It’s nice that someone likes my cooking. I don’t know if it’s adolescent pickiness or just culinary incompatibility – of course it’s not my cooking skills! – but AM doesn’t really like most of what I cook. He prefers his Dad’s cooking: fishy, meaty, spicy, substantial Ghanaian food. But his (half) brother, 50 Cedis, likes pretty much everything I cook, although he draws the line at beetroot salad.
50 Cedis’ first action, on arriving at my house, is to look in the fridge in hope of leftover pasta, casserole, or steak. He regularly reminds me that “You haven’t cooked nachos for a long time”. Often he’ll even ask me on the phone, what we’re having for dinner. Such are the dreams of an 11 year old African-Australian boy.
Recently I invited the family to come to an African restaurant to celebrate my birthday. They couldn’t come, but 50 Cedis wasn’t too disappointed. He advised me, in that “gotta shake some sense into this silly white woman” tone of voice he has, that “next time, MaameJ, can’t you go somewhere else …? Like Italian?”
Poor darling, he craves non-African food. He’s tried to get his parents to cook things like spaghetti bolognese but, as with my attempts at Ghanaian cuisine, with mixed results. DadaK actually called me up one night because 50 Cedis had been campaigning strongly for broccoli and pumpkin – which of course DadaK didn’t know how to cook. I provided detailed instructions and apparently it was a great success. Such is life in a bicultural family: trading broccoli recipes and take-away jollof rice or peanut soup. All parties satisfied.