The Green Thumb, before it's in a Glove

Here is what grew in our garden this year. Thought I'd post the pics before the Jordanian winter is in full force. Brrrrrr. Am including the cat for posterity because I honestly don't know how much longer he'll be around (high cat mortality rate in these parts).

Sir William, "Willie" the Cat. We tried to make a decent kitty out of him, but he's gone "dumpster" on us. He also destroyed our kitchen screen and fashioned himself a kitty hammock.

Citronella, keeps the skeeters away. Can also be used as a flavoring in rice pudding (not joking!)
White roses o'plenty, in back of house.
Single white rose in front of house. Pansies in back corner.

The dahlia, from bulbs I bought in Amsterdam airport. It was so beautiful and there were more to come, but Willie had his way with it.Snapdragons. In Arabic they're called "Fish Mouths," or "Thum as-Sammakeh"
Red roses outside of kitchen door

The Nitty Gritty

Choctaw, Chickasaw, Cherokee, Creek!
Choctaw, Chickasaw, Cherokee, Creek!

That was the little cadence we learned in fourth grade to memorize the four main Native American tribes of Alabama. My textbook was called Know Alabama, and in fourth grade, I could have given a rip about the Alabama natives. I was forced to move to Alabama when my parents divorced, and I really resented it (having come from Merritt Island, FL, over the bridge from Cocoa Beach...Ron Jon Surf Shop!)

Anyhow there was some respite in my fourth grade misery: good southern cooking. I became a grits aficionada. There is nothing like a steaming hot bowl of cooked ground white corn, smothered in butter. It's soul food, comfort food, stick-to-the ribs wholesome goodness. But grits, like other southern foods, are mocked on the national scene. (do I need to mention chitterlings or collard greens?) They just have not 'caught on' as being a food worth trying, anywhere north of the Mason-Dixon line or West of Arkansas. Even when I went to Richmond, Virginia, former capital of the Confederacy, they were hard to find.

So, imagine my shock and elation when my dear friend, after taking a trip to the mountains in N. Syria (Axis of Evil!) with her family, brought me the most appreciated gift: a container of Jim Dandy slow-cook grits. How, perchance, did they end up in a family-owned Syrian baqalah? Allah only knows.

Where is this all going? Grits originated with the Native Americans. I'm proud to call myself 1/30th Cherokee! Thank you, thank you, for teaching the white man the corn grinding concept.

Now could someone please send me some?

Indecisiveness, and why did I miss the boat?

I can't decide on a template for this blog. I look at other blogs and it is obvious that the bloggers are computer-savvy, with all sorts of eye-catching designs. I, on the other hand, feel like I missed the boat, the S.S. Technologically Advanced. I want to learn html language, I really do! But I'm afraid of it.

It's like once when I was watching Jay Leno, many years ago, he was telling a story about his parents. He finally got them to get rid of their humongo console TV that sat on the floor (the ones you put your family pictures on top of) and he bought them a super deluxe new color TV with a remote control. Every time he'd go over to their house, he'd say, "Ma, where's the remote?" and she'd say, "I leave it in the drawer. I'm afraid it'll start a fire."

That about sums up my experience with web design of any sort. I'm afraid my computer will just burst into flames because of my incapabilities. So for right now, I'm sticking to pre-fab templates.

Some comments from another blog

I was reading over at Bin Gregory's blog, where they were having a very heated debate about culture clashing with Islam. Here is the comment I made:
Assalamu Alaikum
Reading about all of these cultural rights and wrongs, Sunnah vs. not sunnah, etc., brings to mind a halaqa I attended once, in which our teacher said something that will always stay with me.
Because our halaqa is comprised of mainly Westerners, and our teacher is an Arab who has lived in the West, we have many gripe sessions about the bad adab of the Arabs and the innumerable screwed up cultural practices (like the 3-day Bayt Azzah where everyone sits for hours and eats Mensaf). Our teacher graciously listens to us most of the time, without condemning our flare for, as someone mentioned above, beating a dead horse.
So one day while someone was complaining about being pushed around in a line–I think it was to get a passport or some necessary red tape document–our teacher said, “Let me tell you something. American society on the whole is polite. You go into a store, people greet you. You wait in line in a bank until it is your turn, without pushing or shoving or trying to see the person’s transaction in front of you. Kids in public schools are not typically hanging out windows or calling their teachers “Haywan.” Do you want to know why? Because Shaytan does not have to whisper in their ears. He does not have to tempt them constantly to commit the unforgivable sin. His work with them is finished, so they inherently have better adab. They can fight some of the smaller battles of the nafs and be victorious, because they have already commited shirk, and what more does Shaytan want from them? Nothing.” (of course, paraphrased)
Meanwhile, Ahmed bin so-and-so is not on shirk. He proclaims La illaha ill-Allah, Muhammad ar-Rasull-Allah, and has won the greatest battle over Shaytan. But he can’t stand in a line, he loses his temper if someone cuts him off on the road, he sometimes screams ugly insulting words at his wife or kids.
Therefore, all of these “Muslim” societies have the greatests tests from their Lord, chiefly adhering to the prescribed Muslim Character. And they fail, most of the time. So it’s not so much a matter of culture as it is of what Shaytan wants from us.

