Diet Patrol Haiku

I like Weetabix
Dissolves in milk, mushy, fresh
Healthful comfort food

Peaches zero points
I should eat some every day
Kids get to them first

Mother-in-law cooked
Sheep yogurt soup with lamb, rice
I took a salad

Go to bed hungry
Not such a terrible thing
Think of starving kids

Resistance!

My daughter's best friend has transferred to another school for next year's term. Such is the life in this city of transferring students, where folks are always looking for a better way, a better curriculum, a better chance for their kids to have najah, or success. We hate to see her go.

Today was a tearful day for my daughter. They had a small party--the last of its kind before the tedium of exam taking begins. I made her some peanut butter-oatmeal-chocolate cookies. I did not eat a single one. That took some serious willpower. I just kept drinking water and I snacked on half of a matzo from Palestine, and a little Arabic cheese. Yummy yum. There's no snack tastier than a cardboardish wafer, I say. The girls, however, enjoyed the cookies today.

Anyway, I was thinking that posting this recipe is a good idea, for those moms out there who have to make something last-minute, and who do not want to turn on the oven. Did I mention these cookies are also no-bake? Did I mention I'm dieting (again) ?

NO-BAKE Peanut Butter-Oatmeal Cookies
2 cups sugar
1/4 cup cocoa
1/4 cup butter
1/2 cup milk
2 1/2 cups regular oats, uncooked
3/4 cup crunchy peanut butter (or smooth)
2 tsp. vanilla extract

Combine sugar, cocoa, butter, and milk in a heavy saucepan; stir well. Cook over medium heat until mixture comes to a boil; boil 1 minute. Stir in oats, peanut butter, and vanilla. Drop dough by heaping teaspoonfuls onto lightly greased wax paper; cool thoroughly. Yield: around 4 dozen.

Sawdust Special

Once again, why can't these confections taste good? I mean, it is a wedding, after all.

This time I did not even try the cake. I've learned the hard way.

In America a cake this size would cost a fortune. I remember the cakes from Klingler's European Bakery...oh my, they were delicious. And costly. And worth it.

The groom was so happy. We're so happy for him. He didn't care much about the cake.

A Lull

After the wedding festivities, a Saturday BBQ for the entire family, including new bride and groom, and yesterday's "Independence Day" in Jordan, I'm ready for a respite.

Now it is time to get geared up for the testing grind, which will begin today and end sometime in mid-June. I'll come up for air once the older two have finished all of their exams.

Al Ajnabiya, I'm sending you cheese. I'll let you know, inshaAllah, when the cheese courier leaves Amman.

Walking for a Cure

My dear friend in Seattle, WA, will walk 60 miles in three days this coming September, to raise money for breast cancer research. Her Aunt passed away last month at the young age of 50; breast cancer was the cause. Please visit her page and donate. Help her reach her goal.

My mother is a breast cancer survivor and has been cancer free for over seven years. She used to go for radiation treatments on her lunch break, then return to work in a busy, high-stress office environment. My mom is sixty-seven years old , but runs an office like a young university graduate. She is a strong, determined woman, who by the will of God discovered she had breast cancer when it was in its early stages.

At age 35, I have already had a base-line mammogram and sonogram, and will continue to do so each year. Not every woman has the means to do this, however; we must make our health care affordable and accessible! We must put ourselves first on our lists.

Go view my buddy's page. Each one of us can contribute to finding a cure for breast cancer--this taker of mothers, wives, and daughters.

Bad for the Eyes, Good for the Thighs

This is a lengthy post and I've written it more for myself, for proof of my sacrificing ways. I might need this later when the kids are older.

This morning my eyes look like little squinty slits.

Yesterday was a prime example of the difficulty one may face when planning for any sort of semi-formal event in Jordan. The forty-five year old brother-in-law who is finally cutting the proverbial apron strings and embarking on a new life as a husband is/was the catalyst for all of yesterday's mayhem.

