My Everyday Lagos
Nigerian Cooking at Home and in the Diaspora [A Cookbook]
(Sprache: Englisch)
An acclaimed chef and food writer celebrates the many cuisines found in Lagos, Nigeria's biggest city, with 75 recipes that mirror her own powerful journey of self-discovery. From Jollof Rice to Puff Puff to Groundnut Stew, this definitive book on Lagos...
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An acclaimed chef and food writer celebrates the many cuisines found in Lagos, Nigeria's biggest city, with 75 recipes that mirror her own powerful journey of self-discovery. From Jollof Rice to Puff Puff to Groundnut Stew, this definitive book on Lagos cuisine reveals the nuances of regions and peoples, diaspora and return.Lese-Probe zu „My Everyday Lagos “
Welcome to LagosMy flight to Lagos arrives at dusk, and I slide out to an airport buzzing with activity, commerce, and community. For me, it s also a confusion of crowds after the stillness of a thirteen-hour flight. Once I am in the car, driving to my parents house, I can see shadows along the roadside, forms emerging from the headlights edges and plunging back into the darkness. Lagos is a city by the sea, a city with a distinct coastline, islands both natural and man-made, and a never-ending expansion toward what we call the mainland. Any benefits of an Atlantic Ocean breeze are swallowed up a few miles into the mainland s humidity. Wherever you are in Lagos, the streets are never silent and never still. A quick glance and all seems calm. But when I look out those car windows into the night, people are filling up the dark like a tide rolling in and receding. They re striding, chatting in groups, gathering by a food stand on the edge of a streetlight s glow. They are carrying the city, still bursting with energy and life, steadily into the middle of the night.
As we come up Adeniyi Jones Road, to the small enclave of houses where my parents live, my mother points out landmarks from my childhood. None are immediately recognizable, but her voice is all the familiarity I need: I m strangely, and impossibly, home. I breathe in the air and feel every inch of my person expand. We step out of the car and are greeted by the heat, the gorgeous glow of old incandescent bulbs in faded sconces, and the foliage filling every spare inch of our yard. Lemongrass, wild oregano, and scent leaf fill the air as I walk up to the front door.
My parents home in Ikeja, Lagos, is a green oasis built with concrete and glass. From the dining room I can make out the shape of a banana tree in the corner of the garden. Bright yellow star fruit hang low on another tree. Everything is ripe and ready for picking. I hear chickens clucking, settling in for the
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night.
Dinner is a light meal of stewed meat in o be ata, fried sweet plantains, braised greens, and steamed rice. The scent leaf I noted in the garden has been julienned, garnishing the dishes. It is my first time back in my parents home in twenty years. On the plate before me, all of the complexities of a life lived in exile seem intermingled with the simplicity of home.
I had moved to the United States as a student in August of 1998, following in the footsteps of my brother, who had begun university a year before me. I was the middle child, insulated from much of the outside world by two strong-willed and independent brothers. In America, I could rely on my emigration to be guided by the path my older brother was carving out for himself. I could rely on him to help me study in, and live within, this new environment.
Less than a year after my arrival in America, my brother passed away. He suffered from sickle cell anemia, a disease I have as well, a condition that created a bond between us that extended beyond the typical bond of siblings. We had always been conscious of our limits, and my parents overly protective of them, but in the United States, the world was new to us. We were still finding our way. The disease took him just shy of his twentieth birthday. His death in Newark in 1999 left me devastated and untethered; at seventeen years old, I was alone in a new country.
My college years in Maryland were marked by this grief. I tried to cope by distancing myself from emotion. At this point, the forward movement of my life was not self-driven. I was fulfilling the responsibilities that had been set out for me: study, obtain a degree, and use the education I received. I was raised by two parents with master s degrees from foreign universities, and in a way, there was an understanding that their children would follow in their footsteps.
Dinner is a light meal of stewed meat in o be ata, fried sweet plantains, braised greens, and steamed rice. The scent leaf I noted in the garden has been julienned, garnishing the dishes. It is my first time back in my parents home in twenty years. On the plate before me, all of the complexities of a life lived in exile seem intermingled with the simplicity of home.
I had moved to the United States as a student in August of 1998, following in the footsteps of my brother, who had begun university a year before me. I was the middle child, insulated from much of the outside world by two strong-willed and independent brothers. In America, I could rely on my emigration to be guided by the path my older brother was carving out for himself. I could rely on him to help me study in, and live within, this new environment.
Less than a year after my arrival in America, my brother passed away. He suffered from sickle cell anemia, a disease I have as well, a condition that created a bond between us that extended beyond the typical bond of siblings. We had always been conscious of our limits, and my parents overly protective of them, but in the United States, the world was new to us. We were still finding our way. The disease took him just shy of his twentieth birthday. His death in Newark in 1999 left me devastated and untethered; at seventeen years old, I was alone in a new country.
My college years in Maryland were marked by this grief. I tried to cope by distancing myself from emotion. At this point, the forward movement of my life was not self-driven. I was fulfilling the responsibilities that had been set out for me: study, obtain a degree, and use the education I received. I was raised by two parents with master s degrees from foreign universities, and in a way, there was an understanding that their children would follow in their footsteps.
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Autoren-Porträt von Yewande Komolafe
Yewande Komolafe is a Berlin-born, Lagos-raised food writer, recipe developer, and food stylist based in Brooklyn. Her professional career began as a pastry cook in classic French pastry kitchens. She moved on to work in fine dining restaurants in Atlanta and New York, where she was one of the first employees of Momofuku Milk Bar. Yewande’s writing and recipes have appeared in the New York Times, Whetstone, Food & Wine, Munchies, and the books Sheetpan Chicken by Cathy Erway for TASTE and Lindsay Gardner’s Why We Cook. Yewande has also appeared on a James Beard Award–nominated episode of The Sporkful, WNYC’s All of It with Alison Stewart, and Milk Street Radio with Christopher Kimball.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Yewande Komolafe
- 2023, 288 Seiten, 100 Abbildungen, Maße: 19,7 x 23,6 cm, Gebunden, Englisch
- Verlag: Ten Speed Press
- ISBN-10: 1984858939
- ISBN-13: 9781984858931
- Erscheinungsdatum: 17.10.2023
Sprache:
Englisch
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