On this side of the King Hussein Bridge

Assalamu Alaikum
For the last several months we've been having water problems in our building. We have tanks that hold 5 1/2 meters of water, which should be more than enough for our family of 6, plus the small patch of grass outside. For those of you not familiar with the Jordanian water system, it's like this: The water comes once or twice a week from the municipality's water source. It is pumped up to tanks that sit on the top of one's roof. Once you've used your water for the week, that's it...you just have to wait till the water comes again.

Well, the water has not been coming to our building as it should. There are many plumbing reasons for this about which I will not elaborate. So here I sit, unable to take a shower, having to make wu'du from a cup of water. An inconvenience? You betcha.

The kitchen has dishes piled up that I can't wash, and I have greasy hair, not to mention that general discomfort that comes with not being able to take a shower when one wants.

Since I've become a blog reader over the last six months, I like to check out new blogs and then go to the blogger's blogroll to see which new ones I have not yet read. I just came from Sabbah's blog, where I watched a slide show about the Beit Hanoun massacre that took place Nov. 1.

Please do not watch the slide show if you do not want to see graphic pictures. However, it was a big dose of reality that I needed to see. I'm out of water. Waaah, wah, wah. I am sitting 1 1/2 hour's drive away from Beit Hanoun, quite comfortably in my living room, at my computer that has DSL, with a belly full of dinner, coffee, and dessert. I feel a little scruffy and uncomfortable. BUT I AM NOT IN FEAR OF HAVING MY CHILDREN SLAUGHTERED in the street, or my house plowed down, or the masjid where my husband prays 'isha prayer pummeled into rubble and the alley filled with blood.

When my water eventually comes, and the problem gets fixed, I'll be able to water my plants, bathe my kids, and clean the kitchen as I please. But the men, women, and children of Occupied Israel will continue to face torture, slaughter, and a general living hell on a daily basis.

Meanwhile, my in-laws in Palestine (not Gaza!) say, and have said for the past six years, "Why don't you come for a visit? You have your American passport, it's fun, it's nice, 'aand al Yayud fee kul ishi," (on the Yahudi side there is everything), bragging about the quality of life the Israelis have, and the perks of being Israeli passport holders.

And on the Arab side? Slums, filth, depression, degredation of a society, loss of hope, a dumbing down of the children by withholding proper education from them. The one time I DID go there, in 2000, I met scores of people in al Quds who wanted to be more "like the Yahud." Their neighborhoods are nicer, their weddings are more 'civilized,' their social services attractive. Who wouldn't want to be like them? I even met a Muslim woman who not only made fun of me for wearing hijab, but who lived 1/2 mile up the hill from Masjid al-Aqsa, and said, braggingly, "In all my life, I've never stepped foot in it." Please, spare me the praise about their way of life being superior; I've had my fill of Muslims in sheep's clothing.

Right now I have no water. But tomorrow I probably will. And inshaAllah will still have a roof over my head and a life full of choices. Many of my brothers and sisters in Islam, just a short journey's away in the West Bank, will not.

Whew!! This one will make you sweat

Br. Umar Lee has a super heated discussion on his blog, regarding race relations among Muslims, superiority of whiteness, (astaghfirAllah), and the taboo issues you won't hear addressed in a khutbah in the US. Take the time to read the comments if you can.

Things I Will not Complain About

If I ever complained about these things in America, and if by the will of Allah I ever return to America (even for a visit!), I will not complain about the following:

1. public restrooms, even in a raunchy truck stop or rest area
2. visits to the DMV to renew licenses or tags
3. government hospitals, teaching hospitals
4. waiting in line (why? because it's a LINE, not a mob)

I have just spent two days in a government hospital with my mom-in-law, who underwent her first surgery ever, and she's almost 80 years old. Let's just hope it's her only surgery, inshaAllah.

