Crack some eggs, make some egg
It's proper autumn now: the sun sets so early now, and the cold feels personal and angry. I've recruited new, heavy lotions to join my constant battle against ash. The best, most final indicator: my birthday has come and gone; Scorpio season is over. Now is the time for spending time indoors with friends — book friends or music friends or maybe even actual people friends — and I've been trying my best to do that.
A few weekends back my friend N came into NYC from Providence. N is Nigerian-British, and several years younger than me. She's one of the village of little sisters I have semi-formally adopted over the years (aka I've said to them, I think of you as a little sister more than once.) She's a playwright, too — her plays are great! — and whenever we get together, we laugh a lot. We had brunch. Before she arrived, N sent me a text asking if I would cook us "Nigerian egg". "omg," I replied. "YES." I knew what she wanted, and suddenly, I wanted it too.
I've tried to give a formal, official name to this dish but it turns out it already has a perfect name: egg. Always singular, in need of no garnish, thank you very much. Egg. What is it? Well, it's is a sort of a scramble, a kind-of omelette, and also neither. I've seen my West African cousins, Ghanaians, do something like it they call "egg stew." I dunno, man. From what I've seen, Nigerian egg feels less wet than that. This is a sort of silky, tangy delight for your mouth, usually eaten with yams, or plantains, or potatoes or the best kind of bread, Agege bread (where in New York can I find this bread?!) It's best when cooked as "aseda" essentially: cook it, and eat it all immediately. Like, you can absolutely reheat it, but in my opinion, best if you don't.
Nigerian egg is easily the most democratically customisable dish — its base is always the same. Egg! But you can do pretty much anything else as the laws of cooking allow. I grew up with it as my mother cooked it: with a mountain of fragrant Spanish onions, sliced or chopped juicy plum or beef tomatoes, Heinz baked beans, and finely chopped scotch bonnet, seeds intact. My mother gets her love of fiery heat from her own mother, who probably would've put a whole scotch bonnet in her hot chocolate if she could. Depending on her mood over the years, my mother would throw in corned beef or maybe introduce the delicate flavour of tinned sardines. I remember the period when she was into dried shrimp (a taste sensation that still makes me sit up and take notice whenever I encounter it), and it made its way into her egg. You can add herbs and spices that you like. A couple years ago, I cooked some egg on camera, for BuzzFeed's Tasty. Basically, TL;DR Nigerian egg is the ultimate "have it your way" meal.
I cooked the egg and N fried the diced plantain and while we were cooking, and we drank tea and caught up on each other's lives and work and our opinions on the state of British and American theatre. We talked about the function of the art, and the burden of responsibility, the importance of dramaturgy, the weight of family history, and the difficulty and ease of making... anything when you're so damn tired. Spending time with N, eating egg, specifically, felt like a real balm. Here we were in a Brooklyn apartment, two Naija Brits far from home, actively manufacturing the feeling of home, together. It felt so good, so warm, like a high point in the human experiment. Anyway. We ate our egg and plantains and laughed some more and then N had to go to catch a bus back out of state. I miss her.
Happy autumn, readers. If you are somewhere cold, stay warm and moisturised.