In Preparation For Marriage (2)

"When a woman puts too much salt in her food, it is a sign that she is in love..."

- Spoken by Vera Ezimora's mom - day and date, forgotten.

While everyone else was baking, dissecting, and eventually, digesting a turkey for Thanksgiving Day, I was busy cooking, and then, eating okra soup.  First of all, I don't eat turkey.  Secondly, I love okra soup - when I cook it.  Lastly, I had been craving okra soup for so long, and Thanksgiving Day seemed like the perfect time to have some.

Dare I say that the soup was oh-so-good!  It was finger-licking, head-spinning, orgasm-causing good.  Yes, it was that good.  I don't know what I put in it, but if any man had dared to eat it, he would have begged me to let him pay quadruple on my bride price.  I did, naturally, consider getting several men to eat it, but the soup was just so darn good.  I could not get myself to share it.  Not to worry, the hands that cooked the soup are neither weary nor limp.  Forget about juju (black magic), this soup, littered with mouth-watering pieces of oxtail, tripe, and goat meat, is the best, safest, most assured way to get that proposal those proposals.

This past weekend, I decided to cook some efo soup; it was my very first time cooking efo soup.  If I had known it was such an effortless activity, I would have done it sooner.  I cooked a rather small pot of soup because it was my trial soup, and I was not sure how it would turn out.  I'm not sure how well to convey the goodness of this soup.  Well, let me put it this way: my mom literally chased me around the kitchen island.  Yes, she wanted more of my efo soup.

My only regret is that I did not cook a bigger pot of soup.  Oh, the other regret is that I did not have any pounded yam, so I had to eat it with farina.  Sigh. Farina just doesn't have the same effect as pounded yam.  It does not glide.  It just passes through.  You probably don't need me to tell you that this soup, too, is a sure husband getter.  And permanent keeper.  I just need to cook both soups, and then, go to a male-infested, testosterone-breeding ground and serve it to them.  Unfortunately, the male bathroom is not suitable.  Some other time, I guess.

I don't typically eat fufu with a fork, but I was typing, so I needed both hands.  Besides, Nwoke Ocha (my laptop) is white.

The last time I prepped for marriage, I blogged about it - In Preparation For Marriage - and at the end of my prep, which was for onugbu (bitterleaf) soup, mom said I didn't do anything, that all I did was take pictures, and that we need to do it again.  I did not agree then.  But considering that I now do not recall anything I may have learned about the principles and techniques of cooking onugbu soup, it appears that we I need to do it again.

Grandma thought my okra soup was a bit salty, although she was the only one who thought that.  Everyone else, especially me, thought it was okay.  Mom thought it was not salty, but even if it was, she had a perfectly good explanation, and that's the quote up there, at the beginning of this post.

My response to mom's comment: No Comments.

The Silly Things We Do (5)

No matter how hard I try not to laugh, I feel like there is always something funny going on in my life. Somehow, I find myself surrounded by people that say and do funny things - even when they don't mean to. Apart from my dad, only one other man has made me laugh till I have tears in my eyes. But today's post is about my dad.

My mother enjoys baking. She's one of those women who love baking cakes, frying chin-chins, bons, and puff-puff, and baking meat-pies. I, on the other hand, couldn't care less about baking and all that ish (but I do love eating them all, of course). Why suffer to bake stuff when I can just buy them?

But I think my dislike/disinterest in baking and frying snacks is my dad's fault. Yes, dad's fault. It all happened several years ago in Nigeria. I was about 12 or 13. I was curious about baking a cake - even though I had no recipe whatsoever. I pretty much knew or thought I knew everything that went into the cake (flour, eggs, milk, sugar, butter, nutmeg, can't remember what else), but I didn't know in what particular order it was supposed to go in. Did it matter? Anyway, mom won't let me use her oven. She did not want me to waste her gas.

So what did I do? After mixing my cake, I poured it into a metal bowl, and then, I placed the metal bowl in a boiling pot of hot water. It was kind of like making moi moi. I don't know if that cake still qualifies as having been baked. Maybe it was cooked. Or boiled. Anything but baked. It was not baked.

Where does dad come in? Well, dad was my boyfriend, you know. I used to pet him like he was my man or something. I used to clip his nails, clean out his ear wax, and wash his clothes. Whenever he fell asleep on the couch, I was there to put a pillow under his head and a blanket over his body. Dad said I would make a great wife. [Hey, his words not mine.. but I don't disagree, of course. Hehe]. So that day, I could not wait to have my boyfriend (dad) taste my cake - a cake I loved by the way.

