to my most ideal, most nostalgic version of home. It transports me back to my childhood under the sun-dappled shade of the mango trees. To the braais, the smoke, the laughter and the gift of a labour of love, freely given and wholeheartedly expressed.