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.

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.

De Colores

Hubellubo.
My third child turned six years old on Friday. She requested a Rainbow Cake be made in her honor, so I happily obliged, but not until yesterday, when I actually felt safe driving to the store in the snow leftovers. My oldest daughter and I learned how to make this cake from an episode of Zoom, circa 2001. I loved Zoom (the original) and I was quite happy when PBS launched a modern version. Zoom was also responsible for teaching my older sister the language of Ubby Dubby (also spelled Ubbi Dubbi), which she has passed on to her children. Zoom is (was? is it still on PBS?) a powerhouse of entertainment and information, a pioneer in children's programming.

I give you the Rainbow Cake. This cake's theme is the bluegreens, not because we're partial to blues and greens, but because, much to my surprise, we had only two shades of food coloring in the pantry. Then I remembered, I lent my RED food coloring to a neighbor who was making red velvet cake. I never got it back. Ours is not an angel food cake; no one in this household likes cake that tastes like shrunken styrofoam.


Here are my two main colors: green and blue. I will mix these colors to make a third color: bluegreen, or if you feel like being fancy, aquamarine. Ignore the honey and peanut butter in the background; they have nothing to do with the cake.


We divided the batter into three different bowls, to make three colors. Mix thoroughly.


Layer the colors carefully, one on top of the other. You need a Bundt (a what? a Bundt! a bun? no, a Bundt! It's a cake! Oh, she made a CAKE! Look everyone, she made a CAAAAKE!) pan. It does not have to be humpy but what kind of Bundt pan has no humps? Does anyone remember that Bundt cake mix from the 80s that was called Tunnel of Fudge? That was my fave. I digress.


Once the cake has cooled completely, slice it in half to make two rainbow humps, and place them back to back on a large cake plate. Take your icing (I splurged and bought Duncan Hines but I usually do not) and divide it into three bowls, and make three different colors. Once again, the shades of blue...so we threw in some strawberries for pizazz. Ignore mound of dirty dishes in the background.


This is Child #3. She took her supply of M & M minis and dotted the cake with them. This kid is about to burst, she's so excited. I just love her.


Here are the inner workings of the cake. It has that tie-dyed look to it, which we thought was rather eclectic. The Eclectic Rainbow Cake. Make one for your kids, I guarantee they'll tuck the experience back into those unforgettable things we did for fun with mom memories. If you don't have kids, make one for yourself or your significant other. Or for your best friend. This cake is promised to fill the room with warm fuzzies.

We're gonna zoom, zoom, zooma-zoom,
We're gonna zooma zooma zooma, zoom...

These boots were made for walking (sort of)

My five (almost six) and three (almost four) year olds were pleased as punch with their new winter boots they donned for Eid. The decorative fur balls, however, ended up being deterrents to walking easily, coming unraveled and getting stepped on. I have one fur ball in my purse right now that needs to be sewn back on to one little grey boot.

Seeing my kindergartner all revved up about her boots reminded me of a time when I was a boot fancier. Mine, however, were a little less glam and a lot more, shall we say, proletariat? No, perhaps that is not the right word. I guess as a teenager I felt I had been born in the wrong decade, and I wore these boots proudly in an effort to symbolize something I couldn't really verbalize, much to the dismay of my school administrators and teachers. My 'rebel with an undefined cause' phase lasted about two years, during which I believed I was cool. Maybe I was.

Things I Learned in Episcopal Day School

A Handy (I still use it) Poem

Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November
All the rest have thirty-one,
Except February, alone, which has
Four and Twenty-Four
Till Leap Year gives it one day more.

________________________________________
A Mealtime Prayer

Lord, our God,
You love life
You feed the birds of Heaven
You clothe the lilies of the fields
We praise and thank you for all of your blessings
and for the food we are about to receive
We pray that no one shall be left without nourishment and care
Amen
________________________________________
A Song Sung by a Guitar-playing Nun

The Lord said to Noah,
"There's gonna be a flood-y, flood-y"
The Lord said to Noah,
"There's gonna be a flood-y, flood-y, so
Get those children
OUT OF THE MUDD-Y MUDD-Y!"
Children of the Lord.

Official Kick-Off

It is November 1.

It's the day after Halloween, a holiday that meant virtually nothing to me growing up. Just about every Halloween of my childhood, like clockwork, I would get sick, keeping me indoors, while every other child was outside doing that Halloween thing. My candy loot each year would therefore consist of whatever was not handed out to the trick-or-treaters who came to our apartment complex door.

Apartment complex kids are, (or were, at least in the 1980s when I grew up), very different from the children who grew up in individual houses and pumpkin-lined pretty-sidewalked-manicured-lawned streets. It is true, and if you grew up as a latch-key apartment dweller, you will understand what I mean. It is not that these kids are intrinsically bad, but they tend to be the ones from single-parent homes who, by default, do not receive the parental supervision they should. They are from the lower socio-economic backgrounds and are usually left to their own devices during the after school hours, which can lead to mischief. Lots of mischief.

Maybe my illnesses back then were all psychosomatic, because deep down inside I really didn't want to run with the complex hoodies on Halloween. My mom was not the type to go out and spend money on a costume, so I usually had something homemade/thrown together. (once, in 8th grade, I dressed up as a Lady of the Night. Yes, parental supervision at its best) The other hoodies were the same; the boys would run around in their normal Wrangler jeans and T-shirts, but don drugstore masks of Wolfman or Jason from Friday the 13th. Halloween to the hoodies was just an excuse to grab some candy, torment girls, and usually throw eggs at cars or toilet paper some one's trees.

I passed on the excitement. Sometimes I would even tell my mom not to answer the door, because if she opened it and kids saw I was hiding in my pajamas on the couch under a blanket, I'd be fodder for teasing.

