Letting go

Waking up to watching, in a dream, my only son go flying down from three stories up holding onto his favorite toy car, arms wide open, laughing out loud, is not how I wanted to start my Thankgiving morning. I could see it very clearly: blue faded second-hand jeans, new navy blue sweater from H&M that I had bought in the summer on sale, white GAP socks that used to be his sister's, red car in hand. He was about his current age. We were at my late grandmother's house in Hazmieh, and I was on the phone. The other adults, my mother and another woman were somewhere in the house supposedly minding the kids. I was on the balcony talking on the phone. It must have been winter as he had a sweater on, so why I was on the balcony I am not sure. I must have needed some quiet. He came after me to play. I was focusing on the conversation, maybe with a friend but it might also have been with a business. All of a sudden he was climbing the railings.

I know these railings well; I spent many an afternoon in these enclosures.

I visited with Teta Hajjeh and Jeddo Ramez, had meals with aunts and uncles and played with cousins. We had lemonade and coffee and tea, ate popcorn and deep-fried starch chips. With the TV hooked inside and the screen turned out, we watched a soap opera or followed the news. We listened to the radio, played catch and cards. We called for the maid in the kitchen, for others down below, for each other from inside. When by herself there, Teta would not hear us when we rang the bell, or the phone when we called, so we got her a long-corded phone then a wireless one. I remember the question, and its response very clearly: "wein 2a3deen? (where are you sitting)?" "3al balcon (on the balcony)."

She bought vegetables from the peddlers pushing their carts, and pulled the groceries up with a basket attached to a rope. She yelled at us for picking the flowers in the garden and at her son for using too much water to water the trees. She hollered to neighbors and caught up with their news. She monitored traffic and the car wash business.

During the days of the war it was our "outing" from the shelter. On days without power, we sat by candle light, and on some days with power, we sat by candle light, too; long, white tapered candles would burn the hours away. As long as we had enough vape to burn we were good to watch the stars.In the spring we would bring out the chairs and tables and invest a lazy afternoon watching the cars go by. The folding chairs would be moved from the east balcony to the west balcony with the sun and brought in with the moon. In the summer, grandma would make apricot jam with the apricots from her tree in the garden below.

Those railings are well engraved in my mind. The white, pink and grey tile floor leads up to a ledge that holds the sturdy metal rods in place. Narrow rectangular bottom and support rails run across north to south and hold the rectangular balusters together. At regular intervals there are support posts dividing the railing into sections. The railing extend out to hold white laundry lines. The design is concluded with a top rail, wide enough to rest a coffee or tea cup on; or a little foot.

The doors leading out to the balcony are not really child-proofed. Once tall enough to reach the handle, they easily turn open and you are out on the balcony. Sometimes Teta or the maid or whoever was there last would forget to close them and we would run out. Curiosity used to make us want to lean out as far as we could. Take a step on the first landing, put a foot on the bottom rail and you are taller than you were a few seconds ago. Reach up the top rail and lean out and your body is half-way into the sky. I do not remember what it was that we had wanted to see so bad. Some days it was my uncle down below, others it was a car that had just pulled in, and others still we were just monkeying around. We would be cautioned and called out to to "get down." Some days we headed quickly, others we had to be prodded on or even physically removed. Some days we tried to squeeze between the balusters and got an arm or a leg stuck.

On this day, though, the door was already open and I was out. Yousef must have snuck up behind me to be close. I saw him there with his car in his hand. Being the climber he is, his first thought must have been to try out this new experience. I watched him put one foot up, then the other. I called on to my mom to come take him down, "Yousef is climbing," I said, and I went on with my conversation. For some reason I did not bother taking him down myself. "Is someone watching the boy?" I asked again, still on the phone. This time he had both feet up and was proceeding upwards. Car still in hand, he reached the top railing and went flying. I was standing there, phone in hand. I saw it all. I could have dropped the phone. I could have yelled at him, stopped him, distracted him. I could held him back. I could have jumped after him. But I did not. I just let him be. I let him off the ground and into the air. I saw him soaring, then falling. I heard him laugh. I saw him smile. My last thought was "at least he went down happy." With that in my mind, I woke up. He was laying on my chest snoring away.

