Image generated from Meta AI
It was with fanfare that my sister welcomed me to her house in Abuja.
I finished my high school education a few months earlier, and my desire to further my education took me to Zaria to write the entrance examination of a famous university in Zaria. That journey was my first time traveling from the village to the city. After my examination, I left Zaria and headed to Abuja to visit my sister.
She had been expecting my arrival for hours. My journey was delayed because the vehicle that I boarded broke down at a point, and hours were spent fixing it. When I finally arrived at the park in Abuja, I reached out for my phone to call her and inform her of my arrival. I placed the phone to my ears, waiting for her to pick up the call. While waiting for her to pick, I saw a hand waving at me from far away. It was rush hour that evening for travelers. Buses were entering the park in their numbers just as private cars that came to pick up their loved ones who had just returned from a journey were leaving the park.
The sight of my sister prompted me not to redial her number on my phone. She ran towards me with an open arm, and I sank myself into her bosom. It's been three years that we last saw each other.
"How was your journey? How are mom and Zainab? How was the examination you went to write?" My sister bombarded me with questions in quick succession, and I could only
nod my head in response.
There was a nuclear war in my stomach. All I was thinking of was to arrive home and feed it with something.
"It seems you are tired. Sorry for the hectic journey," my sister continued; this time around, we were in the car going to her house.
"Sister, you can say that again. I am hungry and thirsty."
"We will soon get home. I prepared a delicious meal waiting for you," she responded.
A few minutes later, we arrived home. We barely entered when I started demanding the food.
"I know you are tired and hungry, but you need to take your bath and refresh before eating. Go and shower first. Before you return, I will dish the food."
"Okay, ma," I responded.
That bathing took me only a few minutes before rushing to the dining table to attend to my tearing-apart stomach. I opened the food flask, and the aroma that bombarded my nose nearly swept me off to another world. My sister was a good cook. Whenever she visited us in the village, she left a memorable experience with respect to her culinary skills. I inhaled the aroma satisfactorily for a few seconds before taking my seat to do justice to the food.
"Is this another brand of spaghetti?" I asked my sister, who was sitting on the chair opposite me.
"No, it's not. This is indomie noodles. Though it can be categorized into the family of spaghetti, they are not wholly similar."
"I love it," I remarked as I transported the scoops of spoon into my oesophagus in quick succession. "Sister, you are a cook."
"Thank you for the compliment. I am glad that you enjoyed the food."
We spent hours after the food talking about life in the village.
The following morning, she woke up very early to prepare bread and tea.
"I won't stay long at work. When it's 10 am., prepare noodles and egg. Serve yourself and leave mine in the food flask," she instructed me.
She left for work shortly after.
When it was time, I hoped into the kitchen to prepare the noodles. She already told me where they were kept in the kitchen. My confusion started with the shape of the noodle pack. It was totally different from that of spaghetti that I knew in the village.
"With this obvious differences in shape and texture, will the preparation process be the same?" I asked myself.
I stood still for a few minutes to wrap my head around the next move.
"It should be the same process," I concluded.
I brought out the pot, rinsed it, and put it on the fire. The water dried off before I added vegetable oil. Whenever I was having a rethink of what I was doing, the 'though it can be categorized into the family of spaghetti, they are not wholly similar' comment made by my sister the previous day kept convincing me that I was on the right track. The oil became hot, and I added tomato, pepper, seasoning cubes, and other ingredients. I allowed them to cook for a while before emptying three packs of noodles into the boiling ingredients.
I left it to cook for about thirty minutes before checking it. When I checked it, I met almost melted noodles forming a union of a typical soup with the ingredients. I dipped the spoon into it to understand what I have in the pot better. It was at this point that I knew that what I did was a recipe for disaster. I dropped it from the fire when it started burning while the water hadn't dried up.
I released a big sigh. It was not a sigh of relief but a sigh of embarrassment. I started praying that my sister shouldn't come home with any of her friends. The embarrassment would be manageable if only my sister comes to meet the trash that I cooked.
My prayer was answered. She returned home alone. She met me with the portion that I dished for myself. She opened the door with the expression of hunger.
"Oooh, the food is ready. That's nice," she remarked as she walked past me to her room.
I noticed that she looked at the food on my plate with a strange face. She took her shower and went straight to the kitchen.
She wasn't up to five minutes in the kitchen when she called my name. I went to meet her in the kitchen.
"What is this?" She exclaimed. "Are you sure it is noodles that you cook like this?"
With my face to the ground in shame, I responded in affirmation.
"Village cook has entered the city," she laughed. "How did you prepare it?"
I explained the process to her. Once I mentioned that I put oil on the fire and added tomato and every other ingredient as if I were cooking spaghetti, she exclaimed "no. You don't cook noodles like spaghetti. Noodles are fast food. Let me get myself some slices of bread first before teaching a prospective undergraduate how to cook noodles," She continued throwing jabs at me.
After taking the slices of bread, she prepared another noodle in my presence, and that taught me practically the process involved.
Since that experience, I became a perfect cook as far as noodles are concerned.
