This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,34

we spent rolling out dough, coming home with flour caked in my cuticles, dusted over every article of clothing including my shoes; I think of the days of anxiety leading up to the Expo and the exhausting, bone-wearying crush of cooking and serving, the lines of people that seemed to blur into a sea of waiting, disapproving, disappointed faces. How had I missed all the food joy that Priya saw?

On my laptop, Priya’s interviewing the toddler.

“Is this your first dumpling? Did you like it?”

The little girl gives a big nod and her blond curls flutter as she gives a big two-thumbs-up.

And that’s how Priya ends the video—with a freeze-frame of this little girl who can barely talk, who’s fallen in love with jiaozi.

And goddammit, those are not tears in my eyes.

When Will comes in on Monday, he’s carrying two green Tupperwares and looks faintly tentative, almost nauseated.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. I brought you some Nigerian food my mom made. Have you ever tried jollof rice?”

“There’s no such thing as a bad carb in my book,” I say, peeking under the lid of one of the containers. It’s a riot of different colors and smells like curry.

“That’s egusi stew. It’s made out of crushed melon seeds and beef, fish, and all sorts of veggies.” Will’s acting super nervous. I can relate. “My mom likes it because it reminds her of home. I like it because it’s more interesting than pasta, which is what my father usually cooks.”

I steal a place setting from one of the booths and take a bite. Will’s right: It’s a wonderfully satisfying and complex mix of curried spices and textures. And the experience of eating it doesn’t end in my mouth—it sends a thrill of satisfaction through my entire head before traveling down to settle into a warm glow in my stomach.

“This is amazing,” I tell Will, as sincerely as I’ve told anyone anything in years. “My taste buds are just exploding. Do you think this is the first time anyone’s ever eaten Nigerian food with chopsticks?” I ask.

“Probably not. There’s actually a Chinatown in Lagos. My cousins talk about it all the time. It’s where they go to get bootleg American movies before they come out on DVD.”

I eyeball the Tupperwares Will brought—they probably have three or four servings. I know Amah would love it. “Do you mind if I share this with my family?”

“I’d be honored,” he says, his eyes crinkling.

I have to turn away to hide my blush at his smile.

This Is My Brain on Success

WILL

Jocelyn’s grandmother loves the egusi stew.

“Hen tebie,” she says, nodding approvingly.

“She says it’s very special,” Jocelyn translates, and I finally relax. Grandma Wu polishes off the whole bowl, asking me if there is onion in it, and what kind, and tell me again what fish we used? I felt my cred rising with each answer I give.

“Are there any Nigerian restaurants around here?” Jocelyn asks after we put away the leftovers and go back to prep for lunch.

“Not really. There are a couple of African restaurants in Syracuse, but for specifically Nigerian food you need to go down to the city.” Once a year my family takes a New York trip to see a Broadway show, always making sure the next day to make a pilgrimage out to Jamaica or Harlem to eat at a restaurant that reminds my mom of home.

“Funny, when you can go to any little town in the middle of nowhere Nebraska and find a Chinese take-out place. Did you know there are more Chinese restaurants in the US than there are McDonald’ses?”

“No. That’s ridiculous.” That’s the kind of fact that I’ll need to research for my feature—one that will make the story universal and not just specific.

“Never underestimate the ability of my people to sacrifice everything to bring the gospel of moo shu pork to the unbelievers of middle America. And to make a buck. I read a book about it, how this one Chinese restaurant in Manhattan was the first one to deliver, around the time when more women had started to join the workforce. It was a total revolution. Now Chinese food is literally more American than cherry pie. I can think of at least three movies off the top of my head where someone is eating Chinese food out of the take-out box. It all goes back to Woody Allen and that scene from Manhattan with him and Mariel Hemingway.” When I look confused by her reference, she explains, “It’s kind