When Grandma died, I made fufu for the first time in years, even though I’d hated the taste of it as a child.

I bought cassava flour downtown in an African store where I hardly shopped. Had to ask the owner to point me to the correct aisle — twice — because I couldn’t find it on my own. How embarrassing.

Back at my place, I rummaged through cupboards for half an hour in a quest for a spatula that could serve as a fufu stick.

After eight years living in my fancy apartment, in the fancy neighborhood of my big fancy city, I’d accumulated an assortment of cute kitchen utensils, none of which could be used to make an African recipe from scratch. I had no pestle and mortar to pound yams, no knife big enough to crack coconuts, no pot large enough to make peanut stews.

It was too late to drive back to the African store, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of the owner for a second time, so I settled for one of my big wooden spoons. It was made of deep brown acacia. Normally, I only used it to sample batches of dairy-free pesto or fine Italian Bolognese, but it was long and looked strong enough; I figured it could work.

When the fufu was ready, I didn’t bother setting the living room table or turning on the TV. I didn’t check my cell phone. I knew what my voicemail was like. Full of messages from people (colleagues, neighbors, ex-boyfriends) sending their short and polite condolences, not because they shared my sadness — none of them knew Grandma — but because they felt like it was the right thing to do.

I brought my plate to the dining table and lit a wax candle. We’d often do that back home whenever there were power outages. A bunch of us grandkids would gather, sit on plastic chairs around a rectangular table, then wait for Grandma to bless our food while silently praying for the day when our uncles and aunties would get their shit together and finally pitch in to buy their mother a generator.

The fufu was fuming but I didn’t wait for it to cool down. I scooped a first plate and ate it with thick tomato sauce and a couple of sardines canned in oil, just like Grandma liked. A simple but filling meal. After washing it down with a ginger drink that I’d had the good sense to buy at the African store, I went for a second plate.

This time I ate with my hands. Slowly and intentionally letting the juice of the tomato sauce mix with the oil of the sardines and melt the fufu paste. I kneaded a bit of that soft fufu between my fingers, blew on it to bring it to an acceptable temperature, then chewed and swallowed without hurrying, like our elders do.

I don’t know if it was the gravity of the moment, the many memories of Grandma rushing through my mind or that feeling — unbearable — of missing a home I’d probably never go back to, but suddenly it hit me. That combo — the cheap fufu-sardines-tomato-sauce mix that a younger me had complained about — was delightful. A world-class meal. It tasted like red soil, dry seasons and warm climates. It tasted like cousins’ daily fights and late afternoon reconciliations. It tasted like Grandma sitting on her plastic chair watching us from the corner of her veranda. It tasted like heaven.

I sank into my sofa chair; inhaled and exhaled gently. Then, for the first time in a very long time, I allowed myself to cry.