Okay, for reference, this essay was one of the first assignments in my second English class, which occurred in my second semester and focused primarily on the theme of food. Truth be told, it is not my best work, but I still value it dearly, mostly for what it represents, which is the period of nostalgia and displacement I experienced during my first year at an American college. Now, I am heading into my third year and still struggle with such feelings; however, not as strongly. It starts of rocky, but I promise it ends up having a point. Anyways enjoy:
One of the biggest lessons I have learned since coming to America a few months ago is that I cannot trust rice of any type or form. This statement for me is equivalent to saying ‘I cannot trust that there will be a sunrise every-day’. In other words, rice has always been a constant in my life. It has watched me grow from an unassuming toddler to an extremely confused young adult. It has never judged me. It has never changed to impress or get something from me. It has always been its beautiful, delicious, and predictable self, at least until I got here. Now, in the absence of the familiarity of rice as I know it, I have come to realize the loyalty and deep attachment that I have towards rice, as well as the symbolic ties it has to my life.
First, I will begin with my present weariness for rice, specifically American rice. My trust did not erode so easily. It was a slow process, more like the melting of an iceberg, which happened during the first few weeks after I moved from Nigeria to America for my college education. I remember when I would innocently walk into the university cafe. I would naturally gravitate towards what I knew, which was rice. However, the rice always looked strange to me with its extreme colors, which were either fearfully bright or unusually pale, or its too hard texture. Still, with each meal, I would always promise myself that it would taste better than the last time; and each time, the promise never delivered. With numerous incidents like this, it is no surprise that I feel apprehension when I see rice at the cafe or at any gathering. The fact is that I am not trying to devalue American rice. I understand that I have preferences that have developed from my upbringing. However, I do think that there is something different about American rice as compared to other American foods, which I was not able to identify earlier on. Now, I realize what the problem is: it has no taste, or a typical trademark flavor. This bothers me very much. Other American foods have their flavors. Mac and cheese, for example, has that cheesy (obviously), sweet, and mushy taste of childhood. When combined with deep fried chicken, it transforms from just delicious food to literal art. When it comes to rice, however, there is nothing: no taste, no flavor. It feels as though I am putting a mouthful of raw grains into my mouth. It was very traumatic for me to learn this surprising fact about American rice, as I assumed, America being the land of food, that rice would taste even better.
In my opinion, I just believe Americans, at least from the American rice dishes I have tasted, do not know what to do with rice. Asian (American) rice is much better. One of my absolute favorite dishes on campus is an Asian cuisine meal comprised of fried rice with vegetables, orange chicken, and a bit of garlic sauce. The meal has a good balance of sweet and savory. The flavorful chicken complements the healthy vegetables. The rice is well cooked and seasoned, a tad bit oily though, and it renews my lost hope in rice.
However, nothing comes close to the Nigerian version(s) of rice, which I find to be more flavorful and creative. I may be biased, but I doubt it. There are just so many ways to prepare rice, so many ways to season it, and so many sauces and stews to eat with it. Rice is one of the most versatile foods ever because it can be cooked in so many ways but still taste so good. A popular Nigerian rice dish, for example, is fried rice, quite similar to the Asian cuisine meal on campus. Fried rice is a rainbow, decorated with every color imaginable in the form of carrots, peppers, peas, corn, and shrimp, anything you can think of. It should not work with so many ingredients, but it absolutely does. Each flavor is balanced out by some bitterness and each crunch by the tenderness of hidden meat. However, fried rice is not unique to Nigeria, as many other cultures have a version of fried rice, such as Southeast Asian cultures. A more peculiar meal would be the legendary ‘Jollof rice’ dish. Jollof rice, simply put, is rice cooked in tomato and pepper paste, giving it a red-orange color. It is the meal at every Nigerian party, birthday, and burial and even has the nickname ‘party rice’. Jollof rice, from its name, is a meal I associate with joy… pure, undiluted joy. Usually, one eats it with a side of deliciously fried plantains or coleslaw and any form of meat, preferably fried goat meat.
In the end, the crown king of all Nigerian rice dishes, to me, would have to be plain white rice and tomato stew. Nothing gets as bland as rice and stew. It is probably in the freezer of every average Nigerian home, only to bring out when there is nothing more exciting to eat, which happens most of the time in my home. There is nothing special about this rice dish, as compared to the kaleidoscopic fried rice or the joyous Jollof rice. It involves boiling plain white rice, preparing tomato and pepper stew, and eating them together. The stew is usually cooked with some sort of meat, such as beef, chicken, or fish. You could also decide to spice the meal up by adding fried plantains, beans, or a salad to drown out the depressing taste of a meal that has been eaten one too many times. It is not that rice and stew does not taste good— it does. It is just that the average Nigerian grows up eating it almost every day. As a result, it is hard at times to truly appreciate the peppery tang of the stew, the steam of newly cooked rice, or even the tenderness of stewed meat.
Conversely, I have found myself craving little old plain rice and stew, not really for its taste, but more for the memories and familiarity it brings. When I think of rice and stew now, I end up remembering my mother as she cooked on Saturday evenings for the rest of the week, or I remember watching movies with my siblings until we fell asleep. Sometimes, I do not have direct memories of events, but rather emotions or ideas, such as feeling as an outcast within Nigerian culture and customs or my confusion at the politics and crumbling economy. Other times, I just have memories of inanimate things, such as the stars at midnight or the harmattan mist on Christmas mornings. All these memories, like rice and stew in a symbolic way, were all constants in my life. I would wake up every morning knowing that any of these things would occur. As a result, I feel I may not have appreciated the safety of such comfort or predictability when I had it. In fact, I may have detested it at times. It was not until I had my first (or probably fifth taste) of American rice that the realization truly dawned on me, bringing with it feelings of loss and regret. At the same time, I believe if given the choice all over again to school in America, I would still choose to come here. This is because adventure has now replaced familiarity. Every day here brings a new lesson, new ideas, and new realizations about the world, as well as about my identity. This is important to me, as I would like to find who I truly am that is constant, regardless of the changing environment around me.
In conclusion, rice has become more than just food to me because of its significant link in my journey between two worlds: Nigeria and America. It has become a symbol for all I had to leave behind for better opportunities, and it will be connected to my story forever. However, rice has also become a catalyst for the beginning of new adventures, new relationships, a new identity, and even new food.