Groundnut soup is one of the staples here. It is absolutely delicious, served over rice. More traditionally, however, it is served with fufu, a combination of cassava (a really big potato–like root) and green plantain (big banana-family fruit, not as sweet or soft), pounded into a glutinous bread-dough-like substance. Fufu is pounded in a large mortar with a long tree trunk that has been flattened on one end and has been stripped and smoothed at the place where your hands will be.
As Whit’s brother, Max, is here – writing a book about life and culture and our business experiences within that culture – and he loves to cook, I thought it was time we learned how it’s done. Our neighbors in the courtyard below pound fufu a couple times a week, so when I heard the rhythmic thumping one day I went down to check it out. They were amused that I was interested, but I made an appointment with the 13-year old girl, Savannah – one of my regular visitors, to teach us how to make fufu and groundnut soup last Sunday after church. She was very excited and enlisted Precious’ sister, Pamela, also 13, to help.
When the day finally came, we made a shopping list and went to the market with Savannah. We bought, 2 kilos of chicken (frozen thighs and legs, chopped into 2” chunks) at the “cold store”, tomato paste, groundnut paste (peanut butter), flavor cubes (like bouillon), cassava, and plantain. We already had red pepper (think cayenne), salt, and onions. All together, we spent about 18 cedis (about $12) for enough food to feed Max and me, Savannah’s family (two adults and 5 children), and Pamela’s family (two adults and 2 children), plus a couple other children who crashed our party when the food was ready.
First, we peeled and cut the cassava and plantain into chunks for boiling. They usually use a machete on the cassava, but I was so clever I pulled out my potato peeler, thinking I’d show them how it’s done when one has the proper utensils. We each grabbed a cassava and commenced peeling. As I finished my first one, with a small pile of thin peelings in front of me, I looked over at Savannah. She had “shelled” three or four cassava with our large kitchen knife. She whacked it lengthwise and then peeled off what is actually more like bark than skin. It also takes off a layer of meat, but is far faster than my "clever" potato peeler. I got another knife and did it the
proper way, after that. I did find it interesting, thought that in a culture where every scrap is used, cassava apparently are so plentiful and cheap that losing a layer of meat with the bark was the accepted method (also, probably the best way given the available tools and the difference in speed).
We boiled all that until it was soft (like you would boil potatoes for mashing). Then came the pounding. Savannah’s aunt, Joyce, (although she calls her mother because Savannah lives with her and is raised by her, she is really Savannah’s mother’s sister) helped with this part. She is the one who reaches into the mortar and places or re-arranges the cassava and plantain in between the pounding – and she is very particular about her fufu. In all fairness, Savannah, Pamela, and Pamela’s mother, Mary (who has reappeared from “traveling” to, once again, live with and help raise her children) did most of the pounding, but they did let Max and I give it a try after we had asked enough times. All were much entertained by Max pounding fufu, because it is something rarely, if ever done by men. He was giggled at, pointed at, and cheered, in turn.
When pounding fufu, it is the responsibility of the pounder to keep a steady rhythm and the responsibility of the “placer” to reach in between the beats to place the cassava or plantain or to rearrange the dough for the next pound. Joyce was understandably cautious when Max and I were pounding. Every time she would reach in, Max would stop pounding. Instinct just wouldn’t let him start the down stroke when her hand was there. Nevertheless, he was encouraged and he pounded for some time. I, on the other hand, was much criticized by Joyce (in Twi, so it didn’t bother me) for not doing it properly. I was doing it too soft or too hard. Apparently, my gender should make me a natural at this god-given task. I’m not entirely sure how one would screw up this particular process however – you just keep pounding until it is a big ball of sticky, bread dough-like glue. Not that I’m bitter.
Meanwhile, before the cassava and plantain had finished boiling, the girls started the soup. The chicken pieces, tomato paste (15 oz. can size, if you're trying this at home), onion (one large), red pepper, the bouillon cube, and salt were placed into a large pot with some water and set to boil. They added so much red pepper that even Max blanched. They said it was necessary, however, because if they didn’t use a lot you wouldn’t even taste it after the groundnut paste was added. Once the pot heated enough so the tomato paste and bouillon cube melted and could be stirred in with the water, more water was added and the pot left to boil.
