Food Fiasco: The mayhem and madness in the Nigerian kitchen.
As a young girl, I would always worry about the fiasco that happened in the evening. All the females would assemble, under the dim-lit lanterns. The clanging of pots, and the squishing of leaves. To the tinge of fishes slapping against hot oil and it was absolutely underwhelming. Everyone's face always seemed to be in some concoction of panic and anger. Tempers would rise over nearly burnt meat, Impatience over a stew taking too long. I was always forced to watch this fiasco, and even try and contribute even if it were just passing a spoon. I longed for the restoration of my time, where the room wasn't charged with the urgency of feeding the folks, where salt wasn't sprinkled and pestle wasn't in a battle with the mortar, where my eyes didn't sting from the spices, and my tongue wasn't assaulted with a warring taste. Many a dishes would file out and I always wondered why I never liked them. The men would praise and lick their plates, my siblings would look lon...