Grandma and my Yam Porridge

Dear God,
Whenever I find myself saddled with a deep sense of ingratitude, or an entitlement-to-success mentality, I remember my grandma and the 1st yam porridge I ever cooked.
As early as was possible, grandma began teaching us how to cook but then she didn’t let us cook anything from scratch. We were always saddled with the help-mate responsibilities (pound the ingredients, wash the utensils, cut the vegetables, turn the soup, fan the firewood etc.). You’d think that with all the instructions and guidance, she will up one day and say, “okay, take the baton, it’s your turn to cook today, right?”
Right, Lord, she absolutely did it.
One evening, she got an emergency summon from her sister and for the life of me, I didn’t know what took me to her room at that moment in time and boom, her eyes landed on me and the baton of chief cook fell on my shoulders. Grandma wanted me to cook yam porridge for dinner.
Me…..Dad, Me. Very little and very inexperienced me.
Before I could say “Jack”, grandma was out of the house with specific instructions on how to cook the porridge. I was petrified, but I had no choice.
So cook I did. I cut my yam into the small seizes I had seen grandma do. Washed it into a pot with water and lit the stove. As the water started shimmering, I began to add my ingredients. And there the confusion started.
Grandma had always said that the mark of a bad cook is evident when all the ingredients used to cook the food is seen in the pot. She said that you must grind all of them so smoothly that it’s only the taste that will be felt but never seen. (And there was no electric blender then for crying out loud)
So, I started to grind away at the pepper and crayfish and onion and everything grindable. The sweat from my face as I lifted and dropped the mortar could quench the thirst of a little baby. But the confusion came when I had to add them to the boiling pot. Grandma had said that when I grow up, I could easily measure the quantity of ingredients needed just by sight and instincts but for now, I could use tablespoons to measure. The fact was that I wasn’t sure how many tablespoons should make my porridge.
So, I started adding tablespoons after tablespoon of everything addable and tasting yet I could not feel the food. In frustration, I went to grind more ingredients and because the yam was fast cooking, I didn’t have the patience to wait and get a smooth paste of the new grinds and I just added them.
Guess what Lord? The foolish ingredients just separated like enemies inside the pot. Each lump of improperly ground branch swaying leisurely inside the boiling pot. Seeing those ingredients (onions, pepper and crayfish) staring at me from inside the boiling pot, I burst into tears. God, I cried. I didn’t need anybody to tell me that I had failed.
Even as the yam was melting out and thickening, the oil was on one side and the water was on another. The lumps of my ingredients (hanging like broken leaves from a tree branch) were grinning at me from the pot. How could this be?
How could I get this so wrong after all the lessons and watching grandma cook. I was beside myself with worry. Grandma was going to be so disappointed. And to make matters worst, Dad, you blessed me with the worst cousins ever. My cousins came in to see how I was fairing, took one look at my yam porridge and drove me crazy with their mockery…
“Chai, death in a pot, we are all going to die tonight”. “She finally made poison for us.” “Look at how that onion is waving at us”. “Did she plant those pepper seeds inside a boiling pot?”
Hearing them say that killed whatever little confidence I had that the porridge would turn out good, and I wept so much. I dared not throw it away and make another one. That would infuriate grandma. So, I sat sadly waiting for my waterloo. To be honest, I knew grandma wasn’t going to beat me, but I dreaded to see that look of disappointment on her face. I so wanted her to be proud of me. I craved her praise.
Finally, grandma came home and called for the food.
“Is the food ready, have you children eaten? She asked.
“No Mama, we were waiting for you to say the prayers so we can all eat and die….”, Agu (grandma’s houseboy) answered.
“Why?” Grandma asked curiously
“The water and the oil in that pot refuse to sing Hallelujah together,” Agu answered, and everybody burst out laughing.
“Meaning?”, grandma asked calmly
“Mama, see the food 1st, everything they used to cook it is alive and well and staring at us from the pot”, the wicked human being supplied.
I was speechless. (Dad, I had written to you about that boy Agu before, now please punish that boy for me).
Grandma looked at me solemnly. I had my heart in my hands. I was beaten.
Grandma smiled and said to me, “Ada, Ada m, (my daughter’s daughter) go and bring your food for me.
Gingerly, I went and dished the food, all my sorrows dropping into the plate as the porridge dropped. I gave the plate of porridge to grandma with head bowed in shame. I closed my eyes, squared my shoulders and waited. I was ready for the onslaught.
Grandma took a spoon into her mouth, chewed, and then exclaimed….
” Hmmmm, e sie nwa m, o too”. (hmmmn, you cooked, my child, it’s so sweet)
I opened my eyes in shocked. Grandma had this ecstatic look on her face and with her eyes closed, she took another spoon and another spoon. Exclaiming each time….
“Chai, o toooo”. (Chai, it’s so sweet)
“Bring the pot, you have done well, anybody who doesn’t want to eat should go to bed hungry”, grandma shouted with excitement.
Before I knew it, all my cousins plus Agu, whose bad mouths have been running on my porridge, scrambled into the kitchen fighting for plates to take their food and grandma dished out all the yam porridge to them. Some echoed grandmas that it was okay but some still maintained it was a death wish (especially Agu, who couldn’t even cook to save his life).
I looked at grandma with so much love and gratitude in my heart. If anyone knew me in this world, my grandma did. That yam porridge wasn’t as sweet as grandma made it sound, (in fact it may not even be average on a scale) but it was her way to tell me….”Don’t beat yourself up, you did your best and I appreciate it.”
Grandma gave me back my pride that night and saved my face from alter shame. And I would never forget it. I may not be a world class chef today but trust me, no one ever had to be disappointed in any dish I make till date.
Thank you, Mama. And that lesson I have taken deeply to heart.
My life may not be all I ever wanted it to be today, but I am grateful because I am doing my best.
The outcome of my efforts may not be the best I expected, but I am grateful, I gave it my best shot.
My children’s results may not have as many A* as I wanted, but I am grateful, they’ve got a good head on their shoulder.
My family may be as dysfunctional as you can get, but they are all I have, and I love them squarely because I know they are trying their best.
We all have so many expectations of life, of events and of outcomes but the important thing is that we tried, and we are still willing to try some more. We are grateful Lord; we are alive, and we are well, and we are ready to try again.
So, thank you grandma for “pretending” that my horrible yam porridge was the best you ever tasted. You used that to teach me gratitude and appreciation of good efforts despite the outcome. So, no matter how disappointed I am over any outcome, I see your face as you relished that badly cooked porridge with pride, and I am reassured that I did my best.
It is what it is!
This is Your daughter Lord; I am an excellent yam porridge cook today and I am checking in.