My search for tasteful clothing to wear to his wedding began two days ago, when I ventured out alone to a smaller mall that is known for having decent prices and a good selection. The first thing I tried on, I thought, "I can make this work. I can live with this," but the price made me choke and gag because the quality was just not there! I left without making any purchases related to my reason for shopping; I did buy an iced coffee for myself and a dozen donuts for my kids.

Yesterday's quest began early. I was at the mall when its doors opened. I found a store that sells only high-end Turkish clothing. The sales gal was very helpful, and I was ecstatic she was not a smoking man. She asked me my size. I told her. She gathered all sorts of outfits that were lovely and tasteful. I tried the first one on. It was not my size. I tried the second; again, not my size. I gave them back to her. She asked again, politely, what my size was. I added four additional numbers to the original size I had told her. (It's alright; I needed a reality check.) She brought my back the same clothing in my 'new' size. The first thing I tried on worked. She was honest. She did not make me feel like an old hag, complimented me on my bleach-stained sports pants she saw hanging on the hook, and asked me if I'd teach her English. She found my Arabic "cute" and "entertaining." I found her helpfulness absolutely priceless. Cha-ching, purchase made. And a fez tip to the Turkish, who know how ladies are built.

I quickly found shoes to match, jumped in the car and stopped by the supermarket. I ran home and put on the beginnings of lunch, ran back out and picked up child #4 from pre-school, then ran back home to check on lunch, then ran back out to pick up child #3 from her school. I drank three glasses of water and waited for the other kids to arrive.

Once lunch was finished and everyone was home, it was time to get ready for baseball practice, where they were having a good-bye gathering for one of the players and his Dad, who is also one of the coaches. Such is the life of embassy employee ex-pat types, who are bound to be re-assigned to new places. I left the Lone Ranger at practice and took the three girls to find shoes for the little ones and an entire outfit for the older one. We lucked out at "Special Italian Shoes," a store whose name always makes me laugh, as if the shoes are somehow learning disabled--either that or the shoes are for learning disabled Italians. The little girls were finished, with outfits completed, since their aunt had already sent them beautiful dresses from America several months back. Way to think ahead, sister!

This left the Lone Ranger and Oldest Daughter. She is in that in-between stage where she is young enough to be called a "girl" but old enough to wear something a bit mature. We walked and walked and walked, roaming in and out of stores carrying the most tasteless clothing. When we did find something suitable, it was either too big or too 'old.' Fruitless.

It was time to pick up Lone Ranger from practice/pizza party sendoff. We found him sweaty and full of pizza. We drove home, dropped off the two girls whose task had been completed, and flew to the nearest mall we had not yet visited. We found Oldest Daughter's ensemble in an American store whose clothing line is well-known and who just so happened to be having a sale, reducing its prices to almost affordable. She looked like a princess and I had to turn away quickly and bite my lip to fight back tears. By this time my bleach-stained sports pants were soaked with sweat, because we had literally been running for hours on end.

Three down, one to go. We meandered from store to store, trying to find a simple outfit for the boy. Everything was either for preschoolers or gelled teenagers, of which my son is neither. Farouq was limping from having pulled a muscle at practice, and he said he'd wear his old jeans to the wedding--he just did not care. I persisted. Finally I found myself drawn to a suit store. I asked the man if he carried suits for boys. He told me he did not, but a neighboring mall did, and he even knew which floor it was on. Thank you, helpful suit store man.

Back in the car, to a different mall. By this time it was already past my kids' bedtime. I was feeling shaky. We rounded the corner of the food court and found the store the man had described. I saw the prices hanging from the suits and was taken aback but I told the man, "We want a suit for my son." We found a beautiful grey one. Shirt, tie, everything. Alterations being done today, will pick up this evening. He looked so handsome standing there in his baseball cap, dirt-stained face, and brand new suit. Again, I fought back tears. The salesman felt sorry for me. I asked him if he had any idea how much money I had shelled out since 10 a.m. that day, just to get myself and four kids ready for a two-and-a-half hour event. He knocked an additional 30 JD off the price.

