Domedo

You have to wait a while for domedo. Those who think of it as just street food know only the adulterated sort, the one that bypasses the wait. Part of the appeal of good domedo is that you have to wait a while. Even when you get a tip about a good supplier, you kind of resign yourself to a kind of food serfdom, the tsar being the domedo guy.

Case in point, I remember one Christmas back home in Ghana, I happened to mention that I hadn't had domedo in a year - a kind of idle hint that I thought might hasten things to the benefit of this exiled soul. The parental unit were enjoying having a full house and fully indulging their brood. But no, I had quite forgotten that this wasn't a routine thing. Domedo is very far from routine, you see. As it was, Mum promptly called her domedo guy and placed the order. It didn't matter that she had built up a relationship with the man over the past 16 years, that she had brought him repeat business, and had referred him many faithful customers over the years, we simply had to wait. There was no indication about when the domedo would come, no estimated timeframe etc. The order was merely acknowledged; further there was no negotiation on price, he knew that whatever he demanded would be promptly paid, no matter how usurious. If we had the good grace to get some domedo on my birthday or even before our return to Austin that would be a fringe benefit, I knew my place.

And when it did come, the fight began. These two children of ours who had been turning their nose up at the fare in the house all of a sudden were fighting with their grandfather and I - I started reconsidering this whole business about putting food on the table for the family. Said grandfather who had began waxing eloquent about the special occasions growing up when domedo was served, noticed the alarming speed with which those two were digging in and reverted to that jungle imperative - every man for himself. The golden rule was was suspended, the other cheek was stuffed not turned. There was no more small talk, we were simians who'd happened onto the prodigal son's feast - to mix my parables. We dug in and ate it all. It was worth the wait.

To say that domedo is spicy pork doesn't capture anything about its essence. It has to be experienced.

I do know this. When this pandemic is over and vaccines and all have been procured. The very first thing I will do when I land on Ghanaian soil is put in an order for domedo. I'm not sure when it will come, but it will be worth the wait.

For the completists or curious: domedo is pronounced something like dough-may-dough.

Note: I have no dietary restrictions albeit my palate was fixed by the time I left Ghana as a child. I am otherwise indifferent to pork - goat and guinea fowl are my favorite meats, but I always stand to attention at the prospect of some good domedo.

Pork, a playlist

A soundtrack to this tasty dish (spotify version)

• Pork Chop by Jimmy Smith
• Ribs An' Chips by Johnny Hammond Smith
• Ribs and Hot Sauce by Lionel Hampton
• Domedo by Rolly Panda
• Eli's Pork Chops by Little Sonny
• I Crave my Pigmeat by Blind Boy Fuller
• Salt Pork West Virginia by Louis Jordan
• Last Pork Chop by Hank Williams, Jr.
• Jerk Ribs by Kelis
• Pork Chops by The Dorsets
• Indulgent Ribs by Evening Jazz Standard

See previously: Taste, Comfort Food and Rare Groove, A Taste of Africa

File under: food, culture, appreciation, review, Ghana, nostalgia, Africa, life, Comfort Suite, toli

Writing log: March 21, 2016; Playlist March 16, 2021

The Golden Yam

I. Temptation

It was the week of my birthday, I must confess
That I came across the golden yam in a moment of weakness

Call me terrified about going to the grocery store
What with the new variant spreading inexorably next door

The Wife had long since banned me from the Ghana shop
Lest I bring back to the marital home a viral dollop

Our town's covidious alert level was now up to the fifth stage
Leaving me home as usual, trapped in my pandemic cage

I noted, with interest, the increasing bareness of my pantry
Having run out of supplies and other necessaries

Hmmm, these growing children actually needed to be fed
Who knew? I somehow felt that I was being misled

With a craving for comfort food, this exiled soul knew what was best
I promptly launched a browser and brought up Carry Go Market

Mechanically, I added the usual suspects to my cart
I stuck to the tried and trusted, power shopping is an art

Ga kenkey, of course, some gari and sardines, I kept it wholesome
The weekly special on palm oil and suya spice was quite welcome

I passed on the fufu powder, it pays to keep your eyes on the prize
But what's this? A temptation appeared right next to the mix for jollof rice

That's the moment I first saw the golden yam
Believe me, I was quite simply unmanned

I call it golden because, well, it cost an arm and a leg
The price was simply outrageous, it had to be said

But I hadn't eaten any yam for nigh eight months, lockdown you see
This taste of Africa, culinary nostalgia, had been denied to me

My attempts at planting yams in the backyard, my own Operation Feed Yourself
Had come to nought, I was left wishing for herd immunity if nothing else

I started to do the math, the conversion rate has almost six cedis to one dollar
Throw in shipping and handling and, well, you can guess the vertiginous number

I daresay it was a temporary madness what was about to unfold
To actually buy this tuber priced above its weight in gold

Some say the most precious material in the world is printer ink
It doesn't bear contemplating, the golden yam was the kitchen sink

But the flesh was weak, I'll freely admit to the sin of gluttony
By this stage of the pandemic, I needed relief from the monotony

In mitigation, give me leave Dear Reader, what you have to understand
Is that potatoes, even the sweet ones, are a poor cousin to puna yam

I rationalized the purchase, it was my birthday, remember
I've sometimes paid hundreds of dollars for unsatisfying dinners

It took a few more clicks to succumb to the madness
And so Dear Wife and Children, please forgive me my debts

I'd practice austerity for a few months, I'd later explain to my bank manager
Thus it was that, a week later, UPS delivered a glorious golden yam tuber

II. Redemption

It was on the fourth night of the Texas Freeze
That my eyes came to rest on the golden yam
The inside temperature had dipped to forty seven degrees
Fahrenheit, frostbite terrain, I had goosebumps on my arm
It's an understatement to say that my entire household was displeased
The February blizzard conditions had brought the entire state to its knees

Lockdown and now the storm, talk about social distancing
One thing after another, this life in Austin was proving daunting
I pride myself on a knack for surmounting challenges but this was confounding
Almost instinctively, I came to the realization that no one was coming

A frozen hellscape was the universal description
While unbearable angst was the prevailing emotion
Buyer's remorse underlay the fraught situation
And regret would tinge the sense of privation

We were truly stuck with the power restrictions
The outage would likely take days for resolution
The crisis management team had led with poor communication
Destroying, perhaps irreparably, the state's reputation

Rotating outages were the initial, hopeful prediction
The chastening reality was that permanence was our condition
Adding insult to injury is that this was eminently predictable
This was the very opposite of what was known as good trouble

"It stopped being fun real quick", the wages of deregulation were slim pickings
Such is the fate of the curious prevailing ideology: wishful thinking
When you have to be melting crushed snow to flush down your bathroom privy
The vaunted exceptionalism is now subject to worldwide concern, if not pity

"You welcome the U.S. to the fun of the Third World" was your mantra long ago
Don't call it prescience but, well, you reap what you sow

My spare battery charger had long since given up the crop
So I'd had to charge the phone using one of the kids' laptops
There would be time enough, if we survived, to reevaluate our emergency procedures
It is only in its absence that you recognize what is called infrastructure

The last bit I'd read was that Flying Ted had absconded on the daily news
Packed his bags and headed to Cancun Mexico, I see you Senator Cruz
I voted against the man but, stuck in a freezer, I still felt rather abused
But what of the clear majority that put him in power, were they now confused?

