To me, jollof tasted like a lively, spicy cousin of our tomato pulao, but that cherished smoky bottom – the *kanakata* – felt familiar. We don’t scrape our rice pots for smoke, but for the crisp, buttery layer at the bottom, the *taaka* my mother always saves for me. So that deep desire for the burnt bit? That’s universal, yaar, just the flavour that changes with the soil you’re rooted in.
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