As I finished unpacking the groceries, I was already thinking about what to eat. My stomach gave another loud grumble, as if it had a mind of its own. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until just now. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and was about to leave the kitchen when Mom walked in.
"What do we prepare for dinner tonight?" she asked, heading straight to the sink to rinse off her hands. I could smell the faint scent of fish, and I guessed she must've handled some at the market.
I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms as I thought for a second. "Mom, how about we make jollof rice? No fried rice, just jollof," I said, grinning like it was the best idea in the world. I could already taste the rich, spicy tomato flavor, and my mouth watered at the thought of it.
Mom paused, looking at me over her shoulder with a knowing smile. "See your mouth like jollof rice," she teased, shaking her head. "I knew you were going to say that."
I laughed. "Well, can you blame me? Jollof rice is literally the best."
She gave me a playful side-eye, then opened the freezer, rummaging around for a second before pulling out a container of stew. "It's already late, Angela. Let's go for something light," she said, placing the container on the counter.
I pouted a little, disappointed that my jollof dreams were being crushed. But I knew she was right. It was past 7, and making jollof would take way too long. "Fine," I said with a sigh, leaning back against the counter.
Mom smiled, clearly amused by my reaction. She popped open the container of stew and placed it on the stove, lighting the burner with a quick flick. The smell of the stew hit me instantly—rich, tangy, and full of spices. It wasn't jollof, but it was still pretty good. I watched as she took just enough stew for the night, scooping it out with a ladle and letting it heat up on the stove.
As the stew began to simmer, Mom reached for the bag of rice she'd just brought back from the market. "Grab me the pot," she said, motioning towards the cupboard.
I nodded, pulling open the cabinet doors and grabbing the medium-sized pot she always used for rice. I handed it over, and she rinsed it under the tap before setting it on the stove next to the stew.
Now, I don't know why, but there's something about the way Mom cooks rice that always makes it taste better than when I try to do it myself. Like, she doesn't even measure the water or anything; she just eyeballs it, pours in what looks like the right amount, and somehow, it comes out perfect every single time. It's like she has this secret rice-cooking superpower or something.
She poured the rice into a bowl first, washing it thoroughly until the water ran clear. I always found that part of the process a little tedious, but it's necessary if you don't want your rice to come out all sticky. Once she was done rinsing, she added the rice to the pot with water, letting it boil gently on the stove.
"I don't know how you do it, Mom," I said, watching as she moved around the kitchen effortlessly. "Your rice always turns out perfect. I can never get it right."
Mom smiled, glancing over at me as she stirred the rice. "It's not that hard, Angela. You just need to practice more."
"Yeah, but still. Mine always comes out too mushy or too dry. There's never any in-between," I admitted, feeling a little envious of her skills.
She laughed softly. "It's all about balance. You'll get the hang of it with time."
I nodded, hoping she was right. Cooking wasn't exactly my strong suit, but I wanted to be able to whip up a decent meal one of these days without ruining everything.
As the rice boiled away, Mom shifted her focus back to the stew. She added a bit of water to thin it out, then threw in a few more spices for good measure. The smell was heavenly, and my stomach growled again in anticipation.
"Smells so good," I said, taking a deep breath.
"It'll be ready soon," she replied, giving the stew one final stir before covering it with a lid. "Do you want to make the salad?"
I blinked, surprised she was trusting me with something other than setting the table or chopping onions. "Uh, sure. I'll give it a shot."
She handed me a cucumber and some lettuce, then motioned towards the chopping board. "Just slice them thin. You don't need to add anything fancy."
I grabbed a knife and got to work, slicing the cucumber into thin rounds. It wasn't exactly rocket science, but I still felt a little proud that she was letting me help. After slicing the cucumber, I tore the lettuce into bite-sized pieces and tossed them together in a bowl.
"Not bad," Mom commented, checking over my work. "See, you're getting there."
I smiled, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. Sure, it was just salad, but it was progress.
By the time the rice was done, everything else had come together perfectly. Mom fluffed the rice with a fork, and it was just the right texture—not too sticky, not too dry. She plated up the rice and stew, and I set the table, putting out plates, forks, and glasses.
As we sat down to eat, I couldn't help but feel a little lighter. The earlier boredom from the day had faded away, replaced with the warmth of my family and the comforting smell of home-cooked food. It wasn't jollof, but it was still pretty great.
Mom placed the steaming pot of rice and the fragrant stew in the center of the table. We all sat down, and for a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of spoons clinking against plates and satisfied sighs as we dug into our food.
"See?" Mom said, giving me a knowing look. "Something light, but still delicious."
I laughed, shaking my head. "Alright, alright. You win, Mom. But we're definitely having jollof next time."
She smiled, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "We'll see about that."