The bag of cassava flour was light beige, slightly more fine than corn meal. I’d bought it by mistake. Three pounds of it. I had no idea what to do with it. The package said it was from Nigeria so I went to ask an African friend, but she wasn’t home. Walking back to my car I noticed an African store. “Why not?” I thought, and swung in there with the big smile on my face that happens for some reason when I’m facing a long shot.