HOME AWAY FROM HOME: A Journey Through Nostalgic Childhood Food Memories
by Anasthascia Boateng
Part 1: Cooking as Cultural Training: A Bond Forged Through Food
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Growing up as a girl child in a Ghanaian home meant embodying the role of a mother early on. When I was tall enough to reach the kitchen counter, my mother began teaching me how to cook. Cooking, cleaning, and nurturing were not just household chores but apprenticeships in preparation for future responsibilities as a wife and mother.
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In the kitchen, I learned that food was more than sustenance; it expressed love, duty, and respect.
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This training was a societal expectation and a practical reality in an African household. My mother often reminded me that serving my father with respect and devotion was a rehearsal for my future role as a mother. "One day, you will have your own family," she would say." These lessons, repeated like proverbs, became ingrained in my identity. These responsibilities were something I hated to the core because I believe that regardless of your gender learning how to cook is a survival strategy that should be embedded in everyone. The quest to cook and serve the family as a cultural responsibility changed when I came to the US where I cook for myself only and have no responsibility of serving anyone because I live alone unless there is an international student meeting, and I cook food to share with my colleagues. My father's favorite meals, especially fufu with light soup, became a way for me to internalize these teachings. These memories remain vivid, markers of a past life and enduring lessons.
Fufu taught me that love could be served in a bowl, that respect could be pounded into cassava and plantain, and that memory could linger in every swallow. Even now, whenever I prepare fufu, I feel my father's presence, quiet pride, and unwavering love.​ In our home, my father's favorite dish, fufu with light soup, was a ritual that held the family together.
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Fufu, a labor-intensive dish of cassava and plantain pounded into a smooth, elastic texture, is often associated with men's labor in Ghanaian tradition.Pounding fufu is like carrying heavy loads and dropping them and picking all over again and dropping them like repeating of​​​​ carrying the pestle and having to hit back into the mortar repetitively till the fufu is soft and ready.
However, I took immense pride in stepping into this role alongside my mother, relishing the moments when our combined efforts brought a smile to my father's face. My father was a man of few words, very kind man, but very disciplined. When he entered the room, everyone around felt calm and noticed because he wasn’t biased in addressing issues among siblings, he would make sure the one at fault apologized for peace to reign. What really brought the respect and care we had for him was how peaceful, respectful and very supportive he was of our future aspirations to become whoever we wished to become. I remember when we started leaving the house for high school and colleague, he will call us virtually every day to check in with us and find out how school is going and how we are faring. I remember when he came to visit me in senior high school, and I didn’t want him to leave even though the visiting time was over. It all sums up why preparing his favorite left my arms aching, but the joy on my father's face as he savored the meal made every ounce of effort worthwhile.
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For my father, eating fufu with light soup was not merely about nourishment; it was a moment of deep satisfaction and connection.​
Growing up, I came to meet my dad with health issues, I learnt from my mom that he was laid from his work at AngloGold Ashanti a mining company in Obuasi. Due to this, he couldn’t support our family again with any financial responsibility. And we could see the sadness in his eyes as someone who has taken care of his family before being financially handicapped was a big blow to him because in Ghana a man’s respect is tied to his ability to provide. Therefore, not being able to provide meant culturally he had no power to decide what we eat in our home or make decisions in our home. Transition here: when did this illness show up? How did it change other elements of family dynamic? However, illness may have eventually diminished his physical strength and ability to provide, but it never diminished his authority within the household. My mother, deeply attuned to the cultural importance of his role, ensured that his voice remained central in our family​ dynamics. This respect was most evident in her unwavering commitment to preparing his favorite meals, even when financial resources were scarce.
Serving fufu was a cultural performance that underscored my father's revered position in the family.
There needed to be more time to place the dish on the table. The ritual involved presenting him with water to wash his hands, a napkin to wipe his hands after eating, and a bowl of soup alongside the fufu. Each gesture was a silent affirmation of his role as the head of the household, a role illness could not take away. For my father, receiving his favorite dish, prepared and served with such care, was not just an act of love but a reaffirmation of his place in our lives.