When we finished pounding the fufu, the girls came back upstairs to add the groundnut paste (about 6 cups, I think!) to the soup. As groundnut paste is sold in plastic baggies (like a sandwich baggie filled and tied at the top), they first squeezed the peanut butter out of the bags into a bowl. Then they added water and squished the peanut butter into the water with their hands, squeezing it through their fingers, like mixing
hamburger and other ingredients for meatloaf. Once it was thinned out with plenty of water, they poured it into the soup pot through a sieve. The chunks of peanut butter left in the sieve were then further mooshed through the strainer with wet fingers to thin them out. Finally, with all the ingredients in the pot, the soup was set to simmer until it was time to eat.
Fufu and soup are generally eaten family style, although they can also be served individually, at home or in restaurants. When served family style, the fufu is in a big bowl or several smaller bowls and the soup may be split into several bowls so everyone can easily reach one. The process is to dip the fingers (right hand only) into the soup (to oil them up and prevent the fufu from sticking) and then to pull off a small piece of fufu and roll it into a ball, about the size of a large-sized marble. The ball of fufu is then dipped into the soup, placed in the mouth, and swallowed whole. I made the mistake of trying a bit of fufu without the soup and it took 10 minutes to get it off my teeth. It is literally like glue.
The soup is delicious. The fufu, I can really do without, but I think because cassava and plantain are so readily available, it has become a staple since it fills the stomach and must take some time to digest. Neither Max nor I could eat half what they gave us, but the children vacuumed every last scrap of fufu before we were finished. It was a feast.
XO
We walked into the yard of one of our agent to find this just beside the bench where we usually sit to reconcile his
battery counts and sales figures. One of his friends brought it over to show him when he returned from the bush. He was pretty proud. We were impressed.
We first climbed down the 250 stairs to the falls. It was totally different from my visit in December (about 6 weeks into the dryer season), and not just because there were hundreds of people down there with us. The biggest difference was that the falls were huge and powerful. The pond they created at the bottom of the falls extended 30-40 feet beyond where its edge had been in December, and the water was brown and roiling
like the sea during a storm. It created so much mist that Precious kept burying her head in my shoulder and chanting “Rain, rain, go away”. She really wanted me to put up the umbrella! Max did take a couple pictures but his lens misted up almost before he could even focus. It was really amazing, but got a bit chilly, so we climbed back up. It was easier than I remembered.
as, cookies, and cucumbers. After our lunch, we decided to hike out to the Umbrella Stone, which Max and I had both read about in the tour book. Neither of us could remember what it said, but a Ghanaian came over to us when we had finished lunch and asked if we had been out to the rock, and so of course the girls wanted to go.
r friends to the end of the trail. With all the day-trippers, there was little “atmospheric jungle setting” to be had.
Back in the park, we finished the sandwiches, drank our water, and sat watching the controlled chaos that was Republic Day at Boti Falls. Savanna and Pamela decided they needed another look at the falls so headed off to climb those 250 steps again. Oh, to be young again!
A great time was had by all and we trooped back to the truck tired but happy. As we were leaving at 2:00 or so, cars and busses were still arriving. I suspect the party really got going about dark. I’m sure the girls were sorry to miss that part, but the crowd was getting older and wilder, and they’re only 13.
the top planks. That’s when the big kids showed up - nearly all the adults showed up at one time or other throughout the project to see what that crazy oburoni woman was up to.
told him I wanted to do it. Then he shrugged, very confused by that, and said OK and that after I finished he would take me to church. I’m not sure of the connection unless a woman who wants to swing a hammer needs salvation or to better understand her place or something. I politely said, “another time”.
one swing before someone else was reaching for the hammer to have a turn.
although I’m no carpenter, I sketched myself a design and made a bill of materials (hey, I may not be a carpenter, but I AM an operations geek). Since Max is writing a book, I was pretty sure he’d want to see the timber market, so I asked him along. It’s pretty cool.
want to look around,” but it was no use. They called out “2x6”, “2x4”, “what do you want” as I walked around measuring pieces of wood (no two the same and all rough milled), until I found a stack I thought would work for the frame. They were willing to cut it as well, but the power happened to be out so one of the guys standing around agreed to cut it by hand. I measured out the length I needed and told him I needed 12 the same length and he got to work, using one to measure the next.
my frame pieces were cut. So, we sat in the sun for about half an hour waiting for my 12 boards. I did finally suggest that I pay for them while we were waiting, to save time. They didn’t seem concerned one way or the other, but were willing to take my money. But, I had to go to the cashier shed – not because there was a cashier there. The guy who took my money was the same one who sold me the wood and he walked over there the same time I did, but I guess that’s just how it’s done.
nload the truck. Never looking a gift horse in the mouth, I was grateful for the help – but it was not needed. The moment we pulled up in front of the building, a swarm of children descended on the truck like locusts. If it had been a crop it would have been picked clean in a matter of moments. The smaller ones carried a board between them 
(or I should say above them, since they all carried them on their heads) and the older ones each took one. The next thing we knew the truck was empty. Max had taken a couple boards on his first trip, but I never made it with a load at all. I was too busy trying to ensure the kids didn’t bean each other with these two meter boards on their heads. I had visions of Stan and Ollie – one turning around with a ladder under his arm and whacking the other one into next week.
