Cooking is an art.

That truth was drilled into me when I was fourteen and making pudding for the first time in my life. I hadn’t cooked much at all previously, and certainly not with cornstarch and hot milk. Nobody told me I needed to mix the cornstarch with cool liquid. So I didn’t. I dumped it in and stirred. Vigorously. The inevitable lumps formed almost immediately. In desperation, I alternated my frantic stirring with smashing the lumps against the edge of the kettle, but it was an obvious no-go. I admitted defeat, learned from my error, and the pudding was carried out with the slop.

Then there were the pancakes that weren't becoming pancakes at all but were little discs that brought new definition to the phrase "flat as a pancake." I double checked my recipe to make sure I had included all the ingredients that work miracles in batter, and I had. Whatever the cause, the ‘things’ we ate for breakfast tasted (and looked) much more like humble pie than pancakes. 

Since the days of the lumpy pudding and crepe-like pancakes of my teens, I’ve done just enough cooking to have the truth reinforced to me that cooking is still an art.

Part of this art is being able to creatively use ingredients on hand, a virtue which was sadly lacking in the first weeks after our move. Then, I paged through five cookbooks and ended up with pancakes served with alligator tears for dinner. At least it wasn't pasta or rice; we had that every day until our son finally admitted to being tired of rice. I could hardly blame him; I was tired of it, too. About then, one of my fellow-Americans told me they survived on fried eggs for the first three days of being on their own in Ghana. Knowing that she has become a creative cook since then gave me hope that I’ll get my wings back in the kitchen. 

Cooking begins in market, of course, where I buy nearly all my ingredients. Open-air markets are delightful places, as you know if you’ve been to one. Just today I was at there to purchase ingredients for shito (SHEET-oh), a spicy fish sauce that you eat with rice and stew, boiled yam, hard boiled eggs, and about anything else that could possibly work as a conveyor.

Today’s purchases were made at a stand comprised of three tables. Gigantic silver bowls were heaped with grains, spices, and dry ingredients. Using a well-worn evaporated milk can as a measuring cup, the merchant poured fish powder, shrimp powder, and red pepper powder into plastic bags and tied them up for me. It wasn’t that she leveled that little can off every time she filled it. Oh no. She heaped it up like the Biblical measurement described as “pressed down and running over.” She is not unusual. Often when the women measure dry ingredients, they use their forearm to form a higher rim on the container they are filling, generously giving you more than the amount you agreed to purchase.

At the same stall this morning, I purchased chicken bouillon, tomato paste, and oil, declining the fresh ginger and garlic she wanted to sell me since I had those at home. While I chose the cheaper oil for my shito project, I was pleased to see sunflower seed oil along with the vegetable oil, a new product for the local market stall.

It was just down from this stand a couple of weeks ago that I heard a commotion and turned to see several grown men chasing something just out of my line of vision. They whacked at it with boards, dashed back and forth, and whacked again. Suddenly one of them grabbed a large rat by its tail and thwacked its head against the cement. Twice. The kill was made, the market drama ended, and somebody probably had good eating for dinner.

I have eaten rat in the past, but would prefer purchasing my meat in market, like I did earlier this week. I had only walked in the direction of the butchers when they recognized a purposeful step and surrounded me, saying, “Do you want cow or goat? Okay, come here, come here. This is the fresh one.” “You come here!” “Come over here for the fresh one!”

I chose the stand on the edge of the meat market and watched with gritted teeth as he used a gigantic meat cleaver to cut a half kilo from the chunk of beef on the chopping block. His precision was perfect, but to me it looked like he narrowly missed his fingers with each whack.

“Can you reduce the price for me?” I asked.

He was relentless. “No. That is the price. But if you come back next time I will reduce for you.”

“Okay, then. When you see my face the next time, you can remember that is the day to give the reduced price.”

He grinned and I left, hopeful that from “now going” I will get cheaper meat. There are benefits to making a friend of the sellers in the markets; often they cut you a deal when you make your purchase.

Like the vegetable lady. I told her I wanted lettuce. She brought out a bin of lettuce that had been sitting in the shade of her stall and picked out several nice clumps. Then when I agreed on an amount, she tossed in one extra, “For a dash,” she said generously. (“Dash” is the word to describe the items tossed in for free.) She also dashed me a cucumber and a pepper, sweet seller. I’ll be going back to her the next time I’m in market.

I told you that cooking begins with purchasing food items in markets, but shopping isn’t done solely in markets. Accra is an up-and-coming capital where supermarkets are becoming more popular. These fancy grocery stores remind me of ones in America, especially when I stumble across a brand I recognize like Jiffy peanut butter. Unfortunately, import fees and taxes launch many of their prices well beyond the reach of our budget. Like the celery a friend told me about with her jaw gaping. “Did you see the celery? It was 12 American dollars for one stalk!” I certainly hope somebody buys it before it goes bad, but it is equally as certain that the somebody won’t be me.

Other things in the grocery stores are actually better deals than you can find in the markets which means shopping in these supermarkets can be a good idea. At least financially, if done carefully. 

But I still love supporting local economy. 

I love the markets. 

I love going stall to stall, selecting a smoked fish cross-section at one 

and stopping to take in the scent of spices in bulk from another. 

I love finding the unexpected, 

like bulk chicken bouillon in a heaping headpan, 

or quick oats at a tiny shop you’d least expect them in. 

And I love the interaction with the merchants.

Marketing complete, however you do it, “all” that remains is to create healthy meals for the family. Now that we’ve been here a month, my pantry feels well-stocked and my creativity is slowly coming alive again. Finally. Homemade yogurt helped to crack open the door of cooking possibilities. 

We had a mouth-watering Chicken Curry with a yogurt sauce from Bangladesh;

 Shawarma chicken served with a yogurt sauce and 

a tomato-cucumber salad from the Middle East; 

and granola and yogurt for breakfast. 

Plantain and yam give us delicious lunches and snacks, 

like the Plantain Donuts even the dog liked. 

(Hey, she was begging so hopefully and it was only a little one. . .) 

We made tacos one night by purchasing beef at market and 

chawing it to hamburger with our hand-crank meat grinder. 

Having a freezer also opens a world of options like the Orange-Banana drinks I made last night using our very own frozen orange juice.

Variety and creativity, much to my children's relief, are finally starting to reappear on the menu. Usually, that is. But right now it is time for dinner, John is still gone on an errand, and I have nothing started. Got any suggestions?