I'm used to lights out, dumsor comes naturally to a Ghanaian
But this was different, there was no heat, only snow and no trace of sun
Ice everywhere, and not the immigration agency folks on the prowl
God I missed Ghana, I was quite ready to throw in the towel

This was frankly uncomfortable, quiet as it's kept
Even indoors I could see the plumes of my vaporous breath
If I had electricity, I'd no doubt see on the telly
The rolling disaster unfold, the millions left in penury

Be prepared is what the ancients advise
Despite the single digit temperatures outside,
Our house luckily seemed to have reasonable bones
For want of a bolt, a house is not a home

But back to my tale, let's move on from the disabled electric furnace
Cometh the hour, cometh the yam, I had quite forgotten about this purchase
After all that I'd gone through earlier, this was a stroke of brilliance
It was written, I congratulated myself about my foresight and resilience

It was a swift decision, "I'll make us yam and stew for dinner"
I ignored the complaints of the 7 year old at the food on offer
Every man for himself, "Good luck, young man if you want to be picky"
Survival of the fittest, the palaver sauce needed to be eaten quickly
For everything in the thawing fridge was about to be spoiled
On the large burner, the golden yam would take ten minutes to boil
The cigar matches we'd obtained from the neighbors were pressed into service
One strike was all it took (truth in advertising) to light things up in earnest

I wondered whether I could last through the weekend, or just admit defeat
At this point, I would even forgo food for a few days, in exchange for heat
Throw caution to the wind and expand my support bubble
Brave the treacherous icy roads and assume the risk of covidious trouble
But from what we'd heard, some of our friends that had made earlier offers
Of support were now keeping mum, after their houses too had lost power

The boil water notice had come through when I'd switched off airplane mode
To find out if relief would be forthcoming - the bill of goods we'd been sold
Hotels in town had started charging usurious rates, call it a disaster premium
Cold comfort, that is, if only you could get to them in this inclement weather
The alternative was to throw yourself at the mercy of fate, and head for the gymnasium
The children's elementary school had now been repurposed as, get this, a warming shelter

Forty six degrees is as low a temperature as the young ones could tolerate without panic
The Missus was reaching breaking point, was threatening to become catatonic
I daresay this freezing business, on top of the pandemic was getting rather old
Need I remind you that, by this stage, we were sixty five hours deep in this bitter cold
Those fateful words, the kindness of strangers were just a mirage
I kept wondering if the old man who lives in the park had found a garage

The palaver sauce heated up, the palm oil simply glistened
I daresay there was mist in my eyes, you don't know what you were missing
The water boiled and the slices of the golden yam emerged, what a rush
I quickly made to set the table, there was no need to fuss

The combination of hunger, fright and cold was quite auspicious
The serendipity of having this comfort food was rather fortuitous
All I can say is that the golden yam tasted delicious
At breaking point, I was soul sanctified, it was like magic
Thus fortified, I told myself "I could deal with this for another week"

Narrator: that night's temperature drop put paid to this premature optimism
Thankfully this story has a happy ending, put aside your skepticism

Oh the cheer that went through the neighborhood at 5 am when electricity was restored
The sheer relief at this turn of events - these 75 hours, could not be ignored
Quick, we all got up, charged everything; everyone took a shower
Who knew if this would last, we made sure to boil extra water

...

At the outset of the pandemic, as it were, before the storm
A traveling salesman accosted me as I was mowing my lawn
Rent was due, desperate, he showed me a shiny nugget and made me an offer
I'd laugh later at the memory of this hungry man and my golden encounter

And now, after this bout of winter adversity, I was stuck in my home
Freezing and starving, yet I was pondering a poem
The light was fading, at a loss, yours truly was the desperate man
Thankfully, my hunger was sated by an encounter with a golden yam

...

I might as well go with The Golden Encounter playlist as a soundtrack for this note.

This folktale is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: humour, whimsy, food, nostalgia, culture, observation, perception, USA, Ghana, Africa, failure, poetry, disaster, Texas, family, folktale, coronavirus, pandemic, covidious, Observers are worried, toli

Writing log: Part I January 15 2021, Part II. February 21, 2021

Cooking Session

Stomach infrastructure they called it
As they prepared the gravy train
The new procedures thickened a stew of no bid contracts
The compliance regulations were taken with a grain of salt

Everything was on the menu, advance fee appetizers
Intricate patterns of exchange, they favored mob lawyers
And accountants cooking books as their waiters
Private bankers their sommeliers and kitchen managers

All you can eat buffets were their favored configuration
The restaurant served as chef's special an awoof conception
The nubile hostesses made sure to procure golden mangos
Presentation is all, they danced the corruption tango

The Cayman Island cocktail umbrellas were made of Panama Papers
Elaborate Swiss cheese accounts and other stylized confections
Tax sheltering strategies, ever heard of Bahamian thyme leaves?
Divert this way and and that, there is no honor among thieves

Some had bland taste, they didn't care for exotic spices
They simply laid on the pork and summoned greasy bribes
Others went for prime cuts of steak and sometimes jive turkey
They liked their portions wrapped in bacon or beef jerky

Still others in their tribe preferred things medium rare
They hid old wine in new bottles in offshore tax havens
And for desert they loaded on mints and chocolate candy
The back end of any transaction with a confirmed sugar daddy

After dinner they would pass the Courvoisier, Schnapps and brandy
A few had low taste and chose Bucks Fizz and Drambuie
Those at the high table went with choice liquor and aged port
To nosy squares they had the ready retort, "See you in the courts"

Later, they would steam open the overstuffed cash envelopes
Punch drunk on money, their elixir of life, that champagne bubble
They were secure in the knowledge that they would enjoy the bezzle
At the very least until the first untainted auditor's report

As the cooking session ended they would sing together with soul
That old favorite blues song, I want a little sugar in my bowl
Mouth watering profits the fruits of their shell games
For these grifters had herd immunity to shame

"Pot belly democracy" is the Ghanaian expression. "Stomach infrastructure" is the Kenyan term. African politicians know the deal.

— Shell Games

Further listening and reading:

• Comfort Food and Rare Groove
• A Hungry Playlist
• An Awoof Conception
• A Dictionary of African Politics by Nic Cheeseman, Eloïse Bertrand, and Sa’eed Husaini.