Today I have the remnants to buy--shoes for the boy, some accessories. Oldest Daughter kept telling me, "Remember, it's for Uncle Akram." But it really isn't. It's for them. Me. Us.

Thighs are aching, eyes are squinty, but we're going to look smashing.

Every day a beginning

I used to play this song over and over again. We did not have this particular 45 but we had the soundtrack to A Star is Born. Circa 1977. I was five years old, and that was most likely the last time I enjoyed attending a wedding, when my uncle got married.
No, wait, I do distinctly remember boogying down at my sister's wedding to The Doobie Brothers' China Grove.
Anyway, I'll be attending my brother-in-law's wedding on Thursday, where we won't be serenaded by the likes of the Barbmeister.

Desperate Measures

This explains a lot of mischief that occured when our late cat William was still alive. I'm glad we did not have a porcelain gnome outside of our door. William is the same cat who fashioned himself a hammock out of our kitchen window screen.

Snack--Back to my Roots

photo: Southern Living Magazine

I grew up eating something I believed to be called "paminna cheese." We ate it on sandwiches, celery sticks, crackers. Most of the time we bought the ready-made kind in the deli section of the grocery store. (now that I think about that stuff...ick!) When I got braces as an adult and was in great pain, unable to bite into anything, this stuff sustained me.

My grandmother used to make a batch of it at Thanksgiving, where we'd see it displayed atop the celery sticks. This was probably the one time a year I could devour several stalks of celery in a single day.

I honestly did not know that its true name was pimiento cheese until I was much older and had started studying the Spanish language. You know, pimiento means "pepper," which made it quite clear that the red stuff in a tiny jar my mother used to buy and put into the mixture was actually the pimiento part of the spread. If you are not from the southern part of the United States, you have not yet experienced the way southerners can take a simple looking word and turn it into something completely different. Case in point: pimiento=paminna. Say them aloud. Are they remotely related? You decide.

I made a big bowl of it on Friday and put it with our Friday breakfast. If you've never attended an Arabic-style breakfast, the utensils we use are loaves of bread. The only spoons I ever put on the breakfast table are the ones for stirring tea. We are scoopers and dippers.

Anyway, my kids went nuts for it. My husband likes it, too. If you've never made it, give it a try. It's a true comfort food and makes a great summertime lunch; it's also a big hit at those potluck luncheons when you do not have lots of time to prepare anything.

Pimiento-Cheese Spread

• 1 nice-sized block (8 oz.) of sharp cheddar cheese--the sharper, the better--finely shredded


• 3 tbsp. mayonnaise, Hellmann's if it is available, but others may substitute (adjust mayo according to your liking)


• 2 to 8 dashes of Tabasco or other hot sauce, depending on your preference


• 1 beautiful sweet red pepper, diced--I do this the day before, sprinkle a little salt on the diced-up pepper and cover to allow the lovely sweetness to come out


• dash or two of black pepper

Mix until the mayonnaise no longer looks like mayo; the final product will be bright orange with red specks all throughout, and it is a thickish consistency. For the perfect sandwich, choose a thick bread you can toast lightly. Sahtain wa a'afiyah.

The Best Part of Waking Up...

is, well, just waking up. I'm increasingly thankful for each day that comes, by Allah's permission.

The second best part of waking up is (non-coffee drinkers, you are excused from reading further) : coffee.

Especially the kind brought to us by traveling friends from afar, who made room in their luggage for 1.49 kilograms of ground delight.

And yes, it's Folger's, so you can sing that little jingle now.

Diaspora

Today is Blog about Palestine Day.

