Helping with the Nsima

To describe the shock that the women of the Willima Koyi Guesthouse had when I offered to help with the cooking for the night would not do it justice. A male, a white male, a white male who was dashingly handsome (ok, they said cute), helping in the kitchen? Not to be believed. However, since I somewhat enjoy cooking and was fortunate enough to have opportunities growing up to help out in the kitchen, I thought mixing with the elder women might be fun and a learning experience. Boy, was I right! Donning my new haircut, I cruised into the cooking shed and saw a few pots on top of open fires. One of the pots was for the famed Nsima. Once we got the water boiling we mixed in the mixture of maize and stuff (dried cassava, etc.) that would eventually become the nsima. For the next 15 minutes, I stirred, using quite a bit of strength as the concoction was thick and lumpy, and I didn't want any of the guests blaming me for bad nsima. With my foot hovering above the open flame, and my back starting to ache from pushing the two foot wooden oar through the pot, I really began to appreciate the effort these women put in every night. For ten more minutes I crushed the lumps against the side of the pan and flipped the thick, mashed potato-looking starch. With a bead of sweat falling down my hairless brow, I knew this nsima would be a good batch. After letting it sit for a while, I scooped out the first bit and it was brought to a table to be tested by a patron. After the African couple had eaten most of it, the waitress informed them that I had prepared the nsima. They were duly impressed and said it was the best nsima they'd had all week. When the bill was paid, the waitress offered to split the tip with me, but since I had just loved my experience, I politely declined. And, could one really split 20 cents between two people?

All the best,
Christian Lugasse