Dad sat at the table, and I served him a psychedelic slice of cooked cake. Mom, my cousin Nachi, the help Ngozi, and I were all gathered around dad, waiting for his judgment. It was as if my heart was in my hands. I could not wait to hear the verdict. Dad took a bite, churned, swallowed, took another bite, churned, and swallowed again.

Then while still holding the cake in his hand, he said, "This is nothing but akpu and sugar..." After which the entire family - except me - fell out laughing.

...And there, my friends, is the reason why I don't bake! Yes, that's my story, and yes, I am sticking to it!

The Silly Things We Do (1)

The Silly Things We Do (2)

The Silly Things We Do (3)

The Silly Things We Do (4)

In Preparation For Marriage....

"It will be a very big shame for you to get married to an Igbo man and not know how to cook onugbu (bitterleaf) soup."

- Spoken by Vera Ezimora's mom on Friday, March 20th 2009 10:41 PM

You know, sometimes, I just don't understand my mother. When and where did she see an engagement ring on my finger? To my recollection, I have not told her that any man - let alone an Igbo one - is seeking my hand in marriage. She has not told me that any Igbo man has come to pluck the ripe flower in our garden either - unless they (mom, dad & the Igbo man) are planning to give me a surprise wedding. So where did mom come off telling me it will be a shame to get married to an Igbo man without knowing how to cook onugbu (bitterleaf) soup??? Alright, I'll explain.

Prior to that verbal assault you read up there, I did not know how to cook onugbu (bitterleaf) soup. I was curious enough to ask mom to teach me. Remember that I said I asked her. She did not tell me I had to learn it. I
asked
begged her on my own to show me. We have been attempting to do this mother-daughter cooking for the longest time - I'm talking years now - but you know how time is exactly what we don't have enough of. Finally, we agreed to do it on Thursday (March 19th), but mom was too tired. I guess that meant it was automatically postponed to Friday, March 20th, but I didn't know. So off I went to hang out with Funmi #1 and Funmi #2 (Yes, there are two Funmis, but Funmi #1 is the one who comments on my blog).

I decided to call mom at 10:41 PM to check up on her... as per good daughter and all, and that verbal assault up there was what I heard. And after speaking, she hung up on me ooo! LOL. Couldn't stop laughing walahi. I finally got home more than an hour later to realize the woman had not even started cooking the soup - even though prior to hanging up she said, "Don't worry, I'm cooking my soup myself" ... you know one of those things they say to make you feel guilty. Anyway, I ended up joining her in cooking.

I was required to
wash
scrub the bitterleaves till they were no more bitter. I wanted to wear my rubber gloves because I didn't want the finger nails I had been growing to turn green after washing the leaves, but I was chastised by my mom, "How can you wear gloves to wash what someone will eat?" After two minutes of washing, I became tired, but I had to keep going; apparently, the leaves were still bitter. By the end of it, I came to one conclusion: I must have a house-help! I am not cut out for this. I refuse to bend over the sink to wash bitterleaves. My mom laughed @ me. She asked, "So you'll have a house help as soon as you enter your husband's house?" I said, "Yeap. She'll be my hand luggage."

Mom: What if your house help is not Igbo? Or what if your house help is not a female?

Me: I don't even want a female anyway. Too many house-girl/husband casualties. But if he/she isn't Igbo, he/she will be trained on how to wash bitterleaves.

Mom: Who will train them?

Me: Obviously not me.

Mom: *Shaking head.* You're not serious.

Me: Very serious, mom.

Soooo after about an hour in the hot kitchen, a pot of yummy onugbu soup emerged. It is safe to say that I am now ready to be given away to an Igbo man. I took pictures to show you my soup. Oh, but you know what my mom said after we finished cooking? She said, "You know you didn't learn anything. All you did was walk around here and take pictures; we have to do this again." Lai lai! We don't have to do anything again. I have learnt. I'm good.

The bitterleaves I was washing...


After I washed them...


You know what that is? Blended cocoayam. It makes the soup thicker. In Naija, we woulda pounded it, but as per Yankee, we had to blend it instead.

"Assorted meat" but no "roundabouts" lol

Stockfish

Ogili (stinky Igbo spice. It stinks! But darn it, it makes the food yummy)

Voila... the result!

Dear Igbo man, I am now ripe to become your wife. When is the wedding gonna be??? :-)