Mis Planes II

When I met my future husband, I thought he was Hispanic. What better way to practice my language skills! Chitty-chat with the kitchen help! When I asked him, "Hey, where're ya from?" he just looked up briefly from his work, and said, "Someplace overseas."

Oh, I know that country well. OVERSEAS. Isn't that someplace over yonder, across the ocean, where they speak that other language? Could he be, perhaps, from the Dark Continent? A desert tribal member come to seek his fortune in the land of opportunity, in the BBQ capital of the southern states? How did he get here? Why did he choose this place--this city, the one I so longed to escape from, but kept coming back to?

(Which brings to mind an uncle I have, who lives in the most hideously ugly of all southern cities: Montgomery, AL. He once said, in front of a large group, "Now why anyone would want to live anywhere else in the world besides Montgomery, I just can't figure out." Vancouver, Paris, Prague, Rio de Janeiro, Beijing...you don't hold a candle to Montgomery, Alabama!!)

I finally wrangled out of him the information I wanted. He was from Kuwait, born in Jordan, but Palestinian. That was before I understood the "I am a Jordanian passport holder but I am a Palestinian by birth" reality. To me, Palestinians = Philistines who were the enemies of David and supporters of Goliath. People from Kuwait were Muslims, I knew that, and I had known some Muslims growing up. Actually, I had spent many a night in my good friend Tanya ElDareer's house, whose Dad was Egyptian. All I remembered about his being a Muslim was that once a year Tanya would complain at school about how ornery he was because he was fasting all day.

Oh yes, and before my uncle had become a staunch Montgomery Man, he had once dated a beautiful woman named Hala who was a Christian Palestinian and whose family owned the Pita Stop Cafe in Birmingham. We had high hopes for him to marry Hala, with her big brown eyes and talent for making baklava.

My brother also once brought home a Lebanese friend from University. His name was Tawfiq. They were taking French together, and he taught my brother all sorts of not-so-nice words in Arabic. He even got him a shirt made that displayed my brother's name, Ra-Ba-Ra-Ta, in Arabic. To this day, my brother can say "My car won't start," in Arabic, something he is proud to have retained from his friendship with Tawfiq.

Those were my meager connections with the Arab world. The door to that world was about to be blown off its hinges.

There is a reason I don't read this stuff

So I'm sitting here browsing for an article about Keith Ellison, who just won a House seat from a "liberal" district in MN, and is the first Muslim elected to Congress. Allahu Akbar. The first search result that came up was entitled "CAIR's candidate wins," so I clicked on it, thinking I'd read some inspiring info. Instead I got this:

Keith Ellison

There is a reason I cannot sit and read these kinds of comments. My blood boils and I get all out of sorts. Watch your synagogues? Your traffic laws? Your women? Really who are these people? Are these the folks who smiled at me when I lived in the US, went to the DMV, got my prescriptions filled, went to the supermarket, took my children to the park, innocently thinking that they were not out to harm me? Are these representatives of the average Americans, perhaps even some of my own relatives?

Cambios Hermosos!

I can't help watching the news with a giant grin on my face. It may be premature, but it's at least a start to see the GOP's rule toppled.

EXCEPT, of course, in my home state! All four of Alabama's districts report GOP sweeping wins in the House...I'm talking a 60% + margin of victory!

It's funny, the good ol' boys used to be Democrats.

Sweet Home Alabama. Sigh.

Mis planes no siempre se quedan mis planes

Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Rahim


When I think back 15 years or so, and take a self-inventory of the person I was vs. the person I am right now, it's mind-boggling, to say the least.

I'm not talking about looking at my jahiliyyah years as much as I am referring to the way that I think I have evolved on so many levels, the older I've gotten. I do know, however, some 40 + year olds who act like bigger adolescents than they did when they actually were adolescents and never hopped on the introspective bandwagon, but hopefully they are rarities.

As a 19 year old and in my sophomore year of University, I got married. I went from being a kid in my mom's house, to a college student 9 hours' drive from home, back to being kid at mom's house who transferred to Univ. in hometown, to being someone's WIFE, in a matter of 16 months. In my youth I was extremely goal-oriented, over-achieving, competitive, outgoing, and the last thing on my mind was marriage. Marriage?!?! What bigger wrench to throw in my path to success, my long-term goals, my preservation of me.

