African Peanut Stew

The carnations came at noon on Thursday. Pink. Perfect. From Doris on Habersham, same as every year. I put them in the blue vase on the kitchen table and I stood back and looked at them and they were the most beautiful flowers I have ever received, and they have always been the most beautiful flowers I have ever received, every year, every time, because they come from him.

Earl was in his recliner. He was having a good day — a really good day. He'd eaten breakfast. He'd walked to the garden and back. He was watching the evening news when I started making dinner. Fried catfish. The Valentine's catfish. Hattie Pearl's good plates — the white ones with the gold rim, the ones we only use for Christmas, Easter, and Valentine's Day. Lemon meringue pie cooling on the counter. Two candles on the table. Pink carnations between them.

I was in the kitchen. I was breading the catfish. I was dipping each fillet in buttermilk and then cornmeal — tap, tap, into the oil, listen for the sizzle. The house smelled like frying fish and lemon and the particular warmth that comes from cooking for someone you love on a day that is yours and his and nobody else's.

The TV went silent.

I knew. I knew before I walked into the living room. I knew the way you know a storm is coming before the sky changes. I wiped my hands on my apron — Earl's apron, the one he gave me, "The General" — and I walked to the doorway and I saw him.

He was in his recliner. His eyes were closed. His face was peaceful. His hands were still. The remote had fallen to the floor.

Earl Henderson died on Valentine's Day. February 14, 2019. In his chair. Watching the evening news. While I was making his dinner. While pink carnations sat on the kitchen table. While the catfish sizzled in the pan. While the lemon meringue pie cooled. While everything was exactly right, exactly ours, exactly the way it had been for forty-three years.

I turned off the stove. I walked to his chair. I knelt down — my knees screamed but I didn't hear them — and I put my hand on his chest and there was nothing there. No heartbeat. No breath. No Earl. Just the man, still warm, still him, still wearing the shirt I'd ironed that morning, still smelling like himself — Old Spice and garden soil and something I can't name that was just Earl.

I said, "Oh, Earl. Oh, baby. Not today. Not on our day."

But it was today. And it was our day. And maybe that's why — because Valentine's Day was always his, always ours, and he chose to leave on the day that meant love. Or love chose for him. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore except that the catfish burned and the carnations were perfect and Earl Henderson is gone.

The funeral was standing room only at First African Baptist Church. I sat in the third pew, left side, because that is my pew, and Earl's casket was where the altar usually is, and the choir sang "Precious Lord, Take My Hand," which was Earl's favorite hymn. I did not cry at the service. I held it together because the children needed me to hold it together. Earl Jr. was a mess. Patricia was sobbing. Denise was white-knuckled and silent. Kayla sat beside me and held my hand so tight I thought the bones would crack, and she whispered, "I'm here, Granny." The same words I've said to her a thousand times. Coming back to me now.

I did not write "Now go on and feed somebody" this week. I couldn't. The kitchen is dark.

I wrote this a few weeks after. The kitchen came back to me slowly — not all at once, not with fanfare, just a Tuesday morning when I looked at the stove and I thought: somebody has to eat. Earl Jr. and Patricia were still coming by most evenings, and Kayla wouldn’t stop worrying, and I thought the best thing I could do — the most Earl thing I could do — was feed them. This stew is not what I had planned for Valentine’s Day. Nothing will ever be what I had planned for Valentine’s Day. But this is what I made when the kitchen stopped being dark, and it is warm, and it is enough, and it fed all of us.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 35 min | Total Time: 50 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large yellow onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, grated
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon ground coriander
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes
2 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch cubes
4 cups low-sodium chicken or vegetable broth
3/4 cup creamy natural peanut butter
2 tablespoons tomato paste
3 cups fresh spinach or chopped collard greens
Salt and black pepper to taste
Cooked white rice, for serving
Chopped roasted peanuts and fresh cilantro, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

Sauté the aromatics. Heat vegetable oil in a large heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the diced onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened and translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and ginger and cook 1 minute more until fragrant.
Bloom the spices. Add the cumin, coriander, and cayenne to the pot. Stir well and cook for 30 seconds, letting the spices toast in the oil.
Build the base. Stir in the diced tomatoes (with their juices) and the tomato paste. Cook for 2–3 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the mixture darkens slightly and begins to smell rich.
Add sweet potatoes and broth. Add the sweet potato cubes and pour in the broth. Stir to combine. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, then reduce heat to medium-low and simmer uncovered for 15 minutes, until sweet potatoes are just tender.
Whisk in the peanut butter. Ladle about 1/2 cup of hot broth into a small bowl and whisk the peanut butter into it until smooth. Pour this mixture back into the pot and stir to fully incorporate. This prevents the peanut butter from clumping.
Add the greens. Stir in the spinach or collard greens and simmer for 5 more minutes until greens are wilted and tender. Taste and adjust salt, pepper, and cayenne as needed.
Serve. Ladle the stew over bowls of white rice. Garnish with chopped roasted peanuts and fresh cilantro if desired. Serve hot.

Nutrition (per serving)

African Peanut Stew — What the Kitchen Holds When You Come Back to It