Hiiiii,
Happy Sunday, I hope you’re good.
The first time I made jollof rice was in the cold stainless-steel kitchen of my Matongé apartment. On a grey October Saturday when I was feeling sick for home.
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First chicken, washed, and seasoned and placed at the bottom of the fridge in the pot it’ll be cooked in. I think of my mum’s kitchen, opening the fridge door on a Saturday morning, smelling the thyme, onion, knorr and curry powder before my eyes found the pot.
Tomatoes and pepper are blended, then brought to boil so the water evaporates. I fry lots of sliced onions in lots of hot oil, adding tomato puree and more spices. Next, the boiled tomato mixture is poured and stirred in.
I wash the rice with two hands and one eye, the other watching the slowly forming stew jump from the pot to the wall. Desperate to escape.
And then it’s time to add the rice and the chicken stock, or the chicken stock and the rice? I can’t remember. I silently curse myself for not asking more questions, watching more closely.
The heat is on low, a sheet of tinfoil underneath the lid and I, resisting every urge to open and stir must wait.
I remember the plantain, so ripe it’s almost black. I think of my mum’s kitchen and the white plastic chopping board, cutting off each end and then gently scoring a line across its skin, peeling it back to reveal its pale orange body, slicing it at the angle my mum taught me. I don’t fry it yet.
The rice is not yet jollof so I’ll do the chicken now, and it can stay warm in the grill once it’s cooked.
Wash up. Clean up. I lift the lid and the foil, moving my face in the other direction to avoid the steam. I stick my fork in to taste, knowing before the grains of rice meet my tongue that it’s still not jollof yet. Does it need more water or more patience? Or both?
Fingers tapping on the countertop, an endless scroll of my phone. I turn the hob off but leave the pot where it is. I fry plantain. I think of my mum’s kitchen, standing in the doorway, spatula in-hand, back to the cooker and sizzling oil. Her voice is warning me to keep my eyes on the pan – if you flip them a split second too late, they’re ruined.
It’s ready. I plate my meal. Jollof rice and chicken and plantain. It doesn’t taste like my mum’s. It doesn’t taste bad though.
My jollof, made from scattered memories of mum’s kitchen that have now become my intuition and helped along by a youtube video. I finish my plate. Elbows resting on the countertop I scrape the bottom of pan for more. I really like the burnt bits.
I’m still sick for home, but I don’t feel empty, and it feels easier now. I’ll get used to it.
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A year or two later I’m in my mum’s kitchen. I make jollof and we eat together at the table, from bluey-green plates on rainbow-coloured placemats. It tastes good Tomiwa. My mum tells me they rarely ate jollof growing up, but then nor did we.
Tomiwa x
I read Orpheus Builds A Girl by Heather Parry. It’s a book about perverted obsession, and family, love, migration, tradition, women, culture, grief. It’s so much about being a woman, our bodies, and who they belong to. Read it.
Have a good week!