We'd been threatening it for months. 'Jean, when are we going to cook a South African meal?' Francesca would ask, time and again. It took a trip to Kenya for her and the arrival of the Daughter for me. Finally, we turned the Guerrilla Kitchen at Camerechiare into an African outpost. We did some serious research and discovered our homeland is a place of carnivorous bastards. Every national dish calls for a pound of flesh and the vegans in the house were having none of it. The Daughter broadcast an urgent message to family and friends, and we interrogated the all-knowing Google. Eventually, in the dark recesses of the Internet, we found an easy African curry made with cavolfiore–white broccoli. I made the curry.
Francesca made the chapati.
Gigi lurked in the background, hoping to steal some scraps.
The Daughter gave instructions, in Italian, with appropriate gesticulation, 'Madonna! Questo curry ha le palle!'
The women danced around the fire.
Silvia took the first bite, and the curry was good and we ate it all. Well almost. Chico, your's is in the fridge. Better eat it before Gigi finds it.