I cannot explain my peculiar affinity for West African food. Certainly nothing in my middle class meat-loaf-and-pork-chops middle-of-nowhere American upbringing prepared me for the rich flavors of palm oil, stew meats, and salted fish, or for the fiery heat of Scotch bonnet peppers. But, as I have discussed here before, in posts about
red red and kelewele,
Liberian bean soup, and even
maharagwe, an East African dish to which I obstinately added hot peppers, something about the cuisine speaks to me. But then, who knows what memories may lurk in the ghostly ancestral memories of our tastebuds?