"How come she's not out?" they'd ask.
"She has a fever/stomach ache/flu," she'd tell them.
"Who gets sick on Halloween?" I heard one boy say.

"Mom, just don't answer it!"

They'd keep knocking, ringing, pounding. They knew there was a candy bowl full of orange and black (what the heck were those, anyway?) paper-wrapped candies and maybe, just maybe, some Krackel miniatures, and we were inside hoping they would all disappear.

Eventually, they did. We grew up. Trick-or-treating in the apartments lost its luster, and we all got after-school jobs, so we could buy our own candy bars.

I did, however, always want to be Snow White.

The Synapses are a-Firing

During these last days of Ramadan, I've tried to be very pensive and introspective. Tried is the operative word here, because I find myself wondering how exactly it is that my brain works. Brain function and cognizance is truly a conundrum, a puzzle, a perplexity, and yes, a miraculously complex firing of energy. I used to think of myself as a deep thinker (for those of you who might remember Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy on SNL, not like that). I never wanted to think in pithy maxims, or speak in them, for that matter. I want to speak and be understood, and make sense in the process. Moreover, I want to be able to focus on the tasks at hand, and not be sidetracked by all of the distracting junkorama I have deeply embedded in my cerebrum. Or is it my frontal lobe? Or are they one in the same?

What am I talking about?

The other day someone told me I always took on the role of peacemaker in situations requiring such. That is this person's impression of me, with which I sometimes agree and sometimes do not. So, I was sitting on the couch thinking about what I needed to do with my day, and I kept contemplating this word...peacemaker, peacemaker.

This lead me to phase II of my associative thought process, which resulted in the phrase peace pigeon popping into my head. Go ahead and laugh, but I have been referred to as the peace pigeon in the family on more than one occasion. In Arabic there is no difference between a pigeon and a dove; they're both a hamam. (although in America, the connotation is typically that beautiful white doves will be released at a wedding, while pigeons will eat popcorn in the K-Mart parking lot) Hamam as-Salam. That's me. I remember laughing when my Arabic relative called me this in English. "You're such a peace pigeon," she told me, "always wanting to calm everyone down." Again, sometimes I agree with this statement, other times, not so much.

Peace pigeon..peace pigeon..peace pigeon...PEACE DOG. Yes, Peace Dog was the natural succession in my brain to peace pigeon. So I sat there, thinking, "Peace Dog? I know that from someplace...but I just can't place it...how about a Google?"

Went to computer, Googled "Peace Dog," saw that it was a song by the Cult and sung by Ian Astbury. I immediately had to go to YouTube and pull up a video. It's amazing how much of my youth I had blocked out, because I then remembered attending a concert of theirs in 1989. I am sure I was all dressed in black. (wait, I still dress in black!) I watched the one stupid video, not of Peace Dog but of She Sells Sanctuary. This was five nights ago. Unnecessary, unwelcome clutter in my brain.

Since then, I've awakened for the pre-dawn meal each morning around 4 a.m. As soon as my feet hit the floor and I prepare the food for my family, I hear the lyrics in my head...and the world, the world drags me down...and the world, the world drags me down.

The world does drag me down. And I want to go read Qu'ran.

Poems, Time Wasted, and Ramadan

So far the poems I have received are outstanding. Bravo, writers (and those who think they are not writers, but I know better).

I'm still hoping to get something from someone living in Asia, besides myself and the other gal (you know who you are). More specifically, somewhere outside of Jordan. Any takers? Anyone?

Anyhow, after I post the poems, I plan to take a small hiatus of sorts during Ramadan. I'll just have too much on my plate (or not!) and I need to do some introspection and have lots of quality family time.

I love Ramadan. I just love it. Last year I was making Umrah and it was amazing. That's also when I started this blog, or at least regular blogging. I feel as if I have 'met' so many talented, thoughtful, incisive brothers and sisters this year through this blogging venue. I have also had to learn how easy it is to get caught up in wanting to read everything everyone writes. I now know my limitations. I give myself one hour each morning, and one hour each evening, and still I think, gee, I know I could be doing many more productive things with my two hours I give to blogging/blog reading. It's almost tragic. Strike that, it IS tragic.

So today I joined a sisters' challenge to memorize the first five ayat of Surat al-Mulk from the Qu'ran during Ramadan. Five ayat. Not much. In order to accomplish this, however, I know that if I turn my computer on, I must directly visit the recitation page I use to help myself memorize. I am a disaster at memorization. I can read Arabic like a 2nd grader on good days. I am shy to recite aloud. I am admittedly jealous of those who were born with Arabic as their first language and who do not appreciate the gift of being able to read and comprehend. Moreover, I am angered by those who let that gift sit dormant, never bothering to read the words revealed in that glorious book.

Along with the normal Ramadan food drive that my posse here in Amman participates in, I told my children we have to do some extras, especially regarding the underpriveleged children. I do not understand how the general population is going to feed their families and clothe their children at Eid this year. The prices here for everyday basics keep skyrocketing, not to mention the insane consumerism of the haves that make items like oil and rice cost a pretty qirsh. No, I will not pay 25 JD for a blouse for my five year-old, made in China, sure to unravel after its third washing. But someone will, and so it goes.

One of my most beautiful memories during Ramadan here in Jordan was an iftar (breaking of the fast at sundown) spent at a Quran center where dozens of orphans came to break their fast. They recited Quran for us and then sang us a song, whose lyrics were something like,

"All I've ever wanted in my life was to call someone Baba,

To take his shoes off when he comes home from work and ask him about his day,

To say goodnight and kiss and hug..."

