Making Gbofloto

What hobbies have been passed down from your family?

On a given Sunday morning at the Surheyao residence, a magical food might be frying on the stove. Crispy golden dough with hints of nutmeg and vanilla, gbofloto (g is silent) is one of my favorite foods to cook. Making gbofloto is an Ivorian tradition, passed down to me by my mother, which holds a special place in my heart.

My mom taught me how to make gbofloto about 2 years ago amid quarantine. My parents immigrated to the U.S. from Côte D’Ivoire over 20 years ago. While I grew up eating Ivorian foods like attiék poisson and sauce arachide, gbofloto has only become a staple in our household in the past few years. As my siblings and I have grown up, and as our family’s been joined by new Ivorians in Champaign, I’ve seen my parents making a more conscious effort to connect us to their native country.

And so, my mother showed me how to mix flour, water, yeast, sugar, nutmeg, vanilla, and baking powder. She showed me how to add the right amount of water, how to knead the dough, and how to heat the oven just a little to help the mixture rise. I used to be terrible at shaping the dough balls for frying, so I would leave that task to my mom while I scooped up the fully cooked gbofloto into a large bowl.

After enough batches, I could make the dish on my own from start to finish.

At this point, making gbofloto has become my signature contribution to family gatherings. For any birthday party or holiday, my aunts and uncles can expect me to bring fresh gbofloto. My most dramatic uncle will do a dance and sing its praises.

Success at making gbofloto makes me feel like a real Ivorian, like I’m tapping into some ancestral know-how and I’ve succeeded when I find the right consistency so the dough will pour smoothly but won’t drip. I’ve succeeded when I knead the dough until my arm aches and the dough stretches between my fingers like chewing gum. The most satisfying thing is coming back after an hour of letting the dough rise to see it’s nearly overflowing with bubbles; the better the dough rises, the fluffier and more delicious the gbofloto will be. If the dough is flat or there’s not enough sugar, I can almost see some great-grandmother shaking her finger at me.

Making gbofloto is a piece of Ivorian culture that feels like mine. I love providing something that reminds people of home, of their childhood. We have a tradition whenever we have a big gathering of taking pictures of the food to show all the people back home that we still eat good here in the States. Yes, there’s still attieke avec poisson grillé, bissap and ginger juice, and crispy, fluffy gbofloto. We want to show them that we haven’t lost our culture. It's the same way my siblings and I are congratulated if we can string together a sentence in French as if to say we still know who we are.

At the same time, making gbofloto is a piece of Ivorian culture that doesn’t feel problematic. It’s not something I feel pressured to cook to prove I’m a good Ivorian girl who’ll be able to feed her kids. It has nothing to do with hiding rainbow stickers or pretending to be straight. Making a gbofloto is a tradition I proudly and joyfully honor, one small way I can enjoy serving my family and friends. I can be okay with not being “as Ivorian” as my parents, I can embrace being both American and West African.

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