Timing is everthing
Observers are worried

File under: humour, satire, culture, language, corruption, food, rogues, crime, fraud, observation, hatchet job, shell game, Observers are worried, poetry, metaphor, toli

Writing log: February 14, 2021

Taste

Of the senses that cruel nature can decide to deny
Taste is apparently the ugly stepchild
Likely to be easily dismissed without a thought
Or simply sacrificed as in a pact with Faust

Its function can even be subsumed by its siblings
Harken to the ancients of the Epicurean tribe
Who claimed that we eat first with our eyes
For even as visual appetites can be further whetted
By the alluring smells of culinary anticipation
I'm minded that even the sounds of food preparation
Can occasionally climb to the most flavorful heights

The hunger for touch and tangible connection
The music of comfort suites and aural pleasures
The sight of delightful contours elicit recognition
The familiar smell of home remains a welcome perception

True, there are magical feasts in fairy tales
And secret recipes are oft highlighted
The storytellers of yore emphasized poisonous potions
But far more of their plot points hinge on glorious visions
Suffice to say that the gustatory is underrated

The plague announces itself with the theft of taste
A sensual covidious casualty even before smell
Superfluous perhaps, this robbery, for food is fuel
But the pandemic's effect on the tongue means all is gruel

What a life, to be resigned to the bitterness of disappointment
To no longer know the meaning of a grain of salt
Or that the sweetness of a smile could be lost in appreciation
And sour moods could remain mere shadows rather than viscerally appall

No more folktales, what about the princess and the brown sugar?
What is the spice of life when everything now requires a food taster?
You can have all the riches in the world, all that money
But without comfort food, would the prince still savor the honey?

What circle of hell is this, with no easy excuses to forgo your broccoli?
Sustenance perhaps, but might as well go for feeding tubes really
Everything is pap, utter undifferentiated banality
This poisoned chalice that has become your new normalcy

A paradox, the sensory organ continues to exist
Still soft, warm and lush, this vestigial proboscis
This invisible disability remains a dark matter
Even as you sit ruing the loss of your taste receptors

The body compensates, they say, and refines the other textures
Enhanced smell might give you an entrée
   as a great nose in the perfume industry
But it's no consolation when you can no longer detect
   a wine that's merely ordinary
A subprime foreclosure on your mooted career as a fine wine buyer

We've been reading the tale of the lost stories
Narratives of control; this paradise from which we’ve been severed
Social distancing with so many unable to walk in glory
Pity the survivor however, at a remove from a taste of heaven

The heart leaps at the mention of Auntie Becky's kelewele
Roadside excellence, the comfort food of Labone childhood reveries
The intense longing, an almost physical vibration
Synesthesia, I can picture the plantain with such acuity
But to have these flavors foregone would be agony
To be left with only the color of memory
Would a kiss of life even be extraordinary?
Taste, a lack of sensation, to no longer be at ease
It is said that nostalgia can be a fatal disease

After learning of my sister's covidious condition and a friend stuck in Texas trying to summon the memory of the taste of plantain

Taste, a Playlist

A tasty soundtrack for this grace note. (spotify version)

• A Taste of Honey by Lizz Wright
  It melts on your tongue
• Just a Taste of Lovin' by Al B Sure
  It's all you need
• Your Love - So Good I Can Taste It by Barry White
  He takes his time but once he gets going, well...

  "You ever hear a three-hundred-pound black man with sweat dripping out of his process get so overcome by the goodness of his woman's "love" that he stops forming actual syllables and instead just goes to rolling his tongue around and making "brrrrrr" sounds like a baby? Welcome to Barryland."

• 65 Bars and a Taste of Soul by Charles Wright & The Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band
• A Little Taste by Cannonball Adderley
• A Little Taste of Soul by Sugar Pie DeSanto
• Taste Your Love by Horace Brown
• Mr Pitiful by Big Daddy Kane
  The album is titled Taste of Chocolate after all
• Kiss of Life by Sade
  Wist and extraordinary comfort are to be found here.

See previously: Touch

This sensory process is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: poetry, taste, sensory, culture, observation, perception, loss, coronavirus, pandemic, disease, nostalgia, food, covidious, Observers are worried, toli

Writing log: February 12, 2021

The Prince and The Honey

A sequel of sorts, this time the tale is of The Prince and The Honey. One morning, not too long ago, The Little Prince was overheard plaintively saying as he tucked into his morning oats, "Daddy, I don't like the smell of this honey"...

"You what?", thundered the harried father. "Ebei, what little Lord Fauntleroys am I raising here? It's a pandemic, Oliver Twist. I'm in exile. I'm not complaining about what I am missing from the shores of Lake Bosomtwi. Your Akim Swedru lineage is not about delicate sensibility."

But it turned out that The Wicked Mother had replaced the contents of the bottle of Good Flow Austin wildflower honey with an obviously less than adequate Round Rock honey. The 10 mile discrepancy in taste was duly spotted; the Prince had promptly called out the deception. Identity theft. Imposter honey.

The wicked mother quickly snatched her honey back, apparently it's a natural cure for all manner of allergies - they were living in the allergy capital of the land of America. The father placated the son by locating an unadulterated bottle of original honey - the nectar of princes, and fruit of his last pre-lockdown trip. The Princess smiled to herself that her little brother was following in her regal steps.

The mother was slightly chastened that her deception had been exposed, but had the readymade explanation that she was actually protecting the prince, who was still prone to breaking things, and had preemptively decanted her counterfeit honey from its crystal bottle - the Round Rock brand aspired to high class glass, into the old faithful plastic bottle that the family knew and loved, the good flow, as it were.

The father accepted that explanation - he was known to engage in parental deceptions of his own, but he decided to troll the mother by nudging the princess, and loudly saying to the prince: "Likely story...". He winked, accepting as he did this, that he would face the inevitable marital repercussions later, but winding Mother Bear up would be worth it in this case and, well, it was a covidious pandemic, what else does one do to entertain oneself and pass the time?

The father then opened up a browser and, after a quick search session and one-click tribute to an Amazonian tribe - there was a transfer of filthy lucre to their leader, Count Bezos - a whole paycheck's subtribe collected a not-inconsiderable amount of black gold coins in exchange for food. A supply of the Good Flow honey was duly sourced for the next few months.

And everyone lived happily ever after...

(Ducks)

The Prince and The Honey, a playlist

A soundtrack for this anecdote (spotify version)

• Honey by Ohio Players
• Fake by Alexander O'Neal
• A Taste of Honey by Lizz Wright
• Jezebel by Sade
• That's my Honey by Chuckii Booker
• A Little Taste by Cannonball Adderley
• Honey don't Front by Grand Puba

Woe is me, this life of fairytales I am living is not for the faint of heart, what with peas and brown sugar princesses, not to mention princes and honey for the bears. What about the hard knock life, I ask? What next, I wonder? Am I to be the boy who cried wolf?

