The egg stew was hot and spicy with curry, thyme, and chili peppers, and her auntie had added shrimp and fish to it. It was served over boiled yam and sweet, tangy fried plantain. Zelu nearly cried at the sight. It wasn’t that she was terribly hungry, but because this was what she and her siblings remembered most about their auntie. Egg stew. It was a common dish in Nigeria, but their mother never made it, and the only times they’d had it were here at their auntie’s place. And. It. Was. Delicious. Zelu and her siblings had talked and talked about it back home. For decades. To the point where
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Food is a main character in this book