You get the drift. Dry eyes from me or my kids? No way. I have raised a group of softy mush-heads, like their mama. And they need to keep their softness, to not become numb to all the suffering in the world; they must know how to give without being prompted or preached at.

Another great memory for me was my first Ramadan here, in 2002. I was desperately trying to find a masjid where the same Quran center mentioned above was hosting an iftar for orphans. My kids and I were used to spending every Ramadan evening in the US at the mosque, where we would all break our fasts together. I was driving in the car, not knowing where I was going, relying on unreliable directions. I came upon a beautiful masjid, and the athan (call to prayer) was beginning to sound. I jumped out of the car and asked a brother outside, "Is there an iftar here?"

He smiled at me, and said, "Welcome, sister, there is no iftar here, but I can offer you some dates and juice and water." He thought I was looking for a place to eat. I'll never forget the look on his face.

Let me put my advice to use and get off of this computer now. My heartfelt salams to all of you as we embark upon this holy month of Ramadan. For my non-Muslim readers, this is a wonderful time to get to know some Muslims, to join an interfaith dialogue or to visit a local community center and share in breaking the fast.

Peace to you all.

Bama Scenes Two

I love these old homes. My friend Somaya lives here. We ate tandoori chicken and veggie rice. It was a lovely afternoon.

Somaya's street.

I had never noticed many trolleys on the streets of Birmingham before. This particular day, however, they were everywhere.

It's none other than Vulcan, god of iron/steel forging. Birmingham was and still is a huge steel producer. Vulcan just got a multi-million dollar facelift and rear-end lift. They also tore down the room we could go in (when I was a youngin') and view the city, and instead replaced it with a copiously shabby metal slab that I refused to trust.

He looks smashing. And he's holding a popscicle, for all of Birmingham to lick.

View of the University of Alabama at Birmingham (UAB) hospital and various 'skyscrapers.'

Some Bama Scenes

These are some tall tall pine trees in my old friend Ginny's mom's yard.

My friend Umm Aisha's husband made a lady out of their lovely tree.

I just loved all of the greenery.

I also loved the summertime afternoon deluges. This cloud was moving faster than my car was.

I tried my hand at the "sports" setting on my camera. My son ended up a ghostly blur of athleticism.

Notation Compulsion

I miss the days when I used to write with a pen.

Not long ago I was cleaning out bookshelves and old papers, and I ran across a collection of notes from my last two years at university. The classes were either Spanish literature or History. I paid particular attention to the notes I took with one of my favorite professors, Dr. George Liber, professor of Soviet/Russian history. Dr. Liber had a way of making me love Soviet history, even though my course of study focused on the history of Latin America. George had a dry sense of humor and was well-liked for being one of the few approachable professors in the School of Social and Behavioral Sciences. He liked my writing and gave positive feedback where it was deserved. Some professors hold back praise because, well, they are professors sitting on pedestals and can't afford to throw a crust of bread down to their minions. It'd be beneath them, don't you know?

Anyway, reading the anthology of notes I took during his classes made me feel two things:

1. I have gotten dumber with age.
2. My notes should be published.

As for the first point, I know I have not really dumbed down, but rather my focuses have changed. I'm no longer burning the midnight oil writing term papers, and I have not done so in about ten years, thankfully.

Which leads me to my second point: I was disliked by some of my fellow students because I would not lend them my notes. I would not even lend notes to my best friend. I figured that if students were taking 400/500 level history classes, then they damned well should be able to attend the lectures and pay attention. I treasured my notes. I am an auditory learner and my ability to transcribe what I heard was something of a gift I was not willing to share. Isn't that mean? I vividly remember Joe Fraternity, who was majoring in History just because it was the only thing he could teach once he got a job as a high school football coach, coming to class once a week, pale and frantic. "Dude," he'd ask, "Could I take your notes over to the library and copy them? It's been busy at the Frat house lately."

"No," I'd say.

"Dude, did you say 'no'?"

"I come to every lecture. I listen. I write. My notes are not leaving my possession."

"You're brutal, dude."

"Thank you."

Come to think of it, I did not love history until I entered university, which can be traced back to my high school years where 90% of my teachers of Social Studies were just bigger versions of Joe Fraternity. History class was the class we all blew off, because we knew our teacher was too preoccupied with working on the next play book for Friday's game.

I just re-skimmed through sixty hours of Soviet history, in my own words, written with my black Uniball. Just gorgeous.

I've Been Found

Once again, clap-clap-clap (loud applause), hip-hip-hooray, technology is grand.

My childhood friend Lianne Epstein found me.

She found my blog, and subsequently found a post about herself.

Isn't that a coincidence if ever there was one?

We have, oh, about twenty-six years of catching up to do now. I think that's exciting!

From BBQ to Toilets

The first Gulf War did many things to upset and uproot all kinds of people.

In brief, Palestinians had been living in Kuwait for around twenty years, contributing to the relatively new country a myriad of benefits. The Palestinians are among the most brilliant in the world in the fields of Math and Science. They are a driven people, focusing on education and betterment. The thousands upon thousands of Palestinians from Jordan who had made Kuwait their home in the 1970s and 1980s were a vital force in Kuwait's workforce and general infrastructure. Most people I know who visit Kuwait today and who knew it in its heyday would say that it is different, not the same 'feel', and missing Palestinians.

So when my in-laws were kicked out of Kuwait in 1991, my husband who was a student in the US lost his source of funds. He had to quit studying and find a job. The best-paying job he found was working in a Bar-B-Q restaurant, in the kitchen. And that's where we met.