Bonus soundtrack

• What have I done to deserve this by Pet Shop Boys featuring Dusty Springfield
• Fairy tales by Anita Baker

See previously: The Princess and The Brown Sugar

This note is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: humour, taste, food, music, parenthood, whimsy, culture, folktale, family, life, covidious, toli

The Princess and The Brown Sugar

Woe is me, I'm living in a fairy tale entitled The Princess and The Brown Sugar. I've raised someone who can detect when brown sugar is substituted for white cane sugar in her tea. I know her grandmother writes cookbooks but hadn't realized that such food sensitivity was genetic.

My uncouth palate was curtly dismissed with a hand wave. But it's all just sugar to me. Let's be frank, can you really tell the difference? Let alone after said sugar is dissolved in tea? Ebei, there's some African electronics at work, Nyame dua.

Or perhaps I should turn to her grandfather, a materials scientist, for pointers on aqueous processing of sugar. Could it really be that brown sugar crystals are processed differently by the tongue? Enough to make a difference in taste? Another book project...

The Princess and The Honey, a playlist

A soundtrack for this anecdote (spotify version)

• Princesse Nubienne by Les Nubians
• Sugar You Want by Beres Hammond
• Brown Sugar by D'Angelo
• Being a Girl by Van Hunt
• It Makes No Difference Now by Ray Charles
• I Want A Little Sugar In My Bowl by Nina Simone

Further reading

• Food Culture in Sub-Saharan Africa by Fran Osseo-Asare
• The Ghana Cookbook by Fran Osseo-Asare and Barbara Baëta

Backstory

The initial feedback to this note was ferocious, I was told that there was a indeed a difference in taste and texture, and that I had a wholly indiscriminate palate. I was even deemed to be shameless for drinking tea with brown sugar, a culinary affront. Moreover there were fears that I might even have the rona or be covidiously afflicted if I couldn't even pass such a taste test. The Wife's testimony in my defence didn't make a difference, almost every one sided with the princess. I've come to realize that I am definitely in a minority in this business so much so that I've decided that, as I am indeed living in a fairy tale, I needed to add some beasts to the prevailing soundtrack:

• Troglodyte by Jimmy Castor Bunch

(Ducks)

This folktale is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: humour, taste, food, music, parenthood, whimsy, culture, family, life, folktale, covidious, toli

A Kenkey Bounty

Happiness is finding kenkey in Oakland - and not just something purporting to be kenkey, but good kenkey. You hadn't realized how much you'd been missing kenkey in your life so you beamed when you saw those corn husks wrapped around those broken pieces of your heart. Call it a restorative. And then to cap it off you notice some good puna yam at the door of the store, "From Ghana", she assures you. Hey it's Ghana's independence day and what better way to celebrate. Your basket was quickly filled with the basics: kenkey, yam, sardines, tilapia, plantains, okro, palm oil, fufu powder, and the old faithful, gari. You had come perilously close to disaster but had remembered that piece of advice that they announce as the plane takes off from Kotoka International Airport: "A Ghanaian immigrant should never run out of gari"; it's like losing your soul.

One of the problems with being an immigrant is getting food from home, a problem exacerbated especially if, like me, your culinary tastes were locked in place by age 8 or thereabouts. Physical displacement can be tolerable - a cosmopolitan disposition helps, but culinary dislocation goes beyond the realm of physical to a certain level of metaphysical angst. Like nostalgia, it's almost a social disease. As that wise man said, "home is where the kelewele is".

I see it as a quality of life issue. Moreover I have a very specific notion of (my culinary) home. I could eat plantain every day (and often do) - and have been known to base my housing decisions on its availability. So the first thing to investigate when in a new town is where the "African" shop is and if my staples can be obtained. My kelewele has to be styled like Auntie Becky's in North Labone - and I've been known to come to virtual fisticuffs with other exiled souls who have the nerve to argue that it was rather 'the woman from Labone junction' who made the best kelewele in town. Good grief. Well, less said on that, I shouldn't blame you if you haven't been exposed to that slice of heavenly taste.

Fruits: mangoes, bananas and pineapples preferably from Aburi and its environs - I am a failed pineapple farmer - and more on that later. Fruits however can be substituted. Banku and kenkey are irreplaceable. When it comes to kenkey, it's Ga kenkey that is essential. I could of course learn how to make kenkey but I always demur, safe in the knowledge that I'll never reach the heights of some of the good kenkey houses in Osu or Jamestown. I believe in division of labour. Sidenote: to avert the inevitable Ga versus Fante kenkey critiques, I'll admit that Fante kenkey off the road from Cape Coast is quite the thing. Tell Mama Akos Esi (or rather, her grand-daughter who tends to skip school to mind the stand) that I sent you.

There's probably a longer feature to be written about the "African shop" abroad that caters groceries, phone cards and serves as community bulletin board to the diasporic cohort. My experience in France is perhaps coloured by the relative lack of authentic African food stuffs where we lived; the substitutes helped but weren't sufficient and French cuisine leaves me completely indifferent to this day. In London in the 80s it was first Charlie's in St John's Wood that catered to our tastes - although Charlie's English reserve and hefty prices were a bit hard to take. Then, as the immigration wave crested, we started to see competition as Africa immigrants opened their own shops - the couple of Afro-Carribbean shops in Cricklewood made my day. Later, Ghanaians and Nigerians took over many parts of South London so that Deptford on a Saturday could be well be Kaneshie market. In New York and New Jersey, there were of course the Korean shops that were early entrants but again Ghanaians and Nigerians have now caught up and compete in the culinary marketplace with groceries and now restaurants. Boston was touch and go - the Ghana shop that I frequented moved a number of times - and even burnt down at one point. Still, I was never too far from plantain, yam, gari and kenkey. And the world was good. Slowly and surely the African culinary colonization is taking place and these days many supermarkets cater to our diaspora. Would that this trend continue.

Downtown Oakland has the Lucky Oriental Mart which, despite its title, is comprehensive in its purveyance of all manner of African and Carribean food. God bless the Filipino owners whose knowledge of our plants and foods is a thing to behold. The only gap in their coverage had been a regular supply of decent kenkey - now resolved. I do hope these soul sisters make it to the continent one day; on this Independence day, they captured my heart with a few balls of kenkey. A small thing perhaps, but I am duly sated. From here on, I only have a few fantasies to fulfill: some chichinga or grilled Guinea fowl - well a man can dream can't he? Everyone needs a taste of Africa.

