By Olumide Labulo
Food has always been more than fuel. It’s often, in creative quarters, curiosity served on a plate. You may not agree though but there is creativity in food preparation. We experiment not only to fill the belly but also to spark the imagination. Every dish we know today was once an experiment, a bold guess that somehow stuck. Who first looked at a yam tuber and thought, “let’s pound this thing until it’s stretchy and then dip it in soup''? Or who decided pepper, with its fiery bite, should be ground, fried, and turned into the tongue-tingling delight we call stew? And that’s exactly where literature sneaks in. The same itch that makes us try jollof with plantain instead of chicken is the same curiosity that makes writers slip fictional recipes into their novels.
Food has always been about adventure. Nobody wakes up one day and says, “let me just eat the same thing forever.” No! Human beings are restless eaters. We pound yam until it stretches, we boil beans till they soften, we mix fire with pepper and call it stew. Every cuisine you know today started with someone bold enough to experiment. And that same daring spirit is what fuels our fascination with fictional recipes in books. Because if food is dynamic in real life, why shouldn’t it be on the page? When writers describe strange meals, from enchanted drinks to survival stews, they’re doing more than storytelling; they’re planting seeds in our imagination. And once curiosity is planted, it rarely stays in fiction. Readers want to taste what they’ve read, fans start experimenting, and before you know it, something invented on paper is sitting hot on a dinner table. That’s how J.K. Rowling’s butterbeer turned into a multimillion-dollar theme park drink.
In Africa, Nigerian literature in particular is overflowing with food, sometimes as comfort, sometimes as chaos. Chris Abani’s "Graceland" is full of Elvis Oke’s bizarre recipes like roasted termites and grasshopper stew. Sounds fictional, right? But those insects aren't just fictional spectacle, they are real protein sources in Nigeria, and a few adventurous food bloggers have tested them. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in "Half of a Yellow Sun" goes the opposite way. Her recipes are born out of scarcity. Watery soups, powdered milk, and stolen chicken form the menu of war-time survival. Readers don’t recreate those meals for pleasure, but they’ve inspired food historians to reflect on how necessity breeds creativity in the kitchen. Then, there’s Wakanda where the cookbook proves that even worlds built on vibranium and Afrofuturism deserve their own menu. Although no one’s harvesting vibranium to sprinkle into soup (unless Elon Musk tries it next), but the recipes draw from real African culinary traditions while adding a dash of Marvel magic.
The beauty here is that what begins as fiction often doesn’t stay there for long. Food bloggers, chefs, and fans keep testing these invented meals until suddenly they’re real. At the heart of it, they satisfy both hunger and imagination. They remind us that food is memory, identity, even magic. But they also tease us with possibilities: what if you could actually order a “recipe for heartbreak” cocktail at your local bar? Or cook a “survival stew”? Yes, literature writes it first. But kitchens are cheeky enough to try it next, a proof that readers don’t just want to imagine; they want to taste the fantasy because they hunger for new experiences.
Fictional recipes aren’t just for laughs — they are blueprints. They tell us we could try something different, push our taste buds into unfamiliar territories. That’s why one day, someone might publish a Nigerian fictional recipes cookbook with dishes like Okonkwo’s yam feast, Elvis Oke’s grasshopper suya, or Biafran survival soup. At the end of the day, fictional recipes are just our imagination daring us to cook. And Nigerians, with our never-ending kitchen experiments, are more than ready to take up that dare. After all, who says palm wine cocktails and insect suya can’t trend on social media tomorrow?
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