Someone in the comments section of a previous post had asked me to talk about the moving from non-halal to halal employment. Over the years I have met many Arab-Americans here in Jordan who grew up with parents whose money was not earned in a halal way, whether it was grocery stores that sold prohibited items or owning liquor stores or what have you. We all know that in America, when you are in a comfortable place earning good money that it is very, very difficult to make changes. Stability is a good thing; we all want assurance regarding our next meal or month's rent.

Needless to say, my husband was stuck in that job for many years. It paid well. The insurance was great. But it was haram.

So, he left that job to become a janitor in the masjid. He took care of the masjid grounds, the bathrooms, the kitchen, and the Islamic school facilities. We lost our health insurance and half of his income. I can honestly say, however, that the four years he held that job, we were never happier. We really put our hearts and souls into the community then. That job led to better things, but its greatest gift was building character and giving my husband a sense of accomplishment. I don't think he ever felt any accomplishment while chopping chicken or sticking a slab of ribs on a plate.

He did, however, learn how to make some mean potato salad--a fringe benefit.

Culinary Martyrdom

Grape Leaves cooked with Olive Oil

My son proudly spoons up some tabouli

As I sat at my kitchen table this afternoon cutting tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions into Lilliputian-sized pieces to put in my salata tabouli, I started to ask myself one question:

Why?

This whole issue crossed my mind earlier this morning as well, when my walking partner and I were discussing the kinds of snacks and meals we ate growing up as kids. I do not remember my mother slaving away in the kitchen the way I find myself doing on a nearly daily basis. After school, I used to eat some cheese and crackers or an apple smeared with peanut butter. My walking partner (she's from the Midwest) said that in her home, cottage cheese was the snack of choice. They dipped crackers in it, stuck fruit in it, and ate it (like I did) with Doritos. Nighttime dinners were simple, quick, and filling.

My mom was a working, single mother, and did not have time to chop or julienne or even simmer food, most of the time. Most weekdays our dinners consisted of opening cans, boil-in-bag (remember those?), or an occasional take-out meal, which was usually Captain D's, that great little seafood place. Mom did the best she could with the funds and time she had, and I turned out just fine.

It was not until I married my husband that I truly realized that the foods I had grown up eating for dinner could not be classified as "meals," but were rather snacks or appetizers at best, and at worst, just plain inedible. Thankfully my husband ate pretty much whatever I served him when we were first married, but I could see in his eyes that he longed for his mama's cooking. Something was missing from his plate; his palate was bland and untantilized. It wasn't only the food itself that he longed for, but also the emotion behind its preparation, which I can now express was a combination of love, an eagerness to please, and sheer exhaustion. How can I define what my husband had been missing? Because I, too, have joined the ranks of what I call the culinary martyrs.

I fully comprehended the depth of my husband's relationship with food the first time he took me out to eat authentic Arabic cuisine. Arabs in Birmingham and a few select local seekers of gastronomic delights knew that a tiny restaurant run by a Christian Palestinian family served each Monday night what was simply referred to as "The Special."

We were seated at a table in the back. The dining room was decorated with paintings of Bedouins and old-fashioned Turkish coffee pots. The waiter, donning a black bow tie and jacket, came to our table to take our order. He and my husband exchanged greetings and begin to chat. Thinking back on that night, I remember hearing, "kh blah kh kh kh blah blah blah kh kh blah blah," but now I know they said stuff like, "How's your family?" and "What's your news these days?" and "What would you like to order?"

I took a few sips of my sweetened iced tea, drumming my fingers on the table, anticipating the arrival of The Special. After about ten minutes, the waiter arrived with a large platter and placed it between us. On the plate was stuffed yellow squash cooked in tomato sauce, stuffed grape leaves, kubbeh, tabouli, hummus, and babaganoush.

We ate and ate and ate. We barely spoke to one another; the food was the entire dining pleasure, and really too delicious to be interrupted by chit chat. After wiping out the entire plateful, we ordered coffee and Arabic sweets. I needed a wheel barrow to haul me out of that place, I was so full.

On the way home, my husband told me quietly, "Back home, that plate would have been just a sample. You should see the platefuls of food back home."

In my mind's eye, I could not visualize what he was talking about. We had just consumed enormous quantities of food! How much could those people back home serve for one meal?

Now, sixteen years later, and living back home, I know. I can stuff squash, roll grape leaves, make trays of mansef, stuff cabbage, brown/boil/roast chickens (it's a three-part process)--you name it, I will do it. My mother-in-law taught me all of my skills, and did so patiently. I ruined many, many meals on my quest for culinary martyrdom. I learned about the satisfaction of moving from step A to step Z, when the bales of molokhia are brought into the kitchen for picking or the giant bunches of parsley are staring me in the face, waiting to be made into tabouli, or the three kilos of squash are waiting to be cored and stuffed, or at Eid ul-Adha when 30 gallon bags of freshly slaughtered lamb are set before me, waiting to be cleaned and packaged and distributed to the less fortunate, with, of course, some set aside for mansef.

There is something about this labor of love, this way to my husband and children's hearts, through their stomachs. Every once in a while, I dread cooking, but most of the time, no one can keep me out of the kitchen. Even here in Amman where so many women work outside the home, I see this time consuming way of life starting to become a memory. Microwaves are in almost every kitchen, and fast-food delivery trucks are on every street. Just the other night, the delivery guy tried to bring us two KFC family meals. He had the wrong house.

I am in no way knocking convenience, and we eat out just like everyone else. But there is just something I get from seeing my family well fed and happy, or the feeling of walking into a house where garlic has just been fried to be put in a pot of molokhia or fresh okra, or the pizza dough baking in the oven has been made by my own hands.

I now live in a different food dimension from the West. And I rather enjoy it.

My Jewish Pal

My best friend from age 5 to 8 was Lianne Epstein. Her father was a chiropractor and her mother ran a Hummel plate shop in posh Cocoa Village, Florida.