File under: Ghana, immigration, food, kenkey, wist, culture, taste, nostalgia, life, Africa, toli

A Taste of Africa

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the sight of a grandmother running a kitchen in a restaurant brings a sense of warmth to the stomach of any man. The anticipation is further heightened in the sub-species known as the seasoned bachelor. I have seen grown men regress to their misspent and gluttonous youth, instantly shedding the heady shackles of responsibility as fond memories visibly surface. A certain look comes over the face and, for an instant, monosyllabic grunts are all that one is capable of. A food coma in prospect, the salivary glands go into overdrive. You'll notice a lot of involuntary licking of lips. If you listen closely you'll hear them whisper the adjective 'mouth-watering' under their breath. If only one could bottle up that instant cheer. I should know. Even though matrimony has been treating me well, that was me this Saturday.

Food is like that. Homecooked food, made with expert care is like that. Comfort food is by definition richly valued and time-tested, and the visual cues, those Auntie or Grandma figures, are rightly emphasized in advertising. An authentic real-life grandmotherly intervention is to be prized above almost all else.

And there it is, front and center, as you enter: you see her. Smiling her warm welcoming smile, she's surrounded by the pots with perhaps a ladle in hand, stirring, prodding, orchestrating a small slice of culinary nirvana. She's in full control, cooking with glee. You'll hear her dispensing pearls of wisdom, advising the others on spices and such. Still it's her show.

She's a grandmother. It's her thing, she's in it for love. It's the usual story: her reputation for homecooking was outsized, it wasn't just the extended family, but also the friends, and their friends. They all knew. She liked to cook, that's all. First it was a little joint a few blocks away, not much more than a little trailer, yet it kept going for 8 years. Now there is more capital, so it's a full-blown restaurant. They've lost the training wheels as it were; the revamp and grand-opening was late last year. Moving on up like Curtis Mayfield sang.

It's one of those crossroad neighbourhoods. The signs of recent gentrification are mixed with the usual pre-gentrification remnants and indeed holdouts. Transition in short. The restaurant is near the Berkeley/Oakland line, thus it's close enough to the heart of the City of Liberals to be a favourite of the Peace Corps crowd - those wanting to reminisce about a time when life had meaning, while maintaining the close ties to the soulful parts of the Oakland brethren and sistren - you know, those who keep it real. And then of course, there's your tribe of patrons: Africans in America. Ah nostalgia.

It's a family affair. Her daughters and sons cook, serve and clean. On occasion the little grandchildren drop by. I think the word is cute. It's really like spending time in a family home, it doesn't feel like a Formal Restaurant™. You wouldn't come dressed in opera wear.

It's not a dive, but it's suitably intimate, seven or eight tables, perhaps seating 25 inside, and a dozen out on the patio when the weather is right as it often is on this side of the San Francisco Bay. You get the red, gold and green painted exteriors, you get some batik prints. Was there a mask or two? Above all you get food from the Grandmotherland. Glorious Cameroonian cuisine is what you get. Ambiance and comfort are the fringe benefits.

Ethnic food in the Bay Area is mostly Asian (Chinese, Korean, Indian, Indonesian) and obviously the ubiquitous Mexican. African food is represented by the numerous Ethiopian restaurants, their delicate civilization having a strong presence in these parts. Of course there's much more to African food and culture than Ethiopia and slowly that awareness is seeping into the public consciousness.

We live near the Gourmet Ghetto in Berkeley, home to Chez Panisse and 15 or so restaurants. World-renowned, haute cuisine, Californian New World fusion cuisine with complicated ingredients - typical descriptions read like a Restoration Hardware label. You know what I mean: the expensive wines, the high snob quotient, the feel-privileged factor. Your mileage may vary but colour me unimpressed. When I need soul as I often do, living as we do in the midst of God's own people, I like to head out to our people, my people. I try to support the burgeoning West African community. There's Ghanaian Tropical Paradise down the street and, ever since I discovered it in the new year, there's A Taste of Africa.

Thus you might find me there on certain lazy weekend afternoons, sporting my fresh haircut from the nearby barbershops (I have to cross over to the Oakland side of things to get the right hair treatment), sipping on a glass of their homemade ginger delight drink (the last time, I almost declaimed spontaneous poetry in appreciation), chatting with all and sundry, or perhaps quietly reading a novel as the whim might take me. I'll be there taking in the atmosphere, nodding to the music as the family get to work, conjuring up the meals. They chat amongst themselves with the back and forth and intimacy that comes from knowing. It's the easy familiarity of, well, a family.

This is not fast food, it's homemade and unhurried, prepared with care. The menu is only a guideline, a starting point for a conversation. Ask for whatever is good that day. The menu alternates and Ma will cook whatever is her fancy.

"What do you have today?" "Well... I think... today... well... you see... you might like...."

And so forth. The pauses and rhythms are eternal. The sense of time is African. You'll wait a while as the food is prepared. The sweet smell of the fried plantains, the sule as the Cameroonians call it, will gently waft in from the nearby kitchen tickling your sensibility. It's ten feet away; if you could you'd take a few leaps and pick up a few slices, hot off the fryer. But, well, you control yourself. As they say, good things come to those who wait.

By the time the food arrives, you're ready. You dig in. What else is there to say? It's the main course, the main event, the main everything. I shall skip the ludicrous amount of pleasure you derive but I suppose I should describe the food somewhat.

Let's start with the ndole. A sauce of peanuts, spinach, garlic, ginger and something special. Throw it on everything, you can't go wrong. I exchanged a look of delight with a grandchild, perhaps 4 years old, she knew the score about the ndole she was similarly wolfing down.

The jollof rice is different from my customary Ghanaian fare, they don't seem to use long-grain rice, it's not the usual Basmati business, and the tomato treatment makes for a less intense taste. I like it though. Topped with Ndole, the fat lady sang. For the uninitiated, jollof is... well you can google it. Suffice to say that that it's my kind of thing. The sule, as I've suggested is great - again with a twist, I couldn't detect the ginger that would be in Ghanaian kelewele.

The suya, well, that's something else altogether. The spice on the kebab is phenomenal. Cameroon's proximity to Nigeria comes in handy in this respect, the Nigerians have the greatest tradition of khebab. Suya. Suya. Suya! A chorus of approval.

Try the pepper soup, typically with lamb or goat meat - or vegetarian if you must. Of course, this is West African food, so there's the obligatory fufu to accompany it (pounded yams in this case). There's more of course: moi moi or acara (various takes on black eyed peas), ewole which is the essence of Cameroon, egusi, okra and more. I'll let you discover for yourself.

I was struck that everything was light; she cooks with a delicate touch. Some African restaurants go all out with heavy fare that the part of the clientele that are cab drivers appreciate. You will eat a lot here and you won't regret it. You are reminded that the beautiful people live in California. There's sensitivity to the market. Astute, I must say.

Midway through your sustained attack on the delights at hand, she might take a walk around the place surveying the fruits of her labour. She doesn't need to ask; it's a done deal. But she does anyway. And yeah, she knows all right. She's seen it before: your appreciation is plainly evident from the precursors of sweat on your face, even before you launch into the obligatory mumbled 'it's ummm sooo ummm goo umm oood". She smiles. You smile. 6,000 miles away from the continent, diaspora, exile life is forgotten. For an hour of so, you're transported back home. You've gotten your taste of Africa. You're in the realm of the sated.