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Part 2: Immigrant Adaptation: Recreating Fufu Far From Home
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Moving to the US as a lady to pursue my Ph. D was a win for my family but a loss for my society because for my family, I could provide for myself and help out with family responsibilities. However, for my community I had failed because I wasn’t married, and I should have prioritized marriage over my education. When I moved to the United States, I carried the memories of making and serving fufu with me like a precious heirloom. Recreating the dish without the familiar mortar and pestle seemed impossible for me. Making fufu in a quiet, sterile American kitchen felt almost impossible. How could I honor the dish's essence in this new, unfamiliar place? My first encounter with cassava in the United States came unexpectedly. My roommate casually mentioned finding it at Kroger and Walmart.
At first, I was taken aback; I was curious how we have cassava and plantain in an American supermarket.
However, this moment opened my eyes to the complex, intertwined history of African food traditions and their global presence, shaped by the violence and resilience of colonialism and slavery. The transatlantic slave trade forcibly displaced millions of Africans, along with their agricultural knowledge, culinary traditions, and crops. The Columbian Exchange, driven by colonial exploitation, introduced these crops to the Americas, which became integral to new cuisines and agricultural systems.
Today, the presence of these African food ingredients in the U.S. is a testament to the enduring legacy of African food traditions. Sold in African markets, cassava flour only required water and heat to recreate a dish remarkably similar to what I grew up eating. The process was far less labor-intensive, but the flavors and textures still carried the essence of home. Seeing cassava in a Kroger aisle is more than a convenience. It is a link to my ancestors' ingenuity and strength. This availability also speaks to the adaptability of African diasporic communities. Over centuries, they found ways to keep their foodways alive, even in foreign lands, transforming local ingredients when necessary while maintaining their cultural essence. These food traditions became acts of resistance, affirming identity in the face of erasure. In my kitchen, cooking with cassava and plantain in the United States feels like participating in this history - a refusal to relinquish our identities and traditions in the face of Western homogenization.
When I first moved to the United States, I was swept up in the convenience of American food culture. Fast food, an occasional luxury in Ghana, became a regular part of my diet. At first, it felt liberating, no pounding, peeling, or long hours in the kitchen. However, over time, I began to notice subtle changes in my body. I grew fat, felt uneasy, felt I had lost myself in search of food pleasure without thinking about the health implications. It was a conversation with fellow Ghanaian students that helped me see the path forward. They spoke passionately about cooking our traditional meals for the familiar taste and the health benefits. Ghanaian cuisine, rooted in natural and whole ingredients, starkly contrasted with the processed and calorie-dense foods I consumed. Their words resonated deeply, igniting a renewed appreciation for the foods I grew up with.
In Ghana, the idea of food as a "project" or health intervention was absent, as Aya Kimura describes in her critique of modern nutrition culture (Kimura, et al., 2014). Most foods are organic by default and cultivated without genetic modification. Labeling food as "natural" or "healthy" seemed redundant because those qualities were inherent in our diets. In the U.S., however, I realized that access to healthy food is often a luxury. Organic produce comes at a premium, leaving marginalized communities, many of whom are immigrants, struggling with limited options. Cooking traditional Ghanaian meals became my way of resisting this inequitable food system. Returning to these roots allowed me to reclaim my health on my terms.
It became an act of empowerment, a way of saying no to a system that prioritizes profit over well-being, and yes to a way of life that honors my heritage.
The processed cassava flour, though different from the fresh original ingredients, allows immigrants to decolonize the narrative around food, asserting the sovereignty of our culinary traditions amidst the dominance of industrial and processed foodways. It is a reminder that, no matter how far we travel, the tastes and rituals of home can be recreated, nourishing both the body and the soul.
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Fufu as a Symbol of Home and Heritage
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For Ghanaian immigrants, cooking is far more than a daily task to satisfy hunger; it is a way to recreate a "home far away from home." In unfamiliar surroundings, where accents mark us as different and cultural practices may feel alien, food becomes a tangible connection to our roots. With all its labor and love, preparing fufu is an act of cultural affirmation. It is a ritual that ties us to our ancestors, preserves our traditions, and anchors us in a sense of belonging even as we navigate foreign lands. Cooking fufu in the United States has become more than a culinary task—it is a deeply personal ritual, a conversation across time and space with my father.