Lianne was a vegetarian. She was also smart as a whip. She entered Kindergarten at age 4. I think she tested off the charts for IQ. Her family was very goal-oriented and her house was messy. They were eclectic and funny and upbeat, and they introduced me to carob chips and the history of the dreidel and the Maccabees.

My world kind of came crashing down around me when I was eight years old, and had to move away from my home and my best friend. But I'll save that story for another post.

The last time I spoke with Lianne, sixteen years ago, I was about to marry my Palestinian husband. Lianne was working as an architect for Disney in Orlando.

My sister informed me the other day that she ran into Lianne's mom, the plate collector, and older sister, near her home. Lianne's sister identified MY sister as being my relative, immediately, and she has not laid eyes on me in probably twenty seven years.

In Spanish, there is a saying: El mundo es un pañuelo. Translated, it means the world is a handkerchief. What that means is that the world is tiny, and if you fold it up, you are bound to meet folks in corners where you least expect them.

I hope one day mine and Lianne's corners will meet, on so many levels.

Lianne, wherever you are, shalom.

All About April

April has been a busy month. April is like that turning point in the year; we know summer is fast approaching, yet we are still stuck in the same school year, trying to tie up loose ends and foster new beginnings.

This weekend I planted petunias and other flowers I've only seen in Jordan, so I have no idea what they are called in English. Petunia is easy; in Arabic, it's betunya. April is the best month for planting things here. I have even seen azaleas around town lately, but the shop owners tell me the soil is too acidic and they can only be grown in pots. How I miss the look of azaleas in Alabama in April. (How's that for alliteration?)

April is the birth month of my youngest child. (Today she is three!) Her babyhood was the most difficult out of the four children. When I think back to my pregnancy with her, I remember being unhappy much of the time. She was born colicky. She screamed for a solid four months. My husband kept mailing me "Gripe Water" he found in the U.S. It tasted great, but it did nothing to help her stomach woes. I wore her in a pouch attached to my trunk most of the time. I remember cooking spaghetti for the other kids with her attached to me, screaming, while I tried to stir sauce. My husband had planted all of this new grass and left me here in Jordan in charge of its growth and nurturing. I was gardening with a newborn hanging from my neck, screaming. We would get into a traffic jam on Fridays coming back from visiting family, and she'd start...screaming. When she would finally pass the gas that had tortured her insides, she would have a small window of relief. I guess that's when we used to sleep. Anyhow, her nickname for a long time was Farty McFartson.

Then, one day, she just woke up grinning. And she's been grinning ever since. May Allah keep her safe and happy.

April is also the anniversary of my marriage. (That's tomorrow!) I have now been married fifteen years, which is most of my adult life. I think I can divide my marriage into three different sections:

The first five years, where we had not yet learned the act of compromise, but were very much in love. I think that our love outweighed the selfishness that was mostly displayed by yours truly, and that is one of the things that helped move us through to the next five-year segment. I have seen too many new marriages fail because neither side was willing to give in. Sometimes we must give in, at least partially. I am so grateful to my husband for putting such importance on my education and encouraging me to keep studying. When I graduated from university in 1994, he was nothing but smiles. All of the nights he worked as a waiter, coming home with his tips and pooling them with mine so that we did not have to take out any student loans...to think of those times and his selflessness...

Then I became a Muslim, and started having kids. This began phase 2 of our marriage, having little ones around and learning as we went how to be parents. These five years were definitely the 'lean years,' but I also consider them as some of the most joyous. We really did not worry about money. We were young and energetic and focused on our spiritual growth.

The past five years, or phase 3, have been spent here, in Jordan. These years have been some of the most trying, both physically and mentally, but we have reached an understanding of one another that I never knew was possible. It is all about acceptance now, and being able to laugh at growing older, greying, and being content with the present. We are still focused on the children of course, but I can say without a doubt that our focus on each other is healthy and full of love and humor.

So as winter and April are winding to a close, my heart is light and my outlook positive, and my thanks abound.

Videorama

Today I dug out the video camera that we bought in 1996, I believe. It's old, outdated, and plain, but it still works.

I hooked the camera up to the TV and popped in the old cassettes that I had labeled willy-nilly "Jordan 2003" and "Stacy and Hayfa." I had no idea what the tapes actually had recorded on them.

The first one was all kinds of footage of my third child, who is now five. She did not ask to have a little sister born right after her, so she got just a little bit of time in the limelight, and is kind of the 'middle child' who is sometimes, not purposefully, neglected.

She kept telling me while watching all of the scenes featuring her as the center of attention how nice my voice was with her. She also made the comment how happy I seemed (although I was living in a third world country without my spouse and struggling through each day), and how she'd so love to go back to being a baby.

Hmmm.

Although the shots of my family with just two girls and one boy (sans the fourth child, she wasn't around yet) to me seem incomplete, I think child #3 made some valid points.

I was more relaxed. I smiled more. I cared less about what the house looked like and focused more on the kids. I was twenty-five pounds lighter. I was more relaxed. I smiled more. All throughout the three hours of video.

I think Mama needs to re-group, prioritize, and calm down.

Some of my favorite moments on the video are in the Great Smokey Mountains in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. That was the last time I went back to the states to see my homies. Two thousand and three, the year of our Lord. I have footage of us at the fabulous aquarium, at Laurel Falls where we took a long, beautiful hike, and other great spots. If you can get to the Smokey Mountains, do so, now. What a wonderful place.

I also watched my now 89 year-old grandmother sit and swing in her immaculately manicured yard with my then youngest, and ask me if she had chicken in her teeth. (We had just eaten Chic-Fil-A sandwiches) Yum.