I was a serious student of the Spanish language; I had traveled to Mexico on an exchange and had big plans to do more extensive travel/studying abroad. I was told by teachers that I had a gift for the language; it flowed off of my tongue with ease and I excelled in writing and in reading both peninsular and Latino literature. In high school I had memorized poems by Gabriela Mistral and recited them in front of university professors. I loved anything and everything associated with Latin culture, music, food, and I viewed myself as kind of Latina-at-heart. In University I "clepped" through all of the introductory levels in Spanish and moved sailingly to Culture and Lit classes; my professor even let me do an independent study of Cien Años de Soledad by Gabriel García Márquez, something he told me he had never let a non-native hispanohablante do.

My goals were these: finish the B.A., get the Masters, get the PhD, go work as a translator or University professor. I envisioned future summers, vacationing in Mallorca or Barcelona, writing books, becoming a literary critic, perhaps starting a school in rural Peru or Bolivia. The world was my oyster! I had dreams, big dreams.

The reality was this: I was severely depressed but did not know why; I was somewhat of a quitter, because after my first semester and a half, I quit school and moved back home. This was, of course, to the astonishment of those who loved and supported me. I remember waving goodbye to my dorm roommate, who stood on the sidewalk, dumbfounded. I transferred to the local University in my hometown, and got a job. It was at work where I met my chicken-cutting middle eastern mystery man of a future spouse.

Umrah Day 7

Disclaimer: **Not all of the women tried to sit on me or squeeze me out of my space while trying to pray in front of the ka’aba.**

The 7th day I decided to be brave and head down to the official Women’s Section that is directly in front of the ka’aba, on the ground floor. This is the section, some of you may recall, that was almost lost to the sisters in an effort to create more room for the men. While there are plenty of places for women to pray inside the masjid, this outside area is unique and I now understand why the sisters jumped on the issue quickly to stop the Saudi officials from taking it away.

We made tawwaf under the ‘asr sun, then my husband and I went our separate ways. It was around 3:30 in the afternoon. The women’s section probably has 50 designated rows, which by the time taraweeh came in, would turn into 75, at least.

Most sisters sitting here were thinkers; that is, they had the forethought to bring umbrellas to shade themselves from the blazing heat. I, sporting a long blackish (ultra thin, but felt like wool) prayer scarf and my abaya, was already soaked head to toe from having made tawwaf in the daylight hours. I dumped some water on my head which quickly evaporated, and I tried to sit and read Quran to pass the time, watching as the sun began to lower in the sky, behind 2 of the minarets.

Up walked several of the workers who deliver the large coolers of zam zam water to the different areas. Wouldn’t you know it, a large cooler was placed directly to my right. I could reach over without a strain and fill up cups, bottles, etc. “MashaAllah, I’m in a great spot,” I thought to myself. There was still about an hour to go before the adhan…

I spent that hour filling up cups and bottles for the sisters around me who could not reach the cooler and who did not dare rise from their seats for fear of losing them. During water duty, I started speaking to the sister next to me, who was Pakistani. She was from Karachi, and did not speak English, but we were able to carry along in Arabic pretty well. Sitting beyond her was another Pakistani sister, also from Karachi, who wore niqab and had hennaed hands. This sister had BAGS of food with her, and I marveled at how she was able to smuggle in all of those items without a door guard confiscating them. She had three thermoses of tea, one thermos of coffee, bags of bread and cheese, packages of cookies (which she later explained were for the female masjid workers), candies, powdered juice which she distributed in cups to all the sisters around her with the instructions: just add zam zam water and mix! Tang at the ka’aba. I asked her what her secret was, getting all this stuff in, and she said, “I hide under here and here,” pointing to her underarms. Here we had a true mujahiddeh, armed with sandwiches.

Now it was time for the food distribution. Suddenly small bags of dates were being hurled through the air, with eager hands catching them. Pakistani sister #2 started pouring coffee for those around her. She handed me bread and a triangle of soft cheese, and a cup of Tang powder. My iftar was set.

Behind me sat a tall Turkish woman, dressed in black, reading Quran. Her Quran was hers, not one of the Saudi issued ones, with transliterated Turkish at the bottom. It was dog-eared and obviously old. She moved forward a little so we could speak. “Turkiye?” I asked her. She said, “Na’am, Turkiye. Enti ?” “Amrikiyyah,” I replied. She smiled and told the lady next to her, “Amrikiyyah!!” who in turn tapped me on the shoulder, smiling from ear to ear, and said, “Ibn Texas! Texas!” trying to let me know that her son lived in Texas. Someone always has a son or daughter in Texas, don’t they?