A Taste of Africa is in Berkeley, California.

Tell Ma I sent you. It's the least I could do.

Soundtrack for this love letter

Al B. Sure! - Just A Taste Of Lovin'

File under: food, review, Africa, Cameroon, Berkeley, USA, appreciation, taste, restaurant, life, pleasure, observation, happiness, joy, escape, cuisine, comfort, diaspora, small things, toli

Comfort Food and Rare Groove

I was recently re-reading Food Culture in Sub-Saharan Africa by Fran Osseo-Asare - a book I've been meaning to review since it came out last year. Briefly, it's nothing less than a comprehensive overview of the culture and history of food in Africa. It covers the continent, dipping into all the regional flavours. There's lots of historical insight about the types of ingredients used, the crops, animals, fisheries etc. It's one of those books you can open at any page and find lots of to chew on (pun intended, tongue in cheek etc). Most culinary books concentrate on recipes but this goes beyond that into the cultural and social significance of food (from who prepares it, traditions surrounding it, special meals etc). Anyway I'll return to it at length shortly, shall we say that it deserves a fuller digestion. I'm rather concerned in this note with rare groove.

As normally occurs when matters literary and gastronomical coincide, my salivary glands began to do their thing after barely 5 minutes of reading. Much like that recent article on street food in Ghana, my immediate reaction was to think of smells, sounds and kitchens. Oh the smells! As my mouth started watering, my mind started wandering and I was thinking about Auntie Becky's roadside kelewele (fried ripe plantains) in North Labone which is the first place I head to when I land in Accra. Auntie Becky has been cooking outside a house for thirty odd years and has a devoted and international following. Indeed she married the owner of the house which is one way of romancing I suppose - Like Water For Chocolate as they say. The marriage got her the hookup to household gas replacing the previous charcoal fires... In any case, my lunch companions were 20 minutes away thus to distract the incipient hunger pangs, I dipped into my musical library and compiled the following menu of comfort food and rare groove. Hope you enjoy it.

A Hungry Playlist (Listen here)

Chef's Specials

• Common - The Food
• Herbie Hancock - Cooking Session
• Stephanie Mills - Ain't No Cookin'
• Amadou & Mariam - Sénégal Fast Food
• Omar - Confection (ft Mica Paris)
  (see also Tasty Morsel for bite-sized portions)
• Horace Silver - Cookin' At The Continental
• Charles Wright - Cooking Session
• Goodie Mob - Soul Food
• Miles Davis - Steamin'
  (Note: album sized, you may substitute Miles Davis - Cookin' if you prefer)

Snacks

• Charlie Parker - Salt Peanuts
• James Brown - Mother Popcorn

Main Course

• Charles Mingus - Eat That Chicken
• Anthony Hamilton - Cornbread, Fish & Collard Greens
• Kruder & Dorfmeister - Lamb, Trans Fatty Acid
• Booker T & The MG's - My Sweet Potato
• Jimmy Smith - Pork Chop
• Musical Youth - Pass The Dutchie
• Cannonball Adderley - Afro-Spanish Omlet
• Dwele - Flapjacks
• Freddie Hubbard - Cold Turkey
• Kenny Burrell - Chitlins Con Carne
• Lee Morgan - Cornbread
• Roy Hargrove - Greens At The Chicken Shack
• James Brown - The Chicken
• Soul Runners - Grits 'N' Corn Bread
• Miles Davis - Fishermen, Strawberry and Devil Crab
• King Curtis - Memphis Soul Stew
• Ohio Players - Jive Turkey
• Jimmy Smith - Back At The Chicken Shack
• Prince - Starfish and Coffee
• Main Source - Live at the Barbeque
• MC Serch ft Chubb Rock, Nas - Back To The Grill
• Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong - Crab Man
• Meshell NdegeOcello - Oysters
• Rufus Thomas - Funky Hot Grits
• The Meters - Chicken Strut

Dessert

• Sade - Cherry Pie
• Dexter Gordon - Cheese Cake
• Herbie Hancock - Watermelon Man
• Mtume - Juicy Fruit
• Duke Ellington - Arabesque Cookie
  (from the Nutcracker Suite no less)
• Charlie Parker - Scrapple From the Apple
• Charles Mingus - Song With Orange
• Dave Bruebeck - Tangerine
• Hugh Masekela - Strawberries
• The Time - Ice Cream Castles
• Billie Holiday - Strange Fruit
  (also available Cassandra Wilson or Nina Simone style)
• Wendy & Lisa - Fruit At the Bottom
• Erykah Badu - Appletree
• The Brothers Johnson - Strawberry Letter 23
• Prince - Raspberry Beret
• Amel Larrieux - Berries and Cream

Secret Ingredients

• Loose Ends - A Little Spice
• Lizz Wright - Salt
• Booker T & The MG's - Green Onions
• The Time - Chili Sauce
• Lou Donaldson - Nice 'N' Greasy
• Marlena Shaw - Spice of Life
• D'Angelo - Chicken Grease
• Count Basie - Honeysuckle Rose
• Booker T & The MG's - Soul Dressing

Sweets

• D'Angelo - Brown Sugar
• Cassandra Wilson - Tupelo Honey
• Kool & The Gang - Chocolate Butter Milk
• Cameo - Candy
• Nina Simone - I Want A Little Sugar In My Bowl
• Jill Scott - Honey Molasses
• Johnny Hammond - Los Conquistadores Chocolates
• Bob Marley - Guava Jelly
• Lo-Key - Sweet On You
• A Tribe Called Quest - Butter
• Parliament - Chocolate City
• Beres Hammond - Sugar You Want
• Ohio Players - Sweet Sticky Thing

Beverages

• Fela Kuti - Water No Get Enemy
• Jimmy Mcgriff - Blue Juice
• E.T. Mensah & The Tempos - Tea Samba
• The Roots - Water
• Thelonious Monk - Tea For Two
• Kelis - Suga Honey Iced Tea
• Duke Ellington - Chocolate Shake
• The Manhattan Project - Old Wine, New Bottles
• Duke Ellington - Sugar Rum Cherry
• UB40 - Red Red Wine
• Tha Alkaholiks - Only When I'm Drunk
• Tony Rich Project - Red Wine
• Snoop Doggy Dogg - Gin and Juice
• Busta Rhymes - Pass The Courvoisier
• Bennie Maupin - Water Torture
• Lester Young And Oscar Peterson - Tea For Two

