The Desolation of Puff Puff
My brain had sent the signals to every nerve in my body. They were all in a state of euphoria as I inched closer to biting into the chewy, soft, moistness that lay before me, while I anticipated the accompanying feeling of being wrapped in a velvet blanket.
“Bleh!” I spat it out. My brain had registered the anomaly. The spiciness jolted my senses to red alert. This was not puff puff. No! I stared at the inside, interspersed within the white sponginess were tiny flecks of red — dry pepper.
Something inside of me broke. Which culinary surgeon had dared to alter the divine and pristine existence of puff puff. Flour, sugar, yeast, (a pinch of salt, as my mother told me) and water, are all I have known puff puff to be. This was sacrilege.
The taste just fills you with joy, giving you a special kind of high that can rival any mind-altering substance imaginable. I couldn’t accept it. I refused to have another bite.
That authentic taste of puff puff has been a constant companion all my life. Whether I bought it on the streets, straight out of the fire, prepared by heavy round women. I was always mesmerised by the way their hands would deftly scoop out the dough and plop perfect round balls into the hot oil without a splatter.
Or whether it was served as part of the snacks in primary school or made in my mother’s kitchen. Puff puff is more than just comfort food; it’s a memory, a tradition, an emotion.
The identity of puff puff should not be altered. Not everything is meant to evolve. Some things are perfect just as they are.
