This is not the recipe of old, passed down by your mother, through her mother, through generations of women along the maternal line of your family tree. Nor is it the recipe of childhood memory. Of giggles beside the kitchen stove. Of warm ginger wafts swaddling your lungs and airways in a soothing balm. Of mother waiting patiently, spatula in hand, for the crisp caramel colour to develop in the sizzling frying pan.
No, this is a recipe you found online. In a desperate attempt to re-devour a taste that suddenly sprouted on the back of your tongue on a gloomy Sunday afternoon, like the aftertaste of a bite hurriedly swallowed, the savour of it still squatting at the base of your throat. An uncertain attempt at re-creating what your mouth remembers tasting, but your hands do not recall making.
And though you have never seen tatale made this way before, you have five overripe plantains to spare. So why not make an experiment of them?
Step one.
Begin with the plantains. Wash them thoroughly. Skin them. Place them in a large bowl.
Step two.
Mash the plantains to a pulp. Refuse the urge to use a blender for this part. Remember what happened the first time you tried to make kraakro on your own after leaving home? You put fresh ginger, pepper, cloves, salt, and plantains in the blender, hoping for an easy job, and in the few seconds it took to grind the spices, you succeeded in making a plantain smoothie of slurping consistency. You learned a valuable lesson from that experiment. Save the blender for protein shakes and banana smoothies. Grab a—do you have a tapoli and an apɔtɔyewaa? Like the ones you saw mother using once or twice to grind spices and cocoyam leaves, infusing them with thickened palm oil to make a stew so tantalising it made you want to lick it clean off every ridge of the apɔtɔyewaa even before the accompanying plantains had finished steaming? Grab a fork and begin the slow, arduous task of extruding the plantains, one by one, into small chunks. At least you’re getting your workout in.
Step three.
Now, the chemistry. The spices. Because mother taught you well enough to know what kind of magic to use to turn any dish into a flavourful one; whether it was soups or stews she was making, she always used the same ones. And since she never measured, you memorised their concentrations like carefully worded incantations of a spell, so you could sprinkle them in their right proportions even in your sleep. Just as with the kraakro, gather ginger, pepper, cloves, salt, and… yeast? Alright, perhaps this is not like kraakro at all. Still, this may be the beginnings of a wonderful chemical reaction. (Should this experiment fail, which surely it won’t, at least the sourdough starter will have some lively company in the back of the fridge. Speaking of bread…) Fetch about a cup of all-purpose flour as well.
Step four.
Combine the flour, yeast, and spices with the plantains until fully incorporated, in the same way you would make pancakes. In fact, it might be helpful to think of tatale as plantain pancakes, if it means you can apply the muscle strengthened so diligently while whisking the batter of the popular American breakfast on lonely nights in university abroad. Cover the bowl and let it rise until doubled in size.
Step five.
Frying is always the easiest part. Heat a well-oiled frying pan over medium heat—any oil will do; we’ve passed the point of maintaining traditions. Drop a scoop of the batter in the pan, and wait until little air bubbles form on its surface and its bottom develops a crust. Upturn. You should have a nice, even, darkened crust the colour of sticky toffee, the kind of crust seen on roasted ripe plantains so affectionately called Kofi Brokeman. The kind of crust you and mother would wait patiently for all those years ago. Cook on the other side for about two or three minutes, or until a similar crust forms.
Step six.
Finally, the taste. The first bite. The crispy exterior yielding to a steamy, pillowy centre. Is it the same as you remember it? The soft bundle of sugared spices enveloping you in a blanket of joy from the inside out. Is it the same as mother made it? Did it transport you back to mornings at her side in the kitchen, smiling into the frying pan as she smiled at you? I hope it was worth the effort. I hope it is every bit of warmth you were hoping for. But even if it isn’t, it is very hard to make sweet, ripe plantains taste bad.
Olivia Kayang is a Ghanaian-born visual artist and writer who contemplates the body as a site of memory within her making and writing practices. Her writing practice is shaped by her experience growing up across different cultures, living in different countries and in a multi-ethnic household, and continually experiencing Ghanaian culture through multiple lenses. Her writing often accompanies her artwork, which she has exhibited in academic spaces in the US. Kayang currently lives and works in Accra, where she continues to grow her practice.
IG: @sourblackolive