Each time I prepare it, whether for friends, family, or community gatherings, it feels as though I am sharing a moment, I had never got to share with him fully because the cold hands of death snatched him away. My father was quiet and often reserved in his affections, but our most prolonged and meaningful conversations happened at the dining table. He would tease me, gently urging me to try fufu despite knowing I was not too fond of it as a child. Those moments, laced with humor and warmth, became a bridge between us, a space where his quiet love spoke louder than words. Now, when I serve others fufu, it is remembering him. When I share fufu with others, it is more than a meal; it is a cultural narrative, a way of honoring my parents and the traditions they passed down. It calls to mind the lessons my mother instilled in me about respect, care, service, and the moments of laughter and love surrounding our family meals. The act of preparing food is often framed as an obligation tethered to gender roles, but I see it differently.
I believe cooking is a life skill—a universal language of care that everyone should embrace
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In the U.S., where the pace of life often prioritizes convenience over tradition, fufu becomes a counterpoint a deliberate pause to reconnect with my roots. Through the simple act of preparing fufu, I bridge the distance between Ghana and my current home. I keep alive the traditions that shaped me while forging new paths in a world that sometimes feels disconnected from those values.
Fufu reminds me that food is not just sustenance but a vessel for memory, connection, and resilience.
Writing food stories about fufu is like holding to my heart the memories of my beloved dad through food. Cooking is more than an act of survival; it is a medium for connection, culture, and memory. For me, fufu, one of the most popular Ghanaian dishes made from cassava and plantain, represents the love I shared with my father. Fufu was not just food but a symbol of care, respect, and the deep familial bonds that held our household together. Fufu was a constant presence in our home, a meal that transcended its ingredients. It was the centerpiece of our Sunday afternoons, the dish we all anticipated as a family ritual. Each step of its preparation told a story of effort and love. Peeling the cassava, chopping the plantain, and pounding the mixture into a smooth, elastic texture with a mortar and pestle brought us together, even as they reminded me of the weight of tradition. Fufu is also a metaphor for my life as a Ghanaian woman, an immigrant, and a daughter. Cooking reminds me that I carry home with me no matter how far I travel.
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Part 3: Social Media: A Virtual Kitchen for Cultural Preservation
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Through my survey on the internet, I found an array of information on how to prepare local Ghanaian dishes using Western ingredients. Platforms like YouTube, TikTok, and Facebook have transformed into virtual kitchens where recipes, techniques, and stories are shared across continents. Influencers like Sweet Adjeley have become the torchbearers of this movement, turning these digital spaces into hubs of learning, connection, and cultural celebration. Through Sweet Adjeley's videos, I learned to navigate the challenges of making fufu without the traditional tools. Her step-by-step guides demystified the process, blending modern conveniences with authentic techniques.
These digital tutorials became a lifeline, bridging the gap between my Ghanaian roots and my life in the U.S.
Social media has also become a powerful tool for reclaiming our food narratives in an increasingly globalized world. These platforms have played a vital role in teaching younger generations about their heritage, especially those born far from Ghana. For me, social media became more than a source of recipes; it was a guide, my mother, a teacher, and a companion in the adaptation process. By engaging with these platforms, we are preserving recipes and safeguarding our cultural heritage.
Author's Note to fellow Ghanaian immigrants about accessing fufu ingredients on Social Media: A Virtual Kitchen for Cultural Preservation Through my survey on the internet, I found an array of information on how to prepare local Ghanaian dishes using Western ingredients. Platforms like YouTube, TikTok, and Facebook have transformed into virtual kitchens where recipes, techniques, and stories are shared across continents. Influencers like Sweet Adjeley have become the torchbearers of this movement, turning these digital spaces into hubs of learning, connection, and cultural celebration. Through Sweet Adjeley's videos, I learned to navigate the challenges of making fufu without the traditional tools. Her step-by-step guides demystified the process, blending modern conveniences with authentic techniques.These digital tutorials became a lifeline, bridging the gap between my Ghanaian roots and my life in the U.S. Social media has also become a powerful tool for reclaiming our food narratives in an increasingly globalized world. These platforms have played a vital role in teaching younger generations about their heritage, especially those born far from Ghana. For me, social media became more than a source of recipes; it was a guide, my mother, a teacher, and a companion in the adaptation process. By engaging with these platforms, we are preserving recipes and safeguarding our cultural heritage.
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Works Cited: Kimura, Aya H., Biltekoff, Charlotte, Murdy, Jessica, and Hayes-Conroy, Jessica (2014). "Nutrition as a Project." Gastronomica, 14(3), 34-45.