Mariah, Curry and Rice

Dearly Beloved
Greetings. Salutations

I think I should be here explaining myself silly telling you why on earth I didn’t get that birthday post going, but before that, let’s all take a minute to appreciate the awesomeness that is the legendary Mariah Carey alias Daughter of the land, Queen of the pipes, Throat empress.

If I were president for a day, I would not make any day Mariah Carey day, obviously. Rather, what I’d do is this, I would get up at around 9:28, cup my hand over my mouth and take a whiff of that presidential morning breath, send a shout out to the Man in The Sky, take my mobile phone and cancel my 9:30 am alarm. At 9:31, I would put on my bathing robe- a fuchsia blanket of heaven with a thread count made for the gods and walk around my presidential suite. I would then press the lime green buzzer on the head board alerting Zedekaya in the kitchen to bring me up my Soya which I will have in bed. A little pre-game just before breakfast also fondly referred to as, the real show down.Bread with Blueband is an all time winner. Never argue with me on that, and Zedekaya knows exactly how chai ya maziwa should be made. 1 part milk, 1 and a half parts water, no sugar. This with Blueband bread, we are in business.

A president has a SOUND SYSTEM. Surround sound. Outside noise filtering mechanism.I would obviously know, I AM the president aren't I? A system that sells insurance and sorts out the wage bill crisis while at it. On this system dearly beloved, I blast the wonderful sounds of the Throat Empress.

‘You’ve got me feeling emotions… deeper than I’ve ever dreamed of, ooh ooh, you’ve got me feeling EMO-T-IO-OONS, higher than my…’

‘Oh when you walk by every night, talking sweet and looking fine, I get kinda hectic insi-iide, mh baby I’m so into you darlin if you only knew all the fears that float through my mi-iind, but it’s just a sweet sweet fantasy baby when I close my eyes you come and take me… sweet fantasy baby…’

‘If I do the things you want me to the way I used to do would you love me baby or leave me feeling blue let me go-o break my hea-art Heartbreaker you’ve got the best of me, but I just keep on coming back incessantly oh why-y did you have to run your game on me I shoulda known right from the start you’d go and break my heart…’

Regina, my personal assistant, with a mind sharper than a croc’s canine, would probably have to reschedule my meeting with the loan people seeing as I am still in my pajamas; shorts I’ve worn since I was 16 and a worn t-shirt reaching up to my hairy knees. I’d go on the presidential Snapchat group chat and record myself doing a vocal on one of MC’s numbers, shaking the ground and moving the earth with my range, my vocal range. I think it’s safe to say the country would be in pure turmoil if I were ever to be president for a day, and I’d eventually make that day Mariah Day and I’d pass a law that orders everyone to break into choreographed song and dance every few minutes. An exercise that will be overseen by my loyal County commissioners.

Away from my Mariah playlist, how have things been dearly beloved? Happy 3rd Birthday! Out with the Terrible Twos in with the Thunderous Threes. That should honestly be a thing, Thunderous Threes. I can picture it, a garden. Plastic seats draped in those white fabrics with a bow right across the middle. The chair’s waist. The women gathered are all in white. Most of them in flowing robes. The same design really, slight alterations to the patterns: beadwork detail on the neck region, tassels on the hem. They are nodding vigorously to something Rosie has just said. Tight tufts of black hair moving to the rhythms of the neck. Like a nice, loyal submissive member of a political party after losing a by-election. Rosie is bald. She decided to jump on this ‘naturalista’ band wagon in her own way. No cocoa butter styling gel for her, she decided to go full out and get her Jordan head. She reminds me of Nokia Face of Africa. That gap on her lower jaw, her small eyes behind stylish spectacles. She probably bought them juzi to replace her old ones. She doesn’t walk around with a spectacles case and that small cloth to wipe the lens on so yeah, she’s had them for a while. Rosie has three kids already. She’s friends with the catering guy who suggested that they get an expert to talk to all the young and soon-to-be mothers there. So, Rosie gets into her white free dress and some Bata ngomas and appears, ready to feed some young maternal mind.

There are only three men here today; the guard at the gate and two of the catering staff members. That means, oestrogen kwa wingi. It’s a nail polish and baby bib affair. Baby showers.

“Now ladies, let’s not forget, at age two, it’s important for the baby to be taught sharing and apologizing, now at age three…”

Rosie has put her plate down to go back to the training session. Her soup has already gone cold and the chapo is soggy already. She is a bank manager on her 8-5. Daughter of a civil servant father and a Science and CRE primary school teacher. Two brothers, no sister. Mother of three, happily re-married. She fell out of love with Luke. He was kind and all, but she wanted something more. Some excitement at least. So, she left, he agreed, they had no babies so no custody battles. They lived in a rented apartment which Luke chose to keep. She went back on the scene. Picked up Tinder, had fun here and there, enough. Fast forward to the part she gets pregnant through IVF. Forward to the part she met Phillip, an IT consultant with links to Silicon Valley, forward to the private AG office wedding, forward to the twins a boy and a girl, then the health scare where they all thought the boy would die then the first miscarriage, then the second one. They stopped trying, God’s Plan.

“I call them the Thunderous Threes,” Rosie has a smile at the corner of her mouth as she shares this with her class.

Its Ciku’s Baby shower. She is ballooning by the minute but she is excited. She is also scared, now that the baby is coming. She is afraid normal delivery will be too much pain to handle. She is also afraid that Caesarean Section will lead to severe Post-Partum depression. Sigh... she wonders if there’s any more of that wonderful vegetable rice left.

Dearly Beloved, I think it is pretty clear already, I LOVE RICE. J’ADORE DU RIZ!!!!! Today, I am going to do yet another vegetable rice recipe just because I can.
So. I have been moving around for a minute and I stumbled upon a little town by the name Malindi. The food here…!!! OH MY DAYS! The curries, the stews, the rice, the fish! Hold on tight, I am gathering all the recipes I can to share with you. Or rather, to share with myself and send you pictures of the final product. For the time being however, lets indulge Ciku’s Vegetable rice craving, shall we?
Zesty Orange Veggie Rice 

Ingredients

2 Cups rice
4 cups water
2 tomatoes
1 onion
1 bell pepper
1 orange (halved)
Coriander leaves

Method

Wash the rice and bring it to a boil. The ratio for the rice is 1 cup of rice: 2 cups of water.

Cut up the onions and tomatoes and cut the bell pepper into lengthwise strips. When the water level has gone just below the boiling rice, reduce the heat and pour in a little bit of frying oil. This helps the rice in separating.

Fry the onions, tomatoes and bell peppers together in little oil on high heat. Don’t let the tomatoes go to a pulp. Reduce the heat and add in the rice. Mix these together for 4-5 minutes stirring continuously then, squeeze in the orange juice from the two orange halves. Stir and cover for 2 minutes on low heat.

Serving suggestion

Being an excessive person, I used a pineapple for my plating. You should go the same route as well. Let’s be excessive together. Happy Birthday Dearly Beloved, you really are something.

Asante Sana and Kwaheri.