[et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ admin_label=”Blog Post Section” _builder_version=”4.18.0″ custom_margin=”0px||0px||true|false” custom_padding=”0px||0px||true|false” locked=”off” collapsed=”off” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_row admin_label=”Intro” _builder_version=”4.19.5″ _module_preset=”default” custom_margin=”0px||0px||true|false” custom_padding=”0px||30px||false|false” collapsed=”off” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.18.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_text admin_label=”Intro” _builder_version=”4.27.4″ background_size=”initial” background_position=”top_left” background_repeat=”repeat” hover_enabled=”0″ global_colors_info=”{}” sticky_enabled=”0″]<\/p>\n
I was born in Rwanda, in the land of a thousand hills. Back then, fermentation<\/a> wasn\u2019t a science we studied. It was a way of life. It was how we kept food from spoiling in the heat, how we deepened flavour, and how we stretched the little we had to feed us for many days to come. We didn\u2019t have fridges, and neither did most of those around us. But we had time. We had sun. We had the wisdom passed through hands weathered by work and grace; the knowledge of how to let nature do what it does best. To transform.<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][et_pb_text admin_label=”Cassava roots & Sorghum” _builder_version=”4.27.4″ background_size=”initial” background_position=”top_left” background_repeat=”repeat” global_colors_info=”{}”]<\/p>\n I remember cassava roots<\/span><\/em> tucked away in burlap sacks, fermenting slowly and quietly in the dark. They would soften and sour, and the sharp scent rising; not foul but promising, would signal to us that nature was at work. Once the roots were ready, we laid out the roots like offerings under the sun. When dry, we pounded them, turning them into flour. That flour gave us cassava pap. It was thick, slightly tangy and proof that good food takes time. <\/p>\n I still remember the thick porridge my mother made from fermented sorghum<\/span><\/a>. She would soak the ground grains and let them sit, bubbling gently for days, then cook them slowly over the fire in the early morning. That porridge warmed you from the inside out, the kind of breakfast that could carry you into the hills and back again. Strong, quiet, enduring like the women who made it.<\/p>\n\n