Tales from the kitchen; Okra. π
We finished cooking last night and the traditional eager faces by the door and the queue to go grab plates and head to the stove didn’t happen. Instead, I had to traipse around from door to door, “Myself and your little brother finished cooking like half an hour ago, aren’t you hungry?” The few who were hungry promised to come eat later. Later was much later as I already ate and was asleep, their party-like noise woke me up. And I envisioned them walking around the living area, plate in hand, un smoothed semolina and okra soup in the same pasta dish as they chatted about colleagues, classmates, hobbies and what they would rather be eating. We had God and community while raising the children and I had a lot of good times but last night, I think I stumbled upon the crux of the matter. That they couldn’t wait to grow up so they can do things their way! Okra has always been a thing to celebrate, even in my late mom’s kitchen so I’m trying to understand. Gggrr...
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