#StorytellingThursday :My father and my dream of becoming a chef…

#StorytellingThursday :My father and my dream of becoming a chef…

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My father and my dream of becoming a chef…

My father has never been a man who minces his words. He always, and I mean always speaks his mind, without applying honorific whatsoever. Anyone who has been close to him will attest to this.

Growing up, being a soldier was the most appealing career to me. I don’t remember why, but the day I do, I promise to come back to you. Along the way, the idea of becoming a soldier was shifted from it’s president spot by the idea of becoming a nurse ( again reasons have faded from my mind), but the idea too didn’t last long. As the years went on I wanted to become a chef. I figured to become a cook, I needed to start practicing while I was young. Eggs would just disappear while I was on a rising chef practical steez, I’d mix eggs with vinegar sometimes because there wouldn’t be any other ingredients I could try except the vinegar that was meant to be used as the ingredient that turned normal pap into ting. I would cook cabbage in different ways because yeses cabbage was the stable seshebo at home; cook it in water, in cooking oil, throw in tomatoes, sometimes just one tomato, add onion, rajah and the always readily available go to ingredient when I wanna do a mixing, my dearest vinegar. I was the worst cook guys, yet the idea of being a chef lingered for years until I toyed with the idea of journalism.

One time, I don’t remember the year, but it was the year that my father decided that his 5 roomed house needed to be extended. This meant that he had to take leave from work to oversee how the guys he hired actually carried out the job. Guys, having my father home for a week or more than that was heavy because yaz he would just throw big chunks of words without mincing them. I was the oldest at home, so that meant that everyday after school, chores, including cooking, lay heavily on my shoulders.

Le a tseba tΕ‘atΕ‘i le lengwe neh, I come back home from school and my rising chef mood is elevated. I take off my school uniform and head straight to the kitchen, where I would prep my ingredients before moving them and myself to ka sehlakeni. Bann, I had just assassinated a chicken ya go rekiwa ga Norman the day prior, and decide ko diya kentucky. I took forever on chicken prepping, so much that I forgot about time and that there’s pap that needs to be cooled.

My chicken wasn’t one to write home about. Instead of dunking the chicken in eggs and then spice and frying it in deep hot oil, yours trully dunked the chicken in spice.and then eggs and then fried it.  πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ If your really wanna know how it came out, try it at home. Anyway, I convinced myself that I was introducing my own new recipe, and continued the dunk-in-spice-then-eggs method up until the very last piece of the poor home assassinated chicken.

It’s getting late that time, so I quickly to prepare go apea booswa. I cooked pap super fast, and it got burnt ka mo fase become mollo wa maplanka le dipitja tΕ‘a lesenke la matepe are not in the same whatsapp group. Guys, booswa bjola bjaka bja oswa yaba abo abukwa. Ka fostela go bo tshola because I knew nako ya tΕ‘a goja e fihlile. Kore lekate la gona ono le bona le wena ge o le tshola ore ge oka bo phosa masenkeng bo tlo momela. I ignored the signs me, because I had read that chefs and investing recipes are like a finger and a nail. “This could be the best pap this family is gonna taste, booswa bja oswa mara bja o se bukwe. Sale waa di bona kae except where a chefin training is involved?” I convinced myself wayawaya.

Guys, I served my father food. A chicken prepared and fried in reverse and pap ya oswa mara ya o se bukwe πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚. After serving him I went back to make sure everyone else is sorted foodwise, and before I could even say anything to anyone,my father yelled my name. I went back to him running, and he looked at me and said, “BOOSWA BJO BJAO LE GE NKA BOFA MPΕ A E KA SE BODYE”  πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ The most hurtful words I’ve ever been told about my food. He gave me my pap, but kept the chicken. I felt a bit better that at least, even if my pap wouldn’t even make a dog salivate, my newly invested chicken recipe got the nod. Or maybe my father was just too hungry to give me the chicken too. Angazi but it was def the recipe.

I let the dream of becoming a chef slip away from my hands when I discovered journalism issa career, but today I’m a recipe book collector and ke gata gabohloko.  πŸ˜‹ πŸ˜‹

The end.

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