Saturday, 14 August 2004

I Am Your Local KFC

So we invite Chief, his wife, and young son round for dinner. We have a lovely wooden table, and six not-so-lovely wooden chairs. The chair seats are foam. Initially when you sit on them, it’s fine. But after about five seconds the cheap and nasty foam sinks, and you find yourself not quite reaching the table. Jo-jo the little boy has disappeared from sight. All we can see is the top of his head. After much fussing with a pillow (also made from cheap, sinking foam) we manage to arrange him so that he can at least see his food even if he can’t reach it. There is silence as everyone eats. Then I am paid the biggest compliment ever – our guests are loving the fried chicken and want to know how I cooked it. Coming from a group of Africans, this is really saying something. I want desperately to announce to Chief that it is actually one of his chickens that I have battered to death with a panga, which has resulted in the tender meat. But of course I don’t. And I’m not telling you how I cooked it either, because I am secretly writing the alternative Nigella cookbook. I may call it 101 Uses for Maize Meal. Or possibly How to Look Sexy in the Kitchen Whilst Wearing Flip-flops with Socks and Trying to Make Bread out of Raw Potato.