Supplements

• Baby Cham - Vitamin S (Fiesta Riddim)
• Booker T & The MG's - 'Mo Onions

Liner Notes

• Do not listen to this playlist on an empty stomach or you may have a case of jazz-funk Water Torture ala Bennie Maupin.
• On matters of etiquette, feel free to use your hands when partaking of toli comfort food, remember though that it is best to use only one hand unless it's chicken or ribs of course. The only other advice you'll need is Musical Youth's, namely "Pass The Dutchie 'Pon The Left Hand Side".
• Surpisingly there isn't much else on food culture and, no, Charles Mingus' The Shoes of the Fisherman's Wife doesn't count. Neither does Scratch's hilarious 3 Barstools Away, might I add.
• From the evidence of this playlist, it is clear that the chicken came before the egg. The earthy music I tend to listen to tends to celebrate our hens more than their eggs, other than the one Afro-Spanish omelette, the chickens rule the roost. (I discarded Disjam's Softboiled for being imprecise. The Time's The Bird, The Roots' Duck Down and Bob Marley's Three Little Birds were disqualified for the same imprecision).
• Prince's Starfish and Coffee comes with "Maple Syrup And Jam, A Butterscotch Cloud, A Tangerine, A Side Order Of Ham", he is a special one. His Sticky Wicked collaboration with Chaka Khan and Miles Davis is only available on the adult menu as is R Kelly's Chocolate Factory, positive id is required. Oscar Peterson's The Honeydripper is discounted for reasons of messiness.
• Of course I've noted before that eating people is wrong thus with a track like Miles Davis's Fishermen, Strawberry and Devil Crab, you don't get the fishermen. Sorry, but I believe in truth in advertising. I omitted The Coup's Fat Cats, Bigger Fish out of similar cultural sensitivity.
• Surprisingly for a playlist heavy on soul food, there aren't too many stews, gumbo or fish on the menu and unfortunately we're out of soup in the toli kitchen; as Troop would have it "I'm Not Soupped". You might also ask, where's the beef, goat or black sheep? The answer is that my musical collection isn't that extensive.
• The artist historically most concerned with food is strangely unrepresented in this food playlist. Jill Scott punctuates almost every song with lyrics about grits, collard greens and the like yet it's only Honey Molasses that I'm highlighting. However her Family Reunion song about barbecues deserves an honorary mention as does Joy and Pain by Maze featuring Frankie Beverly which comes with most backyard grills.
• Memphis's finest band Booker T and the MG.s contribute the most tracks to the menu and no wonder, they live in a melting pot.
• An update: as pointed out in the comments, I completely missed a meal and it is rather Louis Jordan and his Tympany 5 that take the cake. Well that's what happens if you have Five Guys Named Moe, I suppose.

Yesterday, after lunch of course, I listened to this almost 6 hour multi-course meal and it all fits together remarkably well, a balanced diet of soul, jazz and funk (metaphor overload: "a cornucopia of extra-sensory nuggets"). It put me in an anticipatory mood for dinner which I wolfed down voraciously - gusto was written all over my face. There's a lot of humour in all the music since food culture is mostly celebatory - the funniest track being Mingus' Eat that Chicken - what a chorus. I've been told that my musical obsession is far out, or as Eric Dolphy would have put it, I'm Out to Lunch but bear with me and, above all, enjoy your meal. As always menu suggestions are welcome.

See also: "We Eat First With Our Eyes" her take on Ghanaian Cuisine. In my case, I eat first with my ears.

Comfort Food and Rare Groove, a playlist

File under: music, obsession, food, whimsy, culture, soul, jazz, funk, jazz-funk, reggae, Africa, Ghana, memory, chicken, comfort, Comfort Suite, toli

The Joy Of Small Things

• The Joy Of Small Things
• Life Is Sweet
• A Soundtrack of Small Things

Happiness is noticing blinking lights on your answering machine just past midnight in your hot apartment, bleary eyed as you try to open a window to let out that bee that somehow made it past the nets or alternatively dodge mosquitos to avoid the West Nile Blues.

Happiness occurs when you check your messages and hear that your favourite aunt has given birth to a new cousin, a baby girl.

Happiness is forgetting all about the bees and mosquitos and screaming to wake your neighbours up.

Happiness is the 3 hour conversation you then have with your parents back home about life, family, change and everything else.

Happiness is hearing about your grandma so overjoyed that she broke out in voluminous prayer. Your symptoms are genetic.

Happiness is going to sleep with a smile on your face.

Happiness is the dream you have of blowing off work the next day to catch the Fung Wah bus to head to New York.

Akua Abigail has arrived a few weeks early but is wonderfully healthy and her mum is similarly content.

Although we are thoroughly modern, having your first child in your forties is still extraordinary and there had been some trepidation all around.

Happiness will be the mad rush to New Jersey to welcome mother and daughter when they are discharged from the hospital over the weekend.

Happiness is being in England, Germany, France or Ghana (in addition to being thoroughly modern, we are a thoroughly dispersed family) and hearing said news and joyfully negotiating with travel agents to change flight plans handwaving away the prospect of paying several thousand of dollars for tickets to see your daughter or niece.

I first heard about my aunt's "loaded condition" a few months ago on the day I made my own modest proposal and a dear cousin stepped into matrimony. Thus the entire family has been smiling ever since and anticipating a wonderful end of July. Thank goodness I caught a few glimpses of her pregnancy and we all have bits to add for the historical record when I went to visit her. But back to happiness...

Happiness is remembering the various churches you passed in Brooklyn on that same day. New York's finest on display.

Happiness is recalling the name of the church you passed on your way to help a fellow bachelor out in Ikea and that confusing place we call the modern department store:

The Institutional Church of God in Christ. inc.

Happiness is trying to be a personal shopper and attempting to convince someone whose apartment has only a bed, computer, iPod, and beer in the fridge that it's worth it to spruce up since The Parents would be landing in just a few weeks to stay with him.

Happiness is your chutzpah when you, who are only a couple of weeks removed from confirmed bachelorhood,

have the gall to expound to your cousin on "thread counts" and explain that "some people" (you don't qualify who) may feel better in the morning if they slept on 450 thread count sheets rather than utilitarian prison-ware.

Happiness is recalling when you asked that young black woman in Target if "there were any deals on sets", her subsequent laugh and response that

"This is a family store!"

since she mistook your enthusiasm for sets of bedsheets with garden-variety sexual propositions.

Happiness was the spontaneous laughter you all shared. She had just herself propositioned Mr Bachelor with a Target credit card with "An additional 15% off today's purchase" that finally tipped the deal and would ensure the success of your home decorating campaign.

Happiness is knowing that she lost the pen that you offered her for the credit card application your cousin and her filled out.

Happiness has been writing for the past few months with the replacement Target pen she gave you.

Happiness is the decor of furniture in Pierre Deux, which reminded you of the most awful florid French and English houses.

Happiness is the curious looks you exchanged with your cousin as you walked into Pierre Deux as you saw the bright colours and the knowledge that in future you'll be able to crack him up with that codeword.

