If you ask any Zambian what’s for dinner, there is only one answer, Nshima. Pronounced without the ‘n’, Nshima is made from ground maize flour boiled with water and then paddled to create a thick dough that can be shaped into paddies. Zambia’s native cuisine is based around this dish, and it’s often accompanied by chicken or beef, or vegetable relishes.

Nshima has the consistency of a rather solid porridge, or a cross between a Japanese sticky bun and cornbread. It has a distinct texture more than it has a distinct taste, and it is the beef and tomato, or rape around it that supply the flavor. An adult will probably down at least three large paddies in a sitting. Like most staples, the dish serves as the filler yet not the source of flavor.

My first Zambian meal was a learning experience. On the night I arrived, we had tradition Zambian food cooked by Namsanga, our housekeeper. There was no silverware in sight, and I was quickly given a lesson that encompassed etiquette and technique. Before eating, we washed our hands; this was polite and also necessary because everything is eaten with the hands. Once served, the initial step is to tear off a small piece of Nshima from the larger paddy. It didn’t seem to bother anyone else that the white lump was steaming hot. Imagine picking up mashed potatoes that have just come off the stove. Next you roll the Nshima around between thumb and forefinger until it becomes a ball. With your thumb, you make an imprint as if you were making cookies and that’s where the jam filling was to go. Only instead of jam, you scoop up one of the relishes on your plate and take a bite.

My first mistake was trying to use both hands to eat. I was warned that this was a one-handed affair. Having grown up with a lefty’s sensitivity, I asked if it was poor form to eat with my preferred hand. My friend Gershom explained that, while my grandmother would have slapped my hand in an effort to make me use my right, it was okay nowadays.

At the end of the meal, I was full and my hand was covered in food. Instead of rushing off to wash again, I stared contently at the grease and hardened specks of Nshima encasing my fingers, relishing my introduction to this new type of food. Little did I know that our trip to a refugee camp beginning the next morning meant Nshima for lunch and dinner for almost a week straight. But that’s the Zambian way.