Fufu and I (A passionate love story)

 

I’ve only ever eaten once in my lifetime, and it was riddled with unfortunate experiences.
A friend of my mother came to stay the night at our place, _ pre-corona, she was to leave for US the following day, so she felt she had to do something ‘spectacular’ for us.
And so the journey begun.

I do not remember the starting process, probably because I was feigning busy in order to get out of kitchen duties, but I do remember the middle and end product.
Which, in my opinion were the two most terrifying parts.

I remember aunty X pulling out the biggest mortar and pestle she could find, I did not even know we had things like that, and declaring that this meal, much like pounded yam and tiring like Ogi, would need to be pounded vigorously.
I have not understand the school of thought behind exerting so much energy for food???
Food!!!
There are a million and one other things you could do but you want to break your back for food?

Of course, I backed out of the equation.
I remember her threatening me with “your husband’s house” I still think it was bold of her to assume I would one day get married…to a man.

Anyway, she proceeded to pounding her delicacy. The smell….well, the smell was something else.
And the look…….
Errrrrrrrr
It was like a cross breed between Amala and pounded yam that desperately wanted to be semo.

The final meal was delicious, I give it that.

Source: Zambiankitchen

P.S if the above method of preparation does not seem like the conventional method, then I have mixed up events.

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