The following quote was taken from the war diary of David Ben Gurion, the first Prime Minister of the State of Israel: “The strategic objective [of the Jewish forces] was to destroy the urban communities, which were the most organized and politically conscious sections of the Palestinian people. This was not done by house-to house fighting inside the cities and towns, but by the conquest and destruction of the rural areas surrounding most of the towns. This technique led to the collapse and surrender of Haifa, Jaffa, Tiberias, Safed, Acre, Beit-Shan, Lydda, Ramleh, Majdal, and Beersheba. Deprived of transportation, food, and raw materials, the urban communities underwent a process of disintegration, chaos, and hunger, which forced them to surrender.”

The day the Jewish forces entered the part of Jerusalem where my husband's mother was born, she and her sister had been doing the family's laundry. Situated at a prime location in at-Toor, or the Mt. of Olives, their house held a view of the valley below, including the pathway from the top of the mountain that still winds down into the heart of the Old City. My mother-in-law was nineteen that year--the year of the catastrophe.

Her first instinct was to flee. She dropped the aluminum laundry tub where she was standing, grabbed her sister's hand, and began running down the path eventually leading to al-Aqsa mosque. Shots were being fired in all directions, making it impossible to determine who was shooting whom. They ran, cowering down as low as they could, frightened by this uncertainty and chaos in their neighborhood--perhaps the most religiously diverse and significant stretches of road in all of the Holy Land. They reached the gates of the convent run by the silent order of French Carmelite Sisters. My mother-in-law told me that these nuns used to cover their faces. These nuns provided the frantic and scared young girls a place to hide for nearly two days. She has never forgotten the sisters' benevolence.

When she and her sister Fatima left the convent and returned safely to their house, the gunshots had ceased, and the clothes they had dropped had rusted from sitting wet in the aluminum tub. The world had also changed.

My mother-in-law grew up in the Mt. of Olives speaking Arabic, Hebrew, and Spanish. Her best friends and neighbors were Jews whose origins were Spanish; they were Sephardic or from el Sefardim. Some of the Sephardic Jews boast ancestors dating back to their expulsion from Spain by the Crown in 1492. My mother-in-law roamed the markets with her Spanish-speaking friends, bought vegetables from Hebrew-speaking merchants, recognized Shabbat with her neighbors who would invite her to share their Saturday meals. Her father was much loved among the Jews in Mt. of Olives; when he died, his janazah was attended by more Jews than Arabs. My mother-in-law grew up blissfully unaware of any ideological differences between her family and the families living harmoniously around her. In fact, just last year her most loved childhood friend, now an Israeli, then just a neighbor, came looking for her. She was so happy to find out that my mother-in-law is still alive, although not living in at-Toor.

My mother-in-law is blessed to have been born in a location so dear to the three Abrahamic faiths. No real destruction of any kind has taken place in the Mt. of Olives; it is still one of the most attractive tourist destinations for people from all over the world. Her brother still owns and lives in the home in which they were born, which boasts the most magnificent view of the Dome of the Rock. The Church of the Ascension and the Church of Mary Magdalene are just blocks away from my mother-in-law's childhood home; the silent order of nuns are still where they were in 1948. Not much has changed. They are among the lucky few.

I once called in a radio program hosted by a prominent right-winger in Alabama. They were interviewing a Palestinian intellectual who had come to Birmingham to speak about the Palestinian issue. This was pre 9/11, but in Alabama one could be hard pressed to find a sympathetic general audience willing to listen to anyone who criticizes Israel and its sovereignty, much less the US government's policies regarding the state of Israel. You know, it's the only democracy in the Middle East.

Anyway, the radio host was taken aback by my analogy (and this may sound cliché) of the Mexican Army marching into Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, and California, wiping out cities and towns, setting up its own government, denying all property owners the rights to their homes or lands, stripping the people of their citizenship, and expelling them into places that do not want them. I asked him if he thought any American in his right mind would just bow down and concede, or would it be expected for every able body to take up arms against his oppressor. "Whoa now, you sound like you're for them," he said to me.

