Elsewhere in southwest Houston, Ms. Lakshmi tastes suya, bole, fufu, asun and jollof, tries her hand at pounding yam and practices the art of scooping soup with swallows.
She moves from the kitchen at Margaret Chibuzo’s Safari restaurant to the dining room, where she shares egusi soup with the gospel singer Stacy Egbo. Their conversation resonated with me: They, too, had felt the longing that could compel one, when starved of a connection to a past, to use food as a link.
In the summer of 2017, newly married and having just received my green card, I craved a deeper understanding of my chosen home. Equipped with an audio recorder, I drove cross-country with my husband to eat at as many Nigerian restaurants as I could, and to talk with others who, like me, had found food as a means to connect to the idea of home. What resulted was less a food tour and more a rediscovery of my own culture, and a revelation of how deeply it had taken root here in the United States.
I encountered not just the Nigerian, but the Liberian, Ghanaian and broader West African communities in Newark and Charlotte, Atlanta and Albuquerque. Each one was full of the food of my home. My heart swelled with pride for the network of importers, farmers, restaurateurs and purveyors. By ensuring access to ingredients, they’d helped steward our shared culture a world away.
Versions of egusi soup dotted menus in every city we stopped, and I relished each one. Some were packed with leafy greens, while others were brothier and creamy. Some were served with a swallow, others steamed rice. Each preparation was a comfort to behold, each bowl a story of time, place and memory, a little different or a little more personal, but always recognizable.
