A Plate of Party Jollof

There is jollof, and there is party jollof, and only one of them belongs in a museum. The party kind is cooked in a pot too big for any stove I own, over a flame that scorches the base on purpose, so the rice at the bottom takes on that faint burnt-firewood smoke everyone pretends they don’t fight over. You do fight over it. I have fought over it. The wisps coming off this plate are not decoration — they are the whole point.

It comes plated the only correct way: a mound of it, a couple of pieces of fried plantain going soft at the edges, and something browned on the side. I learned to gauge a whole event by that first forkful — whether the person who cooked was in a hurry or in love. This plate is here so the museum keeps one honest record of home that isn’t an object or a song. Some of the archive you can hold. This one you’re meant to smell.