“Oh! I would love a bowl of rice and peanut stew with chicken right now,” I thought as I sat at my desk frustrated at the clanking and banging sounds from the kitchen. Mum made it a few months ago, but it tasted off. I wondered why it didn’t feel as euphoric as it once did and what might have gone wrong. It couldn’t be Mum’s cooking—she'd always been an excellent cook. It's safe to assume the ingredients here were to blame. Peanut butter in this part of the world is more for PB&J sandwiches than for cooking. The peanut paste Mum had used back then was made from freshly cooked and roasted groundnuts and then blended. Or maybe… her love had faded. Whatever!
I can swear that she was cooking liver from the aroma permeating the air. Ugh! I hate liver, and she knows it. “This is good for us… it is rich in iron and we need it,” she often reiterated on the few days when the tension between us allowed a conversation or two. “If you don’t want it, find something else to eat or starve,” she would continue at the sight of my scrunched-up face. Things were not always this way.
I remember eight-year-old me who bribed my sister, Comfort, into agreeing with my lunch choice. “Quand maman nous demandera ce que nous voulons manger à midi, dis-lui riz et sauce arachide, d’accord? Je te donnerai 100 francs, okay?”(1) I had insisted, my excitement bubbling over. Thinking about it now, that was not necessary, she loved the dish too. Though less than me. A few hours earlier, Mum had asked what we wanted for dinner and thanks to my early preparations, it seemed we would be having what I desired. The teasing smile with which she regarded me as she headed to the kitchen assured me she knew how this decision came to be.
Lying on the living room floor, I pretended to be busy with my building blocks. It was Saturday, and after my recent good grades, I had been granted some playtime. The irregular clanking of pots and the banging of cupboards, as Mum searched for seasonings, filled the air, blending with her cackling voice as she chatted on the phone with Aunt Jasmine. The rhythmic sound of her knife chopping ingredients echoed, but above all, the savoury aroma of spices—ahh, habanero peppers—permeated the room, jabbing at my conscience. I should be in the kitchen helping, especially as the eldest daughter. Society expected it of me. Aunt Nania would have showered me with endless lectures in Ewe (a West African dialect) about the importance of a girl learning to cook to care for her future family. “When I was your age, I was always by your grandma’s side, and now even your mum learns from me,” she’d often remind me. Thankfully, she wasn’t around.
Finally, it was ready- riz et sauce d’arachide au poulet (rice with peanut stew and chicken). Mum served us each a beautifully plated mound of steamy, glossy, long-grain rice, partially drowned in rich, creamy brown peanut sauce. Perched on the edge of the plate was my favourite—a tender, scrumptious chicken thigh, fully cooked in the sauce. The sight of it made my eyes widen, and one whiff of the nutty aroma had me salivating like a hunting dog eyeing a juicy piece of meat. My first bite, with my favourite blue flower-coated plastic spoon, scorched my tongue, but the deliciousness overwhelmed my senses, numbing the pain. A flood of euphoric feelings rushed through me. I enjoyed the meal so much that I had seconds—and devoured the entire chicken in the process, washing it all down with a chilled cup of bissap (hibiscus juice).
That was a memorable day; however, it is all different now. That peanut stew she made recently didn’t taste the same. It wasn’t just the ingredients. I knew it had more to do with us. The once comforting warmth of her cooking now felt hollow, and distant. Just like our relationship. Maybe it wasn’t the peanut paste, but the fact that her love felt… different. Or was it that I had grown? The realization stung as much as it comforted. Food may be love, but now I see that love can fade—or maybe, just maybe, it can evolve.
Mum always enjoyed cooking, and I enjoyed savouring her meals just as much, but the actual act of cooking? That never seemed enjoyable to me—and it still isn’t. For me, cooking remains an act of love I’d much rather receive than give, though I do make myself breakfast regularly and know how to cook a few native dishes. Occasionally, I’m hit by the "I-want-to-learn-how-to-cook-or-bake-this-and-that" bug, but the motivation never lasts long enough to convert me into someone who enjoys cooking. Mum laid the foundation for my love of food. No matter our financial situation, food was always available. Maybe less protein than usual but a balanced food nonetheless. We had four meals every day: breakfast, lunch, goûter (midday snack), and dinner. Goûter was my favourite—it was the one time I could indulge my sweet tooth without restriction. Every other meal was carefully planned to be healthy. Whenever Mum was around, her simple question, “Que voulez-vous manger?” (“What do you want to eat?”), made my heart tingle with joy. Watching her work in the kitchen, mixing ingredients into her magical pot, always filled me with glee. "Mum loves me," my mind would tell me. That’s when I first realized cooking was her love language, and food was its byproduct.
The act of asking someone what they want to eat, with the intention of making their wishes come true and then taking the time to cook for them, is an expression of love that can’t be easily replicated without genuine care. This attitude, which my mum displayed through her dedication to food and family, instilled in me the belief that food is love, food is comfort, and food is home.
Life has strained my relationship with Mum, and though the meals we once bonded over don’t taste the same, they remain the thread that holds us together. Gone are the days of regularly hearing, “What do you want to eat?” Now, it’s more often, “Eat what you find or buy it.” Yet, despite the silence between us, the kitchen still hums with the smells of food. The savoury aromas welcome me home, soothing me after a long day, and though the meals have changed, the love hasn’t disappeared—it’s just evolved. Quiet but steady. Even if it tastes different, Mum’s love is present. I love you too, Mum.
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1) “When mum asks us what we want for lunch, tell her rice and peanut sauce, okay? I’ll give you 100 francs, okay?”
