I am learning to acclimate to the flavors of a new life in Canada
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Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick
The weeks leading up to my departure from Nigeria were a mix of emotions, with excitement, uncertainty and anxiety at the top of the list. I didn’t yet have a clear idea of what my wife and I were getting ourselves into, but the outlook was positive. We had just gotten married and were moving for the better quality of life that Canada promised us.
Everyone said to bring as many food ingredients as possible, so with the help of family members, we I started shopping: dried fish, garri flour, ground melon seeds, dried leaves and more—things we wouldn’t find in Calgary, where we were going, or that might cost too much to find a version that would appease our Nigerian taste buds. We were carrying “a kind of mobile pantry,” as Kosisochukwu Ugwuede writes in his essay. Traveling food pantryspeaking about the propensity of Nigerian travellers to carry their food items abroad.
It was a hectic time and we packed our lives into four large suitcases, plus an equal number of carry-ons. Two of these large boxes were filled with food items. We were ready for a new life in the land of maple leaves. I imagined that the things that dominated our lives growing up in Nigeria were, if they existed in this new country, just a tiny speck on the cultural landscape.
To be honest, most of my concerns about culture were about food. I wondered if I could live without my swallows – not birds, but a dumpling-like dish with many names, including eba Or continue It depends on the composition and how it is made. I can’t remember if two weeks of my almost 30 year life went by without me eating it. They are eaten with soups or stews by tearing them into pieces with the right hand, dipping them in the soup and swallowing. It’s comforting to the belly and, as I often find, it fills the soul. I wondered how to keep eating them when our Nigerian pantry inevitably ran out.
But in Calgary, we have discovered many African food stores throughout the city where I can easily find powdered milk or even my favorite bitters from Nigeria. And there are African restaurants where I can find conclusion (spicy cow’s feet) and shawarma with a sausage tucked inside in the Nigerian style, reminiscent of a pig in a blanket.
Before moving to Canada, I had little reason to try foreign foods and I continue to fascinate my Canadian colleagues by claiming to have never tried things like pickles, which they probably take for granted as universal. Privately, I enjoy their anticipation as they wait for my verdict while I chew this or that for the first time. I can’t offer them much more than “it’s good” or “it’s great” because we generally don’t share the same vocabulary when it comes to food. I can’t instinctively imagine what they mean when they say “herb-infused,” nor did I know what “umami” meant until recently. And if I said a meal was “rich,” we wouldn’t think the same thing.
However, one of the main problems is knowing how to eat in public: it’s a constant source of apprehension. Should I use a fork, my hands or a spoon? Canadians are too polite to tell you that you are eating something wrong or weird. So while the other people at the table are probably busy tending to their meal, I shudder inside wondering how many of them are judging me for using a fork on food that requires hand treatment. This shouldn’t matter much, I tell myself, but it often does.
I adapt and try new foods. I’ll reserve my comments on the poutine until I’ve tried it a few more times. Well cooked, steaks are delicious. The many flavors of Asia that I find in Calgary have been a revelation. I also tried tacos for the fourth time and can finally eat them in public without anxiety cluttering my brain while I figure out how to fold and bite them gracefully.
Most of the menus are still unfamiliar to me, but I’m doing a little better. I certainly won’t order linguine with mussels again, the first and last time I did it was because of the familiarity of the pasta, but the tedious shelling of the mussels and their salty taste sealed their fate for me. But I would still eat hummus, it reminds me of my mother’s fluffy bean pudding, me me. The bread and butter pickles were good but I didn’t enjoy the French onion soup. The wasabi was hot but the heat didn’t seem right and my aversion to raw foods will probably always keep me from enjoying sushi.
Sometimes I think of food as an indicator of how I’m settling into this new life and country. I’m grateful that I can still fill my belly with the tastes of my childhood while acclimating to the flavors of a new life. This trip was strewn with anxiety but it was also an enriching and delicious experience. experience – and it’s still early.
Wole Olayinka lives in Calgary.
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