For them. The Palestinians. One of the most displaced populations in the world. They constitute one of the largest diasporas, around six million. Six million. Six million. Six million. Six million.

Diva and The Jo Men

This, from Umm Zaid. It's all so true.

One admitted fault exposed here, one that even I cannot cover or explain away, however, is the inexplicable fondness of young men for Celine Dion. The women suffer from it too, but it’s more pardonable in a woman. It is very… interesting to go to a cafe in the richest area of town, and the young Arab kids (Jordanians, Gulfies) go “Oooh” and smile and mouth the words when the world’s favorite Canadian chanteuse comes on the track. Or when you walk past a store tended by a young pointy haired, pointy shoe’d guy (ie, the epitome of cool style here) and he’s blasting Celine. I’m not kidding.

Does anyone remember (maybe 8 years back?) that SNL actress who played Celine? I used to laugh like there was no tomorrow. Wait, I still do.

Liar, Part Deux

I wrote part one a long time ago.

I do not want to find anything out about you. I want to make no new discoveries. I am not a CSI wannabe. I do not deliberately investigate. Facts just fall into my lap, time and time again. Most of the time I keep them to myself, but sometimes I just want to expose you, not in a vicious way, but enough to let you know that I know.

I know!

I also know that it is pity you seek, although you claim otherwise. You want to paint this picture of your life for those who have not already been down that exhausting path with you. Paint that picture, go ahead. For what it is worth, I do not pity you.

I told someone the other day that 22,000 + people in Myanmar are not dead because they made innumerable bad choices or lacked life skills. I pity those victims of natural disaster. I pity those without a handful of rice to sustain them. I pity those whose lives--wrought with real struggle, who searched for a new day, a new opportunity, living under a despotic regime--were cut short. People drinking sewage or mothers whose babies will die from dysentery. They deserve pity.

I pity the Palestinians whose struggles I am waiting to write about--the ones with no decent living conditions, land deeds that hold no legal value, fathers who have buried their sons, mothers who have buried their husbands, entire families whose homes have been wiped out by the bulldozer or bodies caught in a crossfire. I pity those children who are brilliant but have no one to teach them, the voices that must be heard but are continually muzzled by the power of their occupier. They deserve pity.

Your trivialities are just that. Trivial.

But I keep you in my supplications.

However, please wake up. The time is now to be thankful.

Regalito

I am not sure if I can call what happened to me yesterday serendipitous, because it wasn't really a discovery.

I suppose it was just a heartfelt surprise gift.

I am waiting for something to happen to me that can be termed serendipitous, because I like the word. It can be its own line in a Haiku.

Anyway.

My friend picked me up to go to a lesson yesterday morning, and handed me a card she'd been waiting to give me for a week. In it was a little note, basically telling me that I work too hard and to take time out for myself; along with the sentiment was a gift certificate for a massage, and an offer to drive me to massage venue if necessary.

I love her!

Stretch marks, anyone?

I spoke to a baseball Dad yesterday at the game whose mother delivered babies for sixteen years straight: each year beginning in 1964, and ending in 1980, his mom had a child. He jokingly said, "Finally, she decided to take a break."

And we dare to ponder why paradise is at the feet of the mother.

Daughters Marching

Those little girls I used to teach have grown up.

From me they begrudgingly learned about the Great World Wars, latitude and longitude, the capital of French Guiana, how to take notes while listening to the teacher speak, and the lunacy of Henry VIII.

Do all kids innately detest Social Studies? If they hated it when they came to my class, I think they left liking it, just a bit.

I miss those days--those pre-9/11 days when we viewed and lived in the world differently. I miss sharing funny stories with my class; I miss clutching the podium while standing before them, wanting to shout to the rooftops, encouraging them to change the world with their words and actions, to not miss opportunities to learn, to travel, to experience.