I am not sure what prompted this dream. Maybe it was a book I had read, or the joke Jeff and I keep, or the upcoming trip Jeff and I are taking without the kids. It might be my anxiety, or my attachment, or the Facebook status update I read before bed. Whatever it was caused me to see my only son, the one I labored and struggled and beat many odds to bring into this world, take flight. I didn't rush after him. I didn't lend him a hand. I didn't stop him. Maybe I wasn't meant to. Maybe I couldn't have. It was probably time to let him go. So I let him go. I should probably let him go.

Perspective

We have been gone from our homeland almost five months and I am not going to say "boy where did the time go"; I know exactly where the time went ~ in Beirut! The two months I spent in Beirut were not only life-saving but also life-changing. I needed to get away from the quiet of Ifrane, I needed to head back to the city, I needed to be part of a hustling urban life again, I needed to be with a support system beyond my husband, I needed to be out and about, I needed good food and much love. And, I got more than I bargained for staying with at my uncle's house, sharing a three-bedroom apartment with him and his wife and live-in maid and my cousin, her husband and their baby.

I got love, I got food, I got family. I also got perspective. I got perspective on paying attention to what matters most. On sitting still and watching the world go by. On surviving rainstorms, cold waves and uncertainty. On spending hours in the kitchen, days at home and nights awake. I got perspective on doing things I enjoy, slowly, deliberately, with intention.

I witnessed my uncle's wife cooking away so that we can enjoy her labor, serving us only the best of what she made, setting aside what did not meet her expectations. I saw her start making a dish from scratch because the end result was too runny, too tart, too doughy. I saw her mixing love with joy with sweat to bring forth elaborate meals and wondrous dishes. I saw her heart and soul and pride at the table and in every dish. I saw that and marveled.

I saw my aunt making her way to her beauty salon religiously every morning. At 8:30 she would stop by on her way to work, talk in a loud voice, open bedroom doors, wake up those who are still sleeping, "force" feed those who have not eaten, dress those who are still in their PJs, catch up on the previous day's events and heads out promptly a few minutes before 9 to open shop. She rarely had appointments that early but she still made sure the salon was open at the expected time. She also rarely had late appointments but she also made sure she closed shop at the expected time. Even during the day when work was slow and there was a lull in customers she would stay put loyal to whoever may show up unexpected.

I spent time with a friend whose husband works in a different country and who is raising three kids on her own. She spends her mornings and evenings and at times everything in-between with her dad making sure he sees his grand kids as much as possible. She and I met on the street as we were walking our kids to preschool. We immediately connected and became almost inseparable for six weeks. We talked, walked, baked and hung out as much as we could, rain or shine.

I spent time with another friend, one I did not think I would reconnect with after years of separation who is raising four kids, one of whom has a learning disability. She and I grew up together, moved apart, reconnected a few years back, slacked off in connecting and then came together again. Every Wednesday and Saturday we would come together and watch our kids play. We chatted about life, the present, the past, the future. We shared mothering tips and tricks. We fed the kids. We looked at old photos and thought back to when we were kids; those were the days!

I spoke to my mom on the phone; she was sad and lonely. I checked in on my dad; he is old and sick. I missed them both, the kids missed them both, they missed us. Yet, they were both going about their days as best they could: my mom waking up in the morning, getting dressed, walking to the bus stop, having her morning coffee, heading to work. Working her shift, bundling back up and heading home to dinner and sleep.

I spent time with family; a lot of time with a lot of family. I saw my Teta and Jeddo; they are old, and live by themselves in the same house they married in. They met the kids; that made the move to Ifrane worth it. I connected with my cousins and their kids, with my uncle's wife who had a double mastectomy, with my uncle's wife's family who are welcoming and very loving.

I spent time with my kids, walking the streets, visiting the stores, being outside. I saw rich relocated Syrians and poor displaced ones. I chatted with the rich and thought often of the poor. I helped where I can and watched, amazed, grateful, speechless and breathless as JR did the same; sharing her change, her snacks, her thoughts with the children on the street. Her questions, ponderings, and reflections on their situation made my heart swell with love, joy, and pride. I remarked at the little boys who stopped at nothing to get a few pennies; standing in the way of cars, chasing after them, hanging from the open windows as they started up at a green light. If only they would take this determination with them when they grew up.