Happiness is making phone calls to your other cousin now ensconced in Richmond Virginia for her to launch her browser and reserve a car at Newark Airport since both of you guys were not air travelers and apparently you can no longer just walk up to those rental locations and pick a car.

Happiness is remotely directing the web transaction from New Jersey and discussing car options knowing that you were at the mercy of this babe in Virginia, sweet talking her to make sure she picked a large sedan.

Happiness is her astute interior decorating advice about which shops to attack in your bachelor intervention.

"Door Store, Ikea, Secaucus outlets and Target".

She pronounces Target as if it was some french word, that soft "g".

Happiness is leaving Ikea having only persuaded your cousin to buy a third of the things on his list

"I don't want to buy anything too permanent if I'll just be moving soon"

and seeing some normally unemployed guys on the roadside wearing signs promising a

Closing Down Furniture Sale!!!
Everything Must Go!

Happiness is following the signs and gesticulating to the 5 or 6 "Breadcrumb Guys" and being directed to the back of a furniture warehouse, it turns out that it was Corts Rental Furniture. Oh joy: bargain-basement rates on items that literally fell off the back of a truck.

Happiness is avoiding that business of making eye contact with the clientele of fellow desperados that had similarly been drawn by the flashy (fleshy?) advertisements. It reminds you of teenage expeditions to some "special shops" in Soho in the Red Light district of London when a bunch of you managed to get away from chaperones during school trips. You both feel a little dirty about being titillated by this "product".

Happiness is the sight of the gruesome furniture therein and the jokes you exchanged with one of the brothers who worked there when you enquired about a dining room table.

"It's seen better days".

Happiness is cracking up and quipping that

It's been to war... It's just come back from Iraq or Afghanistan.

Happiness is all the people in that dank warehouse breaking up and beginning to comment on the forthcoming draft, and Dubya's grudge match with evildoers who "tried to kill his dad".

Someone started calling the furniture Weapons of Mass Destruction.

At that we had to leave, those verbal Scud missiles hit too close to home, passing right by our Patriot (Act) defenses and Star Wars shields.

Happiness is getting lost in the twilight zone of New Jersey on the way to visit your aunt. Did you know that there were 4 adjoining towns within a 2 mile radius that all have streets with the same name - and not just one street but 5 or 6 streets with the same name and layout and all near the same rail tracks? Did you know that neither Google Maps nor Mapquest had cottoned on to the strange archeology of the Garden State?

Happiness is the increasingly frantic phone calls as you were lost and drove right to her address only to not recognize the house that was there.

Hmm... Everything sure looked familiar.

Happiness is your pregnant aunt, after an hour of this business, heading to the Bank of America parking lots of the wrong 3 of the 4 towns in a bid to rescue both of you hapless bachelors from your Garden State misery in the streets of Teaneck, Bogota and the like.

Stay where you are. I'll find you.

Really?

Happiness is your cousin's cell phone. Both you and your aunt don't have one so of course you can't call her up while she's looking for you in the wrong towns.

Happiness is the huge plate of jollof rice and chichinga (suya the Nigerians would call it, and others more generally kebab) that you wolfed down when you somehow finally made it to her house. Google Maps had suggested 30 minutes for your 2 1/2 hour expedition. Home cooking made up for the difference and your aunt dotes on you.

Happiness is hearing your aunt arrange for your cousins in France to join you and gatecrash a wedding in London that you just mentioned you were about to attend next weekend.

Happiness is remembering the conversation you'd had just weeks earlier with your friend Kweku in which you told him to expect that Ghanaians would "always gatecrash weddings" and commiserating about the madness of wedding preparation, something you've just begun thinking about.

Happiness is realizing that, after a mere 5 minutes of trans-Atlantic conversation, it looks as if you will be leading a party of French gatecrashers to said wedding and imagining Kweku and Zai hyperventilating.

Happiness is your aunt asking for Kweku's mum's phone number.

"I don't want to talk to Kweku, he'll be too busy with the wedding. I want to talk to his mum."

Indeed.

Happiness is going to a bus stop to wait for a New Jersey transit bus to return to New York's Port Authority.

Happiness is realizing that she had looked at the wrong column on the schedule for Bus 168 so that you will have an hour to wait on this Sunday evening.

Happiness is the pair of you sitting at the bus stop and simply chatting about whatever comes to mind. That waiting hour becomes one of your fondest memories of your aunt in retrospect.

Happiness is discovering that you have a copy of your musings on Inauguration à L'Africaine and laughing with her as she reads it and you recount on the even more absurd items you didn't write about.

Happiness is seeing your aunt's permanent outrage and also when she encourages you to continue doing what you do:

"You should send it to the president. He should sack all of them. And you've written it in the nicest way."

Thus I'll modify Arundhati Roy's formulation and write a short piece about

The Joy Of Small Things

Life is Sweet

My favourite movie on this theme is of course Life is Sweet, Mike Leigh's brilliant exercise in celebrating small things from 1990. Delusions of restaurant grandeur, a slice of family life, dance classes, encounters with spoons and broken limbs, chocolate fetishes, eating disorders, sexual confusion, teenage angst, and most of all inimitable and life-affirming laughs. The decor of some of the rooms in this British middle class nirvana seemed to have come straight from Pierre Deux. It's a real pity it hasn't yet been released on DVD.

A Soundtrack of Small Things

As usual a playlist for this joint

• Anita Baker - Sweet Love
  There you have it.
• Incognito - Step Into My Life
  Positivity is the thing.
• Price Nico Mbarga - Sweet Mother
  Ever since 1976, this has been the quintessential Highlife joint. Afrobeat was never more danceable or happy. Its lyrics are a celebration of African motherhood.

  Sweet Mother I No Go Forget You
  For The Suffer Wey You Suffer For Me.

• Cameo - Attack Me With Your Love

  Baby

• Curtis Mayfield - Sweet Exorcist
  Soul music's premier falsetto.
• Bunny Mack - Let Me Love You

  My Sweetie, My Sugar

  My long search for a good copy of this continues...
• Chaka Khan - Sweet Thing
  How to start everyone singing in 4 bars.
• Finlay Quaye - Your Love Gets Sweeter

  Love gets sweeter every day
  Love gets sweeter every way

• Prince & The New Power Generation - Sweet Baby
  Like a lullaby
• Mary J. Blige - Sweet Thing
  Puffed up hip-hop soul
• Loose Ends - Mr Bachelor

  You should have told me

  From The Real Chuckeeboo, I need to do a Loose Ends appreciation at some point; they are truly London's finest.
• U2 - Where The Streets Have No Name
  a.k.a. New Jersey

See also: New York Trip

File under: life, happiness, children, babies, cousins, aunts, family, scramble, conversation, airlines, buses, plans, Small Things, New York, New Jersey, whimsy, funny, travel, journalism, storytelling, shopping, joy, food, jollof, toli