oh, the stories i’ll tell…
When I was younger, anytime we were running late to school, my mum would hastily cook this spaghetti with curry and some other condiments. It was the fastest thing to prepare early in the morning when everybody was running around to dress up and there was very little time on her hands. And unless we were in that situation, she never cooked it. It wasn’t “normal” food.
Side-note: The cover image is the closest image I could find that looked like what she cooked, sans the leaves. We were kids, nobody would have eaten that meal if she added leaves. *side-note ends.
Interestingly, in the history of all the meals I carried to school, that was my best meal. It was never too cold, or too soggy or too hard, it was just perfect. I was a picky eater in school, so this was very important. I am also a lover of simple things, so this might also have been a reason why I really liked it.
I find it interesting that I have this memory because a few days ago I was telling a friend of mine that for me, food is just food. It’s just something you eat to survive the next day.
I can appreciate really good food, and I do — I genuinely find people who know how to make a meal out of anything admirable, and it is one of my goals to make sure to be friends with people like that. I don’t mind exploring recipes, but I personally don’t go above and beyond for a meal.
My main goal when cooking is to make sure that a meal is edible and safe. Once it passes these check marks, I’m good. I barely experiment with food. I am one of those people that do not explore various ways of cooking noodles, and the only noodles I actually cook and eat are Indomie — and it is the normal Indomie. Miss me with that Indomie Suya, Indomie Crayfish or Indomie Onion brouhaha. I’m never doing it.
If I trust your cooking, I can eat the noodles you prepare, and any experimental noodles I’ve eaten were most likely not cooked by me. In summary, if someone else likes to experiment with food, sign up me as your chief taster, but as for me? I’d stick to the boring stuff.
I’ve never really identified as a foodie, and I don’t think I ever will, as I don’t really fit the description. And to me, a foodie is someone who’s open to exploring food, not all those that border on gluttony disguising. I like food in a way that interests me and can pique my curiosity, but it’s not so intense.
Anyway, I watched this movie on Netflix today that made me realise, that food really isn’t just food. At least to some people, anyway. Food can be a lot of things. In Ratatouille, food was a memory to the mean critic, Anton Ego. He took one bite of the dish and was reminded of his childhood.
I think about it now, and I genuinely think it is something I can relate to. For me, food is a memory in various ways:
- It is passing through Lokoja, buying suya and remembering your life as a secondary student stopping at the middle point between the north and the southeast because your parents sent you to boarding school in the east, and so when travelling, Lokoja is usually a rest point.
- It is eating dates ‘debino’ and coconut ‘kwa-kwa’ and remembering the NYSC camp in Zamfara State.
- It is passing by a particular bus stop at Ogui road in Enugu, and remembering the lady close to the office you did your IT, who sold agbugbu, plantain and fish that smelled so good, all the corporate workers around that area usually bought lunch at her place. That was your first time seeing Agbugbu and plantain eaten together, and it was amazing. You’ve never seen someone else do that, and anytime you mention it outside, people look at you weirdly. It was worth it though, really.
- It’s passing by WAEC bus stop in the same Enugu, and remembering the lady that sold meat pies in that area a few years ago when you’d be waiting for the bus to come to pick you up for the weekend programming lessons you were having then. You remember the various events that have happened since then, and the amazing relationships that formed between you and a bunch of other people waiting for the bus.
- It’s knowing where the best Shawarma spot is, or tasting shawarmas and remembering that you used to make them, at some point in your life.
- It’s seeing people eat moi-moi and rice, and remembering your dad trying to whip up the same thing for you and your siblings to take to school in the mornings when your mum was sick.
- It’s hearing ice cream sound, and remembering that when you were younger, 250 naira could get you the biggest vanilla fan yoghurt. Right now? The inflation has messed almost everything up.
- It’s making egg sauce and knowing, beyond doubt, that the recipe you stuck with is the one your dad likes. Tomatoes are still fresh, and eggs are not overcooked. He likes to be able to taste the vegetables in his sauce, and he likes his eggs half-done.
- It’s thinking of rice and beans, and remembering the way your grandma cooks hers, and you know part of the reason why you haven’t cooked it for yourself yet is that you somehow want to still preserve the taste of the one you had at her house almost two years ago. A little too sentimental, but you’d take it. It was “rice and beansi je harvard”.
It’s a lot, to be honest, and maybe food isn’t just food to me. Or maybe it depends on the day. Maybe some days I’m a little more experimental, and I want to try plantain frittatas, or really good pancakes, and maybe some days I just want to put something in my stomach so the blood sugar flowing to my brain does not stop. Because these days when/if I’m hungry, and I am not fasting, I am unable to comprehend anything.
In the end, I think food means a lot of things to different people, but what that movie made me realise, is that for some people, food is where they make magic. It’s not just sustenance.
Food is…
Art.