I also spent a lot of time inside, surrounded and alone. And I learned, or rather I re-learned, lessons that have always been in front of me. I learned about perseverance, patience, love, generosity, hope, faith, letting go, relaxing, dedication, loyalty, sacrifice, loneliness, old age, sickness, health, finding a way, getting past setbacks, giving and getting second chances, and starting over - always starting over. It is amazing how one can go through life side by side with valuable lessons and yet never really see them until one is good and ready. I think I am finally good and ready.

Lessons from Bed: Rules to Live By

I don’t do Halloween. Jeff doesn’t like it either. So, once we had our own family we decided Halloween was one of many celebrations we were not going to take part in; the others being Santa, New Year’s Eve, the Easter Bunny, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s day, and others not directly related to our system of beliefs. Although we have our version of Halloween in Lebanon called Eid el Berbara, celebrated on December 4th, in all my childhood years I remember having dressed up in costume only once, and even then I felt ridiculous. St. Berbara had donned on different characters in order to escape the Romans who were persecuting her. She used to hide in wheat fields. Cooked wheat with sugar, cinnamon, almonds and raisins, something similar to American-style oatmeal, is served during this "holiday" and a special song is sung. My late grandmother used to call on Eid el Berbara as her excuse to make that treat for her grandchildren although she really did not need to go that far to convince us to enjoy that treat.

 

This year, however, Jeff and I made an exception and JR got to take part in her first, and possibly last, trick or treating expedition. The timing was right, and the distraction was perfect. I had just been admitted to the hospital for an emergency cerclage and we enlisted Sonia to help with JR. We were not prepared for the surgery but were lucky that Sonia came to our aid at a moment’s notice. She dropped what she was doing, picked JR up and headed back to her place where she kept her two girls and their friend engaged, fed, rested and happy for the rest of the day. And since the surgery happened on Halloween dressing up and knocking on people’s doors proved to be a most successful form of entertainment for the 3 year-old. It was so successful that JR did not notice that I was not there until it was time for her to go to bed and Mama was not there. And, “facetiming” Mama was a poor substitute.

 

Choosing to allow JR to dress up like a frog and knock on people’s door proved to be a decision that we won’t regret. She came back happy with lots of stories to tell. And while this decision may not align with our overall parenting style, being flexible and allowing room for the unexpected is. And while I would love to raise my kids with “rules and regulations,” I love being able to offer them adaptability more. Life is full of surprises and having the skills to bend with the change is invaluable. So yes, there are traditions we won’t incorporate into our daily life; but when the choice is between bending the rules to allow myself and my family space to function, or being rigid and thus crippling, I will chose to bend the rules.

 

And that is one of the many lessons this bed rest challenge has taught me.

 

 

 

Where I'm from

I am from here and now. From then and there. I am the product of my past, the meeting point of the present and the window to the future. I am a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a neice, a granddaughter, a wife and a mother, and, an in-law. I am a friend.

I am from Lebanon, the multi-factions country, the country torn by religions and wars. I am from Lebanese food, fresh home-made breakfasts, nutrient-packed lunches and family dinners. I am from avocado milkshakes, freshly squeezed orange juice from a juice cart, and vegetable vendors who push their carts to your building door. 

I am from the smells of freshly baked bread, manakeesh on Sundays, and every days, and kaak on trays on vendors' heads.

I am from Beirut, the Pearl of the Middle East, the City that would not die. From the bombs, the fires, the ashes. From a twice destroyed house, a childhood lost in the war, toys jumbled with metal, glass and concrete lying on the side of the street.

I am from power outages and water shortages. I am from bread lines and green lines. From walking on foot across town for fresh produce, then walking back home.

I am from days without school, without sun light and without song.

I am from Hazmieh. From a two bedroom, four bath apartment on the fourth floor. I am from the apartment building my late grandfather built as a gift to his sons. From the garden he grew underneath. From the hours playing with the neighbors in that garden.

I am from my neighborhood, from the gas station next door, the Iraqi Embassy up the street, the convenience store down the street. From my friend's house five minutes away, the pool at the hotel five minutes further than that, and the supermarket across the highway.