I think a trip home is in order, I just don't know how, or when.

Tomorrow, however, I'm going to practice being sweet to everyone and to let some not-so-important things slide. I owe it to the family. I owe it to myself.

The Mother's Love, The Test from Allah

Once, many years ago when I had just two small children, ages four and two, I was standing in line at the post office. Behind me I heard Arabic being spoken, and I turned around to see a lovely older woman and her daughter conversing. I was not sure if they were Muslim or not, but I gave it a shot, and said softly, "Assalamu Alaikum."

The lovely older woman paused, smiled, and returned my greeting. We began chatting in line, and I learned that she was from Egypt but had lived in Alabama for over twenty five years. Her husband was a well-known physician and her two daughters were both nurses. She, Layla, had a very warm personality and soothing voice. She took my phone number to give to her other daughter who was closer in age to me and worked as an obstetric nurse at a prominent Catholic hospital.

Within days, her daughter called me. We had a lot in common and 'hit it off' instantly. She was a few years older and had one daughter, but was divorced and living with her parents. She invited me to come over one evening, and I agreed.

I really was not expecting the house to be as palatial as it was. When we drove up, my daughter exclaimed, "Oh Mama, is this a castle!?" I remember taking my shoes off as I normally do when entering a Muslim family's home, and she and her mother thought that was hilarious. These were Louis Vuitton kind of hosts, and I was, well, a TJ Maxx sort of visitor.

What struck me the most inside the home were the dozens and dozens of pictures and portraits dedicated to the little princess of the house, my friend's daughter, also named Layla, after her grandmother. Layla's face was everywhere--cascading black curls tied in bows, Layla on Santa's lap, Layla in her ballerina costume, Layla smiling with her angelic seven-year old smile, confident in her status as the apple of every one's eye. My daughter played in her wonderland bedroom with brilliant murals on the walls and every toy or gadget a child could ask for.

All of the opulence in their home was a reminder that they were living the American dream, having come from Egypt, a poor nation where it is hard to make it out of whatever rank or class you are born into. They had made it, and done so in style, with flash and class and, yes, pomp.

When my mother in law came to visit us for the first time, they invited us out to lunch. We showed up at the restaurant in our jilbabs, they arrived in the finest, trendiest clothing. My Arabic was so-so at the time, and I had a hard time keeping up with their Egyptian dialect. I remember my mother in law feeling kind of out of place with them, so during her long visit with us I did not push her to hang out with them much.

Eventually, my friend and I kind of lost touch. I started Graduate school and got busy with other things. As much as I liked my friend, my inability to just see her as a fellow Muslimah and not someone 'lost' or 'misguided' clouded my vision. This is something that being a Muslim for a long time, instead of being in the newbie Muslim judgmental phase, helps us with, inshaAllah. I would find later that my friend was not just about handbags and expensive shoes. Muslimahs not wearing hijab or living in big fancy houses and having parents who want to forget the 'old country' to some extent and create new lives, join country clubs, or whatever the case may be, are still our sisters. Treat them as such--reach out to them. Burning bridges does nothing but leave you with charred soil and broken foundations. How long does it take to learn this lesson, sisters? But, I digress.

I was newly pregnant with my third child, in the throes of the morning sickness phase. I had spent the night at my mother's house because she had needed me to drive her to an early morning appointment at the hospital. I stuck around her house to have some breakfast (her cabinets are always full of treats) and sit and make a list of things to do for the day. I received a phone call from my husband that someone in the community had passed away and needed washing. He told me to call Br. Ashfaq, who had more information.

I called Br. Ashfaq. He said that an Egyptian family I did not know who was away from Islam and not active in the community had suffered a terrible accident, and that the deceased needed washing. He asked me if I could do it. I told him I would, but being newly pregnant and kind of ill, I would need some help. At that time, I had washed two Muslimahs, alhamdulillah.

I got myself ready and called the other sisters I needed to help me. They kept saying, "Who are these people?" and I said I did not know.

On the way to the funeral home, it hit me. Egyptian family. No one knows them. Away from Islam. Could it be my friend's family, I wondered.

I pulled into the parking lot. I walked into the main door of the funeral home. I saw my friend standing there, weeping. She shouted my name and ran to me. It was her daughter, Layla, who had been in the accident. Layla, the center of her life.

What was most difficult about this precious child's life coming to an end was the circumstance in which it happened. Layla had been bugging her grandmother to buy her a racquetball set. Her grandmother presented her with the gift she wanted, but Layla wanted to try it out immediately. Her mother, my friend, was upstairs on the phone with a call from work. The grandmother told Layla to go put the ball and racquets in the garage. The grandmother had to leave, so she climbed into her Lincoln Navigator and began backing out of the long driveway.

She did not see little Layla behind her. She knocked her down with the car and ran over her with the vehicle's right back wheel. When she realized what she had done, she threw the car into 'park' and jumped out, screaming, calling to her daughter to call for help. The entire weight of the car was sitting on the child's chest. She did not know if she should try to roll back over her or leave the tire in place. This dear lady was so shocked and horrified at what was happening--there was her precious granddaughter, stuck under the weight of an enormous vehicle.

The fire department arrived within minutes. They lifted the car off of the child. They began to treat her, putting her into the back of the ambulance. Everything was happening so fast. The child's chest had been crushed. She was not conscious.

She died before reaching Children's Hospital.

Ya Allah! The love that was so obvious between my friend and her mother who had taken the life of the most beloved thing to them all was something to bring me to my knees. There was no blame. My friend must have told her mother five hundred times how much she loved her. It was an accident. This child was taken back to her Creator. This family had to come together, had to grieve properly, had to love one another, had to keep standing.

