My dad was our home’s unofficial cook. Whenever he woke up feeling inspired, he’d go to the stove. I do not eat cassava, but I would eat the cassava cakes he made. I don’t know whether it was because I loved him, or because his cakes were actually really good. My mom would get mad: “I fry cassava, fix cassava every other way, and she won’t eat it. But his cakes, she does eat.” The cakes were wonderful.