What's Cooking?

Two🥫

"Cover that pot before I knock you" Mrs Ejike, my mother, said before she knocked me. On my forehead.
"Let me see what you have you've done so far" she pointed at the foodstuffs on the freezer, which I prepared.
I gave them to her -as the dutiful daughter I am- and watched how she examined them; it was not a sight to behold. She looked at them like they were the cause of the nation's crumbling economy.
Then, she cleared her throat.

"Did you pound the palm kernel?"
No, I chewed it.
"Yes"
"Pound it again, I don't like how it looks."
Was she expecting it to be powdered?
"Did you wash the periwinkle?"
No, I massaged it with my saliva.
"Yes"
"You tried sha... Wash it again."
She moved onto the next foodstuff which I prayed would be the last.
"Why is the vegetable so green?"
Aru! Abomination! It should be royal blue with a splash of indigo.

I love my mother, I really do, but sometimes she can be too much.
(Help me erase 'sometimes', replace it with 'everytime').
   Later on, after she processed, deposited the foodstuff into the stainless pot, and left it to steam for some minutes. She gave me a simple instruction: Do. Not. Do. Anything. Just watch and make sure it doesn't burn.
But I thought I knew best. I do, but this was the worst time to show it.
    I thought it was giving boring and bland because the aroma was not aromaing, the spices were not seasoning.
So I said to myself in Chimamanda Adichie:

I am in charge. I, the first child of Mrs Ejike, the first and last step-child of Mr Ejike. The one whose existence was forgotten by her biological father is IN CHARGE.

And with that delusive-but-amazing speech going on and on in my head, I opened the pot, sprinkled spices into the egusi soup, stopping only when my ancestors whispered "Ozuola, it's enough". Did I taste it? No. Once again I convinced myself that;

Great chefs know their meals before they taste it.
                       (Curses in Gordon Ramsay).

To cut the long story short, that night was the worst night of my life. I was ass-whooped, scolded, and forced to eat the self-made calamity alone till it finished. It was my breakfast, lunch and dinner. Even the junk food I tried to console myself with, tasted like overspiced egusi.
   The whole thing reminded me of this igbo proverb:

A tuörö ömárá, ö màrà; A tuörö ofeke, o fènyé ïsï n'öhïa.
Translation: If you tell a wise one, he understands; tell an idiot, he'll rush into the bush.

I was the idiot, but the most beautiful one you'll ever see.

Author's note: Hello again! Did you enjoy the chapter? If you didn't, give your opinions in the comments section.  If you did, click the star below 😊
Ps: The words you don't understand will be explained in the next chapter.