I am currently a 26-year-old, living in Nigeria, and married to the sweetest man God ever created. My husband would always say after each meal, “Asa, I loved my food.” and sometimes add a little dance to it; I can't even express how much this statement motivates me every day to make different types of food for him and improve my cooking by trying out new recipes. My husband is a chef, and a great deal of our friendship has roots in good food. Therefore, I harbor deep sentiments whenever he compliments my food.

Yesterday, while I was peeling my Ede (cocoyam), I was getting it ready to prepare onugbu soup( A soup indigenous to the Igbo people ). I remember sitting in the same position in a different kitchen in another decade, watching my mother prepare the same dish for our family. I grew up as the 4th child in a family of six; I have 3 older sisters and 2 younger brothers. I don't remember my mom ever fussing with my sisters about joining her in the kitchen; I was the only female child who rebelled against kitchen duties.

There was absolutely nothing enticing about preparing food for me as a 10-year-old. I would do every other chore at home, but the kitchen was where I drew the line. But my mother was insistent, in her words; she didn't want anybody to say she didn't train her children properly, and she always referenced marriage and what I would cook for my husband. Without batting an eyelid, I would tell her that I would marry a rich man, and we would hire a chef(laughs in Tinubu) who would do the cooking, but it did not deter my mother. She would assign me tasks for prepping the food like pounding crayfish, pounding cocoyam, pounding pepper, cutting the vegetables, boiling the meat, etc. I would do them cheerfully or grumbling and race out of the kitchen immediately after I was done. 

My mother was even more stubborn in her need to train me than my unwillingness to cook, so she would call me and insist I stand and watch her. She would ask me to identify the particular leaf for each soup, and you would think that being the most brilliant child in my class, such a task would be easy, right? Well, it wasn't. It took me a while before I could identify the oha leaf from the ugu leaf. I was an adult before I could differentiate ogiri and okpeyi alongside their usage in cooking. My mother is a staunch believer of “Do it yourself.” so we prepared almost everything we ate from scratch. On days we would have okpa for breakfast, she would assign the task to any of the girls, but after a while, we started rotating it amongst ourselves. Okpa became the first meal I could prepare by myself without supervision from her. My mother would also randomly ask me to do something she knew I couldn't do; for instance, she would ask me to go and grind the beans for moi-moi, which I would happily race to do because it automatically meant someone else would prepare it. But my mother would sometimes ask me to prepare it, and she would inject “Tell me how you would cook it .” which I would fail woefully, and she would give me an earful of what would I and my children eat if I couldn't make a dish as simple as moi-moi. What type of wife would I be to my husband if I couldn't handle my kitchen properly? 

My mother taught me how to know the ede was done, the direction for pounding ede to make it easier, and the trick to knowing if it still had lumps. She taught me how to see if the okpa was ready to be dished into the nylon, how to steam chicken properly, the trick to making sure your stew doesn't slap, etc. Well, I learned the trick of adding water to your crayfish and pepper mix while pounding for a faster result by myself. Of course, I only watched her cooking and rarely participated. When I gained admission into the university, it dawned on me that I was entirely on my own, and my mother was right about knowing the intricacies of cooking. I developed a phobia for cooking because it was expected that I should be a pro at the age of 17, but I was a self-doubting novice. My mother and sister always directed me whenever I called from school until I started navigating myself. Throughout my first year, I prepared strong beans after strong beans, my jollof rice and spaghetti banged thanks to food and nutrition practicals, but I dared not prepare soup. After I realized how cost-effective it was to make my meals with the privilege of living in the hostel, I started watching how other women cooked, and I started replicating them. With One dish after the other, I overcame my phobia of cooking and taught myself to be confident in my process. 

After I got married, there was an event at my in-law's house, and though nobody expected me to join in the cooking, I realized that everyone expected you to know how to cook, proving my mother right again. References were made to cooking for my new husband, and at that moment, I was grateful that my mother was a stubborn woman because I realized that society is not always kind to women. People don't care about what is on the inside; they would brazenly judge you if you were found lacking in any form. 

My mother referenced being able to cook for your husband while teaching us her children because that was the narrative she grew up with. Her generation was blamed and shamed every time a man did something severely harsh to his partner; it was also an abomination for your husband to be seen eating out too because it translated to either “ The wife refused to cook, or she was terrible at it.”  If a man were caught cheating, his wife’s cooking skills would be caught in the crossfire, especially if she is found wanting in that area. It was not the best of methods, but as an adult, I have grown to understand and forgive my mother for using knowledge accessible to her to get results. 

I met my husband, and I have seen that cooking for the people you love is an act of self-love. He would cook up a storm, try out new recipes, and invite his friends over; he is always looking forward to learning something new about food. I remember a colleague of mine being shocked when I told him the chin chin I brought to work was made by my husband. In his words “What type of man has the patience of sitting down to fry chin chin.” Well, the one that his father taught him how to prepare certain dishes. Being intentional about knowing what you consume and how it is made should be added to the list of love languages because it shows a certain degree of self-care. Cooking is an act of love; for my husband, it is his first love language. Being able to make treats for your partner and also satisfy their cravings remains an undeniable blessing. 

When I finally have children, I will teach them too for these reasons, and I am grateful they will be nurtured in a home with a father who is a full-fledged chef. The stereotype of learning to cook solely for “ your husband” ends with me.