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THE STORY NO ONE ASKED ME (PT3)
My people would say, "iná èṣì kò gbọdọ̀ jó ọmọ lẹ́ẹ̀mejì", so after my ugly experience with my sweet sugary rice yesterday, I was extra careful with every ingredients I'm adding to my food today.
Wanna know how it went with the visitor I wanted to impress? That's a story for another day. Today's episode is a story no one asked me but she enjoyed herself though.
B'ẹ́ṣin bá dáni, àá tun gùn ni, I got into the kitchen again this morning to cook the official national meal of Nigeria, rice. Or what else am I expected to be cooking as a bachelor if not rice? Don't even mention noodles, that's one of the stereotypes I said irritates me.
More focused on the salt part today, I tasted the white texture to be sure it's not sugar again.
"Confirm?" My brain asked my tongue
"Yes oga, confirm. Nah salt", my tongue replied as the local plank eating boy that I am.
So I added in a fair quantity. I tasted it and it was giving me the no-salt taste. I was getting angry again.
"Is this rice whining me?"
I tasted the white substance again and my tongue confirmed it's salt, so I added more. I was still standing by the pot of rice to be sure it's not my village people that's pranking their ancestors, because it's not me they're pranking.
After few seconds when I'm sure the salt I added earlier should have saturated the pool on the fire, I tasted from the spoon in my hand again. Right now, you can imagine the anger burning in me.
"Still tasteless? Ahhhhhh!", my brain yelled.
I tasted the white substance I was adding, and for the umpteenth time my tongue confirmed it is salt. At this point I won't be wrong to conclude everything in this country has lost every sense of quality, if this amount of salt is still tasteless in the rice. Since I'm used to parboiling my rice, I added more quantity of salt. If there's excess, I'll rinse it off later.
When I went back to check the rice, I carried bumbum for my village people, omoooooo! It was like I was tasting Lot's wife.
"Is this not the same rice that have been tasteless all along, how in the ocean did it get this salty!" my brain was angry at my tongue.
I checked the salt and it didn't reduce much from what was in the container earlier. Maybe my village people brought their own salt along, or how do I explain this?
There's this ritual I do when I want to figure a problem, especially something I can't remember. I'll try to act the scenes again and it has always worked out. I started acting the scene from adding water, to rice, to salt, then I paused and paid more attention again.
I added salt, took spoon, took some rice, ate three grains to taste, it was tasteless, I added more salt to the rice in the pot, while I kept tasting the rice that was still in the spoon which I didn't put back after adding salt. omooooooooo!
At this junction I think I don't need to prove any stereotype wrong again, I should just go and marry, tearsssss...
© The Dhramatikpen
#the365writingmarathon
096/365
Wanna know how it went with the visitor I wanted to impress? That's a story for another day. Today's episode is a story no one asked me but she enjoyed herself though.
B'ẹ́ṣin bá dáni, àá tun gùn ni, I got into the kitchen again this morning to cook the official national meal of Nigeria, rice. Or what else am I expected to be cooking as a bachelor if not rice? Don't even mention noodles, that's one of the stereotypes I said irritates me.
More focused on the salt part today, I tasted the white texture to be sure it's not sugar again.
"Confirm?" My brain asked my tongue
"Yes oga, confirm. Nah salt", my tongue replied as the local plank eating boy that I am.
So I added in a fair quantity. I tasted it and it was giving me the no-salt taste. I was getting angry again.
"Is this rice whining me?"
I tasted the white substance again and my tongue confirmed it's salt, so I added more. I was still standing by the pot of rice to be sure it's not my village people that's pranking their ancestors, because it's not me they're pranking.
After few seconds when I'm sure the salt I added earlier should have saturated the pool on the fire, I tasted from the spoon in my hand again. Right now, you can imagine the anger burning in me.
"Still tasteless? Ahhhhhh!", my brain yelled.
I tasted the white substance I was adding, and for the umpteenth time my tongue confirmed it is salt. At this point I won't be wrong to conclude everything in this country has lost every sense of quality, if this amount of salt is still tasteless in the rice. Since I'm used to parboiling my rice, I added more quantity of salt. If there's excess, I'll rinse it off later.
When I went back to check the rice, I carried bumbum for my village people, omoooooo! It was like I was tasting Lot's wife.
"Is this not the same rice that have been tasteless all along, how in the ocean did it get this salty!" my brain was angry at my tongue.
I checked the salt and it didn't reduce much from what was in the container earlier. Maybe my village people brought their own salt along, or how do I explain this?
There's this ritual I do when I want to figure a problem, especially something I can't remember. I'll try to act the scenes again and it has always worked out. I started acting the scene from adding water, to rice, to salt, then I paused and paid more attention again.
I added salt, took spoon, took some rice, ate three grains to taste, it was tasteless, I added more salt to the rice in the pot, while I kept tasting the rice that was still in the spoon which I didn't put back after adding salt. omooooooooo!
At this junction I think I don't need to prove any stereotype wrong again, I should just go and marry, tearsssss...
© The Dhramatikpen
#the365writingmarathon
096/365