Layla did not look like anything but an innocent, beautiful creature. We washed her and shrouded her and perfumed her with camphor, with her mother and grandmother watching, weeping silently, reciting Quran that perhaps had been buried in their deepest memories but sprang forth effortlessly as they held each other.

Their house had been a monument to this child. Now, she was gone.

For months, every night when I closed my eyes, I saw Layla's face. My friend told me that she was looking forward to getting back to work, delivering babies, helping to bring life into this world with her more thorough--and of course sorrowful--understanding of how precious, how fleeting, this life is.

I think of this family often. I hope they are well. I will never forget that beautiful child and the lesson her passing taught me.

Old Hood Revisited

For those of you familiar with the layout of the city of Amman, you can skip this part.

Amman sits on 8 jabals, or hilltops. It is a unique city in that you can be in one neighborhood, atop a jabal, such as Jabal Amman (the oldest part of the city), and see the other hilltops around you. Each jabal has a main roundabout, or duwar. So, you can say, "I live near the 6th circle" and folks will know what you are talking about. You can drive in a nearly straight line from the 1st circle, which the oldest inhabited part of the city, to the 8th circle, which is on my end of town. I actually mapped out the entire city this way on Google Earth. Once you see a giant roundabout, you know that going either north or south of it will lead you to other circles. Simple.

Now of course, Amman has experienced a population BOOM over the past 17 years, with the first Gulf War and now, of course, the Iraqi occupation. Neighborhoods have, therefore, extended past their respective jabals and out into the Bedouin lands that twenty years ago were nothing more than fields for sheep herding. My neighborhood is one such area, where a tiny plot of land (known as a half-dunum, enough land to build a simple house) is selling these days for about $600,000. It's crazy expensive, man, crazy.

Even the older neighborhoods, like where I lived my first two years in Jordan, are changing and expanding more rapidly than I can keep track of. Yesterday I had to take two of my kids to their pediatrician whose office is in an area called Tababoor. (East Amman) It's a nice little hike from my home, and in Jordanian standards, it's a veritable rihlah, or journey.

I honestly did not recognize the souk, or market. I had a hard time finding the doctor's office for all of the buildings that had grown up around it. After our appointment, I drove my kids to our old apartment. We had lived in a decent place; the building was 14 years old and I had no cabinets in my kitchen, but it was clean and had a great view of the rolling hills and farmland behind us. We had good memories there--beautiful memories, actually, of kind neighbors and simple people honestly looking out for the ijnabiyyah, or foreigner, living alone with her kids.

It was no coincidence that I ended up in that building, but rather qadr Allah. When we came to Jordan, it was August 21, 2003. School started September 1. We had nine days to do all of our paperwork, enroll the children in a school, find a place to live, and buy some furniture or at least mattresses, and a spoon or two. We literally moved here with our clothes and some books and toys. We were in a mad, sleepless rush trying to get everything accomplished in a country whose motto is "If you hate red tape, wait in this line and we'll go get you some more red tape." It's the land of bukrah, bukrah, bukrah inshaAllah, and when bukrah (tomorrow) finally comes, whatever you were promised usually does not materialize.

So my husband and I were walking down this out-of-the-way street in Tababoor, and my husband and I saw some painters inside an apartment. "Painters mean there is a vacancy, let's check it out," he said.

It turned out the owner was inside, supervising the work being done. It was an airy 3-bedroom, one Western / one Arabic bath, two-balconied flat. The owner was an engineer who lived in Saudi. We liked it, we were in a hurry, so we offered to rent it. The rent was 140 JD / month ($200 US). I had to restrain myself from laughing at the ridiculously low rent. I later found out that it was highway robbery, and we could have gotten it for 120 JD. Live and learn.

So my husband checks out the balcony off of the kitchen--the one with the view of the sheep fields--and he looks down. Downstairs, to the left, was a man grilling kabobs outside for his family. "Honey!" he says. "I know this man! He was at the jumu'ah prayer last week in Birmingham!"

SubhanAllah. This family had Birmingham connections. Daughters, sons, cousins, and sisters-in-law, all living in my hometown. We were immediate friends, and they felt a responsibility to look after me. I welcomed it. That first year making hijrah to any place can be wrought with surprise, difficulty, depression, and several dozen cases of amoebic dysentery. We got sick, and understandably so. The flora and fauna of Jordan are not the same in the US. Whatever immunities we had built up to viruses and bacteria in the states were ever-so-slightly mutated forms in Jordan, and our defenses were down. Everyone I know who comes here spends the first year battling all sorts of ugly illnesses. But it does get better.

Umm Muhammad and Umm Nasser, my dear neighbors, always instinctively knew when we were under the weather. They would show up with pots and plates of the most delicious homemade stuff. I will never forget the first day of Ramadan--my first Ramadan in a Muslim country-- about 15 minutes before iftar time, my doorbell started ringing. There would be a child standing, smiling, with some plate of something tasty. By the time the adhan was called, we would have a sampler's feast of neighbors' food. It was beautiful. I started whipping up my own fare to distribute to the dear residents of my building. They loved hush puppies, cole slaw, lasagna, chocolate chip cookies, and of course my cream puffs.

My kids had decent, kind children to play with (not to mention teach them Arabic, free of charge); I, too, got a crash-course in Arabic on a daily basis. I had to communicate--it was sink or swim. I chose to swim, and as painstaking as it sometimes was, I talked and talked and talked. I cried on their shoulders. I shared and told stories and taught them how to make chili. Umm Nasser, who was working on her ijazah to teach Quran, would sit with my second-grader and help her memorize the pages of ayahs of Quran for school. When the Imam of the masjid on our street died of a sudden heart attack, I went with these ladies to console his grieving widow. There was unity among us, simplicity, and true neighborly love and concern.

