Bring the jollof

My mother is Ghanaian and Kwame's mother is Nigerian and I have been asked to bring the jollof. If you know, you know. If you don't: jollof rice is a dish, and it is also an argument, and the argument has been going on between Ghana and Nigeria for longer than either of us has been alive, and it is conducted with total seriousness by people who are otherwise reasonable. My mother has opinions about Nigerian jollof that she'll only share after a second glass of wine. Kwame's mother, I'm told, has a saying about Ghanaian jollof that she says with a smile that isn't one. And his mother has invited me to Sunday lunch, in Brampton, with the whole family, and asked me to bring the jollof. "She's testing you," said my sister. "She's being welcoming." "She's being welcoming by testing you." Kwame said his mother was just being polite. Kwame also went very quiet when I asked what she'd do if I brought it the Ghanaian way, with the basmati and the shito on the side, and the quiet told me everything. So here's what I did. I called my mother. "You can't make it their way," she said immediately. "I'm not asking permission. I'm asking how." "I don't know how they make it. Long grain. Too much tomato. Smoky, from burning the bottom, which they say is on purpose." "Mum." A very long sigh from Accra by way of Scarborough. "Fine. Get a pen." What she told me, and I'm not going to write it down here because she'd kill me, was not Nigerian jollof. It was hers. But it was hers with adjustments. Long grain. A bit more tomato. And a trick with the pot at the end that she said, grudgingly, "they're not wrong about." I made it Saturday night. I made it three times, actually, and the first one was a disaster, and the second was fine, and the third one I let the bottom catch just slightly, the way she'd said, and the kitchen filled with a smoke that smelled like Kwame's mother's kitchen when we'd visited in the spring, and I knew.

Sunday. Brampton. Twenty-two people. His aunties looking at me the way aunties look. I put the pot on the table next to three other pots of jollof, because of course there were three other pots, and Kwame's mother lifted my lid, and looked, and said nothing, and served herself a spoon. The table went a bit quiet. Not a lot. A bit. She chewed. She looked at me. "Who taught you this?" "My mother." "Your mother is Ghanaian." "Yes, Auntie." Another spoon. She took her time. "Hm," she said. Then, to the table, not to me: "It's good." And then, to me, quieter, with the smile that was not quite the other smile: "Tell your mother I said the bottom was right." I texted my mother from the bathroom. She replied with a single emoji I've never seen her use before and haven't since. Kwame says his mother has asked when I'm coming next. She's asked if I'd bring the jollof again. I've said yes. I'm not telling my mother that part.