My mother is not one to shy away from trying new things. My mother is what she likes to call “street smart” or “the most important kind of smart.” She was top of her class as a kid and an amazing storyteller; two skills that often got her out of trouble. She is the original version of me, which is the reason she always gave me for why we never completely got along. She shied away from the kitchen and the cooking or cleaning that was required of her, which was hugely frowned upon by her mother at that time. She always had something better to do. She could read a book, which she learned to do before any of my uncles. She could start an argument or go on a walk or write a poem. She could have even written a book, which is something she very much regrets not having found the time for. Now that my mother is no longer barred by the long list of cultural expectations that was Guinea in the 1980s, she never has anything better to do. Instead, she makes sure that my sister and I do. She tells us to write books and go on walks.
My mother asks rhetorical questions like “Am I not African?” because anything African is fearless to my mother. My sister and I would often joke about her use of the word “African” by drawing from our experience in the village with our uncle. After that trip, “the village” began to represent any part of Africa that wasn’t the city. We were forced to accompany my uncle Rivel there the last time we had visited Africa, and it was long enough ago that we still don’t know how old we were. It was also long enough ago that we remember very little about the trip, and often make up memories in an effort to exaggerate our experience and make our jokes more funny. My sister would kick it off with “You are African. But are you African enough to kill a goat with your bare hands like uncle Rivel?” And when I wasn’t too busy laughing, I would add a sarcastic comment or two. My mother, when she wasn’t too busy laughing, would threaten to tell uncle Rivel what we’d said about him. She constantly suggests that we do something other than “laugh all day.” Sometimes, she would call us “too American” because American meant lazy.
So when she made her legendary sauce feuilles de patates, which translates to “sauce leaves of potatoes,” she made sure to keep us Americans out of the kitchen. Not a pinch of laziness could go into that recipe, despite how simple it was. She’d start by carefully cutting the delicate pieces of meat that waited for hours in our sink. My mother is someone who miraculously remembers to do things like defrost meat without having to make a list. After cutting the smooth chunks of meat into different kinds of squares, she delicately places them into the water she remembered to boil. My sister and I have learned that after this step it is crucial to completely get out of my mother’s way. She quickly chops up scallions and onions, carefully making sure that each piece is the right size. My mother thinks that everyone should know what “the right size” is even though it changes each time she cooks. I have always wondered if she purposefully made her recipes out to be unpredictable and complicated so that my sister and I wouldn’t want to cook.
She worked fast and with vigor, carefully placing her scallions, onions, and previously cut potato leaves into the pot once the meat is cooked. Now it was time to stir and wait. This part of my mom’s routine was particularly interesting to me because it was at this point that you could begin to smell the sauce. I can vividly remember being a little girl and hearing the sound of our greasy stove top produce gas, as I was completely put at ease by the smell of sauce feuilles de patates. I would stand right outside the kitchen and watch my mom stand, stir, and add the occasional dash of pepper. Sometimes, she would put in the shrimp and fish powder that she always remembered to get from the grocery store. I remember thinking that those powders were the secret ingredients until the day my mom made the sauce without them and it tasted the same. I could never figure out what made my mom’s sauce feuilles taste so much better than my aunt’s, and when I asked my mom what it was she only responded with laughter.
After a while, or what felt like too long to me, she would cut gumbo and stir it into the sauce along with palm oil. Sometimes, she would add shrimp or crab to create what my sister and I called “sauce feuilles 2.0.” It was only after this step that she left the kitchen and let the remaining water in the pot do the rest. She walked out of the kitchen sighing as if something that had been holding her back had finally let her go. When the sauce was done, we were left with a smooth, green concoction to which the various meats gave a chunky consistency. Each time my mom made sauce feuilles, my sister and I fell in love all over again, so much so that my mom would often joke that she would serve no purpose if not for the food she makes. My mother’s mouth watered when she looked at the sauce too, but she froze for a couple seconds as if she was being pulled out of her body and taken somewhere. My sister and I both noticed this, but we never addressed it, not to each other and certainly not to my mom. Over the years, each taste of sauce feuilles de patates has gradually told me my mother’s story without her having to say a word. The batch of sauce feuilles that my sister and I devoured before my mother drove me to Choate was like the final piece to a complicated puzzle. As I watched her stir palm oil into the large, year-old pot, I noticed that her wrists were barely moving, but her whole body still seemed to belong to the sauce. I was watching her be completely controlled by the kitchen that I knew she resented. That batch of sauce feuilles taught me that my mother is uncomfortable around freedom. She didn’t like the fact that she knew how to cook sauce feuilles, and she disliked the fact that making the sauce felt familiar to her. This is important, because it is the secret ingredient to every dish, the secret I had never been able to put my finger on. It was as bitter as a squeeze of lemon but also as delightful as a dash of cinnamon in a way. My entire life, she has been making this dish that took her back in time. She had been reminded of what the kitchen meant to her as a kid and what it meant to her now as a free woman and a mother of two. She had been reminded of what it meant in Guinea, and she was learning what it meant in America. My entire life, she has been writing me a book.
For those who made it this far…I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed asking my mom for this recipe…:/
About the Author:
Aissatou Diallo
My name is Aissatou Diallo. I’m from Guinea but was born in the USA. I like to read, bike ride, and watch short films. I LOVE music.
The Big Duck 