A Sunday of jellof and joy

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The sun peeked through the curtains, but I was already awake. It was Sunday—a day meant for rest, yet my to-do list said otherwise. Among the many tasks waiting for me, one stood out: cooking jollof rice for fourteen people. The kitchen was alive with sounds. The rhythmic chopping of onions, the sizzle of tomatoes blending with peppers in hot oil, and the steady bubbling of beef boiling in a seasoned broth. The aroma of spices—bay leaves, thyme, and a hint of smoky goodness—filled the air. With a wooden spoon, I stirred the rich red sauce, watching it thicken before pouring in the parboiled rice. The pot hissed as the grains absorbed the sauce, each one determined to soak up the deep flavors. Covering the pot with foil to trap the steam, I turned my attention to the beef, already golden brown from frying. As the rice cooked, I prepped the sides—crispy fried plantains and fresh coleslaw. The kitchen was warm, but so was my heart. Cooking for so many people wasn’t just about feeding them; it was about sharing love, laughter, and memories. Soon, the jollof rice was ready, its smoky scent unmistakable. As I dished it out, the first guest arrived, eyes lighting up at the sight of the feast. One by one, they gathered, plates in hand, ready to enjoy a meal made with effort and care. Sunday might have been busy, but at that moment, surrounded by satisfied smiles and the sound of happy chatter, I knew it was worth every minute.