So yesterday, as I drove around my old stomping grounds, I called my sister-in-law and told her I was coming for tea. "I'm not home, I'm at a gathering," she told me. "Come, join us."

It was a congratulation party for one of the sisters who had become a grandmother. My sister-in-law had gone early to make the traditional karawwiyah and *moghli that is served when someone has a baby. (I love that stuff, call me weird) When I entered the room, I felt a warmth and light I have not seen since moving to the mod area of town. There was Umm Nasser, Umm Muhammad, the Imam's widow, and countless other sisters who had shown me friendship and endless hospitality during my two years living among them.

"Where have you been! Did you forget about us?!" they exclaimed. "Are these the little ones! Oh how they've grown!" they said. I went around the room giving my salams to each of them, embracing them, feeling that connection, that honesty, that truth that makes us sisters in Islam.

Most Americans who come here want to leave after the first year or two. It's the litmus test for tolerating life in Jordan. Alhamdulillah, thanks largely to the kindness I was shown in those crucial first months, I was able to call this place my home.

I am home.


*moghli is a pudding-like sweet made with ground rice, cinnamon, caraway and topped with pistachios and almonds. Most Americans detest it; I love it.
*karawwiyah is a sweet cinammon tea with almond pieces in it

Fahrvergnügen

Irmgard Klingler displays her famous Black Forest Cake

Ok, I know that Fahrvergnügen means 'driving enjoyment,' and this post is not about how much I like to crank up the car. It is, instead, a post about the joys of eating. Fahrvergnügen is just one of the few catchy German phrases I know. Ja Wol! Ok, two catchy phrases.

How does one say "eating enjoyment" in German?

We received a sales ad this weekend from Carrefour, who was offering 20 mini chocolate croissants for 1.25 JD. Now, who in his right mind could pass that up, seeing how one pastry from a reputable baker costs at least .30 quirsh? The rationale was a no-brainer. We bought the goods, man, we bought the goods.


So as I warmed up two of the little beauties in the microwave this morning (please, no comments about the diet I'm supposed to be on), my mind was flooded with memories of days of yore, when I worked here. I do not know many Americans who worked their way through college without experiencing some type of food service job. This, by far, was my favorite place to 'sling hash.'


Klingler's was like a little piece of Bavarian heaven. Mrs. Irmgard Klingler, or "M," as everyone called her, had been baking breads and pastries out of her home for years. She and her husband, a retired Birmingham police officer, opened up a little cheescake shop in Alabaster, Alabama. It was such a huge hit with the locals that they quickly outgrew their location and moved to a bigger shop near my home. I walked in one day, seeing a "Help Wanted" sign in the window, and the next day I was wearing an apron and learning how to properly slice a cheesecake.


"M" was from the town of Worms. Her husband had been stationed in Germany in the 1960s in another town whose name escapes me. Richard was 100% southern, with a distinct drawl and an ability to make the most succulent biscuits I have ever tasted. EVER. Together, they were a mis-matched couple who picked on one another but who obviously loved what they were doing: serving incredible food to people who appreciated it.


I loved "M" and she loved me. She wanted me to quit studying and pursue a career in serving cheese pretzels. I wondered if all Germans were like this with their employees--expecting complete and total dedication, foresaking all other aspirations or goals. In a way, I felt sorry for her, but I admired her tireless efforts to please customers. The patrons loved her, too, and would often try to practice their rusty Deutche with her as they sampled the latest muffin or danish.

I took the early bird shift. It was my job to set up the pastry cases and prepare the bakery for opening each morning. I used to drive to work in the total darkness, meandering my way down sleeping streets. My first day on the 6 a.m shift I met the night baker, Hilda. Hilda was a large German woman who wore Birkenstocks and could crush me with her bare hands, much in the same way she could knead 12 pounds of pastry dough. But oooooh, could she bake. Her cheese brötchen were the best I had ever eaten. I found myself all tongue-tied in her presence, both because I was intimidated by her stature and I was completely out of my element.

"Nein, nein, nein," she said, shaking her head with disdain when she saw the first pastry case I put together. "Dis is not attractive. Must change. I show you how."

And she did. There was a fine art to layering cheese danishes and chocolate-hazelnut croissants, placing them in just the right spot and positioning them in their shiny German display case. I was determined to win Hilda and the Klinglers' approval, and I succeeded. The first few months on the 6 a.m. shift, it took me an entire hour to unload all of the pastries off of the cooling racks and place them on their proper decorative trays, labeled and ready for customers to see. After a few months, I had it down to a science, and could finish the pastry case within 20 minutes, leaving me time to make the many pots of coffee and roll silverware for the day. Was I proud of this accomplishment? You bet your Bratwurst. Hilda was proud of me, too, and would slap me on the back with her floured hands, recalling my days as a bumbling pastry novice. "You good vurker now, you very good."

One of my favorite things about taking the goodies off of their parchment paper was that they left behind, well, goo--goo that filled the pastries and overflowed onto the paper. There was blueberry goo, chocolate goo, cream cheese goo, and my favorite, apple streudel goo. By the time "M" and her husband arrived each morning at 7, I was all gooed up and ready for the day.

Strangely, while working at the bakery I was at my lightest weight, ever. There's something magical in that German food, I tell you. Or maybe I stayed thin from the constant spring in my step as I served platefuls of German potato salad while skipping along to that polka tape that played over, and over, and over.

Anyhow, the Carrefour croissants were, I'd say, half as good as the ones I used to eat at Klingler's. And that is saying a lot.

Thanks, Mrs. Klingler. And do folks still come in asking for donuts? (the evil six-letter word!)