So, dentists everywhere will be happy I did get a truly new toothbrush. But I only found Hard and Extra Hard and since I’m used to using the, dentist recommended, soft variety, it feels like a steel barbeque brush. But hey, arsonists can’t be choosy.
First, we peeled and cut the cassava and plantain into chunks for boiling. They usually use a machete on the cassava, but I was so clever I pulled out my potato peeler, thinking I’d show them how it’s done when one has the proper utensils. We each grabbed a cassava and commenced peeling. As I finished my first one, with a small pile of thin peelings in front of me, I looked over at Savannah. She had “shelled” three or four cassava with our large kitchen knife. She whacked it lengthwise and then peeled off what is actually more like bark than skin. It also takes off a layer of meat, but is far faster than my "clever" potato peeler. I got another knife and did it the 
proper way, after that. I did find it interesting, thought that in a culture where every scrap is used, cassava apparently are so plentiful and cheap that losing a layer of meat with the bark was the accepted method (also, probably the best way given the available tools and the difference in speed).
When pounding fufu, it is the responsibility of the pounder to keep a steady rhythm and the responsibility of the “placer” to reach in between the beats to place the cassava or plantain or to rearrange the dough for the next pound. Joyce was understandably cautious when Max and I were pounding. Every time she would reach in, Max would stop pounding. Instinct just wouldn’t let him start the down stroke when her hand was there. Nevertheless, he was encouraged and he pounded for some time. I, on the other hand, was much criticized by Joyce (in Twi, so it didn’t bother me) for not doing it properly. I was doing it too soft or too hard. Apparently, my gender should make me a natural at this god-given task. I’m not entirely sure how one would screw up this particular process however – you just keep pounding until it is a big ball of sticky, bread dough-like glue. Not that I’m bitter.
hamburger and other ingredients for meatloaf. Once it was thinned out with plenty of water, they poured it into the soup pot through a sieve. The chunks of peanut butter left in the sieve were then further mooshed through the strainer with wet fingers to thin them out. Finally, with all the ingredients in the pot, the soup was set to simmer until it was time to eat.
So now, when she plants herself on the top step outside the door and spies me through the window, instead of saying , “Auntie Jan, bra,” she says, “Auntie Jan, come.” Her word of the week is “sleeping”, making her favorite sentence, “Grandma is sleeping.” Whether grandma is, in fact, sleeping or not seems to be irrelevant. I’ve taken it as an opportunity to teach her how to say “awake”. She has some distance to go on prepositions and verb selection and tense – as in “Me is sleeping,” means, as near as I can tell, “I am tired,” since she was sitting 
droopily in my lap at the time. But, hey, she’s only been in school 4 months! And, she’s highly motivated since she has these darned oburonis living next door.
Pencils here are generally sharpened with a razor blade. This is done by the child and the razor blade is part of her school kit from the time she starts school – at age 5 or so. Fingernails and toenails are also trimmed using a razorblade. Quinn, a local 8-year old, was sitting on the porch just this morning, trimming her nails by running the edge of the blade under the nail at the corner and then just peeling it off. Seeing these things and several others - like small children (4 or 5) walking alone along the side of the road or walking to school and crossing busy streets; small boys (6 or 7) deftly handling machetes, pre-teen girls carrying 10 kg (22 lbs) or more on their heads to sell water sachets on the street – makes me wonder about our perception of children’s capabilities in much of the “developed world”.
have also carried the bucket of milk to the house on his head! (Hi, Dad! Happy Father's Day!)
for only three months. We now have three employees, so I’ll be working primarily on marketing and testing new business concepts. The others will keep the current operations running.
the ATM. Now, wouldn’t that PC have all the programmed logic in it to access the network of banks around the world? And several times a day, that ATM is surrounded by the chaotic jumble of hundreds of people, luggage carts, and bags of every sort. Is it just me, or does it seem like it would be easy to pop that PC into a suitcase and carry it out?
