CHAPATI MUSINGS

Every African girl child has that aunt who is always scolding her because of her cooking or that mother who ardently complains every time she is in the kitchen and her daughter is not taking notes. Well, at least that is how I know it. They keep on insisting that a girl who grows up into a woman and cannot find her way through the kitchen is not appropriately raised and is doomed to shatter her own household. Woe unto thee if you have a favorite food but cannot prepare it accordingly. The rules stand, they even insinuate that your husband’s stomach should be your number one priority. I took that from the overused and overrated quote: a way to a man’s heart is through the stomach. What about my children and my own stomach, I would ask? And they’d push me a shame on you into my head.

It took me a long while to master the preparation of my favorite food, by that I mean four years of struggle and patience. Two years for the basics and the other two to perfect the art, oh yeah, cooking is an art. My mother, being the best cook I have ever known, one time decided that my siblings and I were old enough and so whenever we were present in her house, she would never step into the kitchen again to cook for us. She chucked in her duties and gave the best excuse history has ever had. She implied that she was old and tired. Sometimes parents like forcing old age upon themselves.

My first time making chapatis was a disastrous affair. Oh, I am talking about the Kenyan chapatis, not the Indian flat unleavened bread. No one can resist the heavenly taste of well-prepared chapatis. I had a number of those unnerving affairs but one of them conquers all. The one that left my mother muttering under her breath and losing her appetite. I was in high school and my mother had already started withdrawing herself from kitchen duties. It was only the two of us at home, my mother and me. I had missed chapatis because that was a luxury I could not afford back at school so when schools closed, the privilege was mine to grab.

Bored with an unending three consecutive months of studies and with a zealous appetite, I made my way to kitchen the very day I left school. Mum was not home, a space for a wonderful surprise for when she gets back home, I thought. I was elated with the thought of making chapatis and danced my way to the kitchen after a quick refreshing shower. Mum would be home soon so I had to put my hands to work. Luckily enough, all the ingredients I needed were available. I grabbed the wheat flour from the shelves, darted across the kitchen for the salt and a vegetable cooking oil and thoughtfully even involved onions and carrots. I wanted to make them exactly how mum does, I was ready and settled, they had to come out right no matter what and I knew just how to do them. I sized up the kitchen, fleeting my eyes in every corner just to ensure that I was not leaving anything important behind.

Water was heated, carrots and onions were grated and mixed with flour, a dough was made with a mixture of the flour, salt, cooking oil and the warm water. I was doing everything right until the time I begun to roll the dough into sizeable circular flat shapes. I was not aware of how much flour I needed for the dusting and the rolling pin was just not being fair to me. The dough was thick and sticky and the addition of more flour worsened it even more. I seemed to have forgotten that layers were a vital part in chapatis, the ultimate success, the important aspect aside from the softness and the regular circular shapes. Mine were the inverted version. They were shapeless monsters, overheated on both sides and uncooked on the insides, thick, heavy and hard! They went against all the morals of chapati cookery and slapped my face with ‘you thought you could handle us? Don’t you ever underestimate the preparation of chapatis.’

By the time mum got home, eighteen strange-looking chapatis and a beef stew I had earlier gotten out of the fridge and warmed were already set at the table, ready for consumption. It was 7pm. Mum was exhausted and famished. She was glad I had prepared dinner, only to be met with a horrible, vicious look of specially-made chapatis. She could not even fathom the whiff emanating from the burnt and undercooked things she was staring at. To cut the story short, we ended up taking tea and biscuits for supper.

My journey of chapati making has since borne fruits over the years and proven to be a grand success. I can now gladly acclaim that I am an expert at chapati making and my love for it has immensely grown. If you knew me during those times when I could only make monstrous chapatis and had to endure the poor taste of my chapatis, then it is time for you to claim your share of my current amazing chapatis.