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How Teaching My Mom To Cook A Dish Taught Us Lessons
The childhood stories of my American friends are somewhat relatable in a general sense until we hit the dinner table, and they would comically confess the truth of how their mothers were woefully lacking as basic cooks.
As an American-born Nigerian who grew up in the former capital city of Lagos, a thriving and bustling metropolis, brimming with the infectious optimism and expectations that never manifested, I was exposed to the culture and traditions that collided with the short stint in Kansas City, Missouri.
One of the major adjustments that followed the mandatory relocation from one end of the world to the other was the disappearance of endearing staples like McDonalds, fun snacks like Oreo cookies, and the other great American treats that would instantly brighten up dull days.
The diet in our Nigerian household was a lot healthier and rooted in key dishes that celebrated our Igbo heritage.
My mother’s ability to finesse the main items on the weekly menu was spectacularly mouth-watering, especially for a growing child who was pressured to accommodate successful assimilation.
From the standard jollof rice and Sunday’s special fried rice to the delicious platters of steaming yam porridge with extra touches of dripping palm oil, our kitchen was the hub…