I've already attended the wedding of one of my special girls from those days long gone. I'm invited to another wedding this summer in Beirut, Lebanon. Another one of them is landing in Amman tonight, and I can't wait to see her. I used to sit and grade their reports, correct their ESL spelling and grammar tendencies, and think, "What is going to become of them?" By the grace of God, they have come into their own, found their ways, made their marks, marched on.

I have three biological daughters but I had many, many more back there, in that little school I poured my heart into. I still have the trophy they gave me when I left the school, the one that reads, "You have taught us more than you will ever know."

The same goes for you all, my daughters.

Time to get on this one!

Halal Gumbo

I love these young Muslims in America who are making waves and who can write coherent paragraphs!

I found this new site, (new to me), Egyptian Gumbo. Check it out. She's a Louisiana gal, too. I loved this hijab challenge she started on the LSU campus, and I love the enthusiasm that her words carry.

Go, girl, go! Keep on writing.

Tuesday's Ruby

I found this interesting blog on one of my favorite topics: food. This site, however, does not post recipes for heart-healthy pasta dishes or homemade jams. Instead, it discusses how we Americans are eating ourselves right into our graves, and highlights various "favorites" at restaurants near you.

We are poisoning ourselves.

I spoke to a woman today at baseball practice who is convinced that by passing on the donuts, she is adding years to her life. I cannot disagree with her.

And it really grossed me out that eating a plate of these is equivalent to eating 14 Krispy Kremes.

We've been duped. Or have we just been plain dumb?

Aqaba Bullets

My kids found coral everywhere.

It's a bulleted list! Contain your excitement.

• Aqaba, like so many places in/parts of Jordan, has great unreached potential.
• One should not hop on a bus during a three-day weekend in Jordan and assume he will find a hotel room for a family of six once getting off said bus in Aqaba.
• My concept of what hotel room prices should be is stuck back somewhere in 1982.
• The calamari in the Floka Seafood Restaurant was not fresh. But the shrimp was.
  
• The water was more brilliant and clear than I ever could have imagined.
  
• Shoes must be worn when entering the water; otherwise, one will surely step on an urchin, starfish, piece of coral, or get tripped up on the slimy sea lettuce.
• Sea lettuce is everywhere. I could not find any sea cucumbers to go with, however.
• The Mövenpick hotel was calling my name. One day, inshaAllah, one day.
• Three days of irregular coffee drinking habits (i.e., deprivation) did a number on my digestion. It was only when we pulled away in the bus to return to Amman that we spotted Gloria Jean's Coffee, after being disappointed in finding a closed Cinnabon. Why would a Cinnabon close down in the center of a bustling touristic city?
  
• No good places for breakfast; this is an idea that needs exploring. All of those German and Italian tourists we saw surely want more than a falafel sandwich in the morning. Oh, unless they're staying at the Movenpick. That must be it. Buffets and all.
  
• Aqaba needs more fun evening activities for children, or am I thinking too much about Destin or Ft. Walton Beach, or even Cocoa Beach? Go-carts, anyone?
  
• For the children to truly be able to swim in Aqaba, they need a pool.
• There is no greater satisfaction than taking a nap on the shore while the wind sweeps over you and that salty-fishy-coastal air moistens your lungs.
• I need someone who is willing to snorkel with me in hijab to accompany me next time.
• I think I could make that swim to Palestine and/or Egypt from where we were sitting. (You can see the city of Eilat, Palestine, and Taba, Egypt, from Aqaba. Amazing!)
  

The Smell of the Sea

I did not make it to Damascus this weekend, but made it here instead.

I just finished washing all of the formerly living sea creatures and uninhabited shells. I was amazed at the abundance of tide pools in Aqaba, and my children were delighted to play on the shore for hours on end, collecting all sorts of items.

I have lots to say about Aqaba but will save that for tomorrow. I'm a little sun/wind burned and ready to put my head on a soft pillow.