In 2004, when I was four years old, my family moved to the United States from Congo Kinshasa in Africa because of a civil war. My father was excited for the opportunities that laid ahead for his two daughters, and he embraced this new country with open arms. While my mother was excited, too, she also worried that living in a new country would somehow erase her and her children's rich and vibrant culture, and that my younger sister and I would forget where we came from.
The annual Taste of Colorado festival was my version of Disneyland. We would make our way to each booth as the aroma of funnel cake and other fried foods filled my nostrils. Every time my fathered noted,"We never had food like this back home," my mother would roll her eyes so hard we could practically hear it.
But there was a place that offered a taste of the food my mother missed so much, and soon, she made it her mission to take my sister and I there as often as possible.. The store, located in a strip mall off Montview Boulevard in Aurora, had no Lay's chips, Oreo cookies or the sugary sodas that made me go off the rails for a few hours. Instead, it was stocked with fresh fish, cassava, dried caterpillar and plantain chips.
One day, my father came home and told me that we were going to Makola. Taking after my mother, I rolled my eyes. As we walked through the Colorado heat, I asked why we were going, and he said he needed spices. When we got home, my father began making one of my favorite dishes, steak and potatoes, but with the seasoning from Makola. I watched as he rubbed the beef with the spices, and as we began eating, I realized I did not have to choose between loving American and African foods.