I am from the Apricot and Lemon trees my grandfather planted in his garden. From the apricot jam my grandma spent hours in the sun making. From the hundrends of tabboleh dishes she made with these lemons.

I am from the garden's red, white, and pink roses, from the huge lilies, and the tiny violets. From getting in trouble for picking the roses and breaking off the lilies. I am from the fragrant yasmine tree, the one that made the night that much cooler on a hot summer's day. From making yasmine necklaces and draping them from the car's rear view mirror.

I am from gardenias growing on the balcony and sitting in espresso cups on the bedside tables. From cloves spelling my name on an orange, from the hour it took my grandmother to make it for me, and from the second it took that bomb to shatter it along with all my other belongings.

I am from the shredded Quran that crashed to the ground that same day. The same one I still keep on display, the one that reminds me of my faith, the one that grounds me when in doubt. I am from the voices of the muazzins calling for prayer, at four oclock in the morning and at four other times after that. From the sounds of church bells on Sunday mornings. And, from the two of them residing in close proximity in a small country.

I am from Sundays at Teta's house, Eid lunches of riz bi lahme and laban, and a weekly allowance of lp 5,000 from Jeddo. I am from sharing birthday parties with my two cousins, wearing hand-me-downs from my other two cousins, and from new shoes only from Red Shoes.

I am from scrimping and saving to have a better life. From studying hard and working hard to get to where I am. From paying my way through college and graduate school, and from taking on four jobs to make enough to come to America.

From a working mother and a working father who did their best. And their working fathers and toiling at home mothers who also did their best. From Rana and Hassan, and Ramez and Ibtihaj, and Mahmoud and Inaam. From the Abiads and the Madhouns. From my small family of four and my extended family of many more.

I am from the fortune my grandfather built with hard work and no formal education. From his lands that have since been sold and his business that did not make it much past his passing. I am from his memory. From the day he died and I was not allowed to see him. From the visits I pay to his, and his wife's graves.

I am from the weekly calls I make to my current grandparents. From hearing their prayers for me, their wishes and hopes and dreams. From knowing that one day they, too, shall pass and that I may not be there to wish them farewell.


Inspired by this template. Try it; it's worth the time.

Who turned out the lights?

Hurricane Sandy came storming in yesterday. All morning and afternoon, we were preparing ourselves for the worst; power outage. We had bought ice for the freezer, water for the cooler, non-perishables for the pantry and batteries for the flash lights. We also had a half dozen candles on hand in case of emergency. They were red party candles, as that was all there was left in the store when we went out hunting for them. My mom lent us her lighter; we thought it would be safer than matches. And we waited. I woke up every hour that night checking for light, and it was always there. I think we were the lucky ones.


Growing up in Beirut, though, we could hardly call ourselves "lucky" when it came to power outages. It is now 2012 and electricity is still being rationed among the many parts of the city. It could be a six hour block, or a three hour block of non-stop power, then an equal block of blackout. If we were really fortunate, the six hour powered block would be in the morning in the winter when we were awake getting ready for school. But that usually meant homework was to be completed by candle-light in the afternoon. When the power was on in the evening, we could see what we were eating at dinner, were able to watch television and got a warm bath before bed. If we were slated for the graveyard shift then, we were out of luck; the lights came on when everyone was sleeping and only our refrigerators and our water heaters got the benefit.

Days like yesterday bring back those memories loud and clear. But back then we were still able to enjoy a warm homemade meal even with no lights; all of our stoves were powered by gas. We could heat water for bath, pop corn, make tea and roast chestnuts. On the weekends and non-school days, I could even go as far as saying it was fun not having electricity. Who needed it when you had teta's house to huddle in and get treats. We could even listen to music and the news on her battery-powered transistor radio.

But it was not all fun and games. Laundry had to be washed, the freezer needed to be cooled, the water heater needed to be warmed, and water needed to be pumped up to the rooftop water tanks. And some times we just were without power for days on an end. On those days, we were the fortunate ones among the rest; we had relatives who lived in a building with its own generator.

We lived in the East part of Beirut. My uncle's was in the West part of Beirut. Their building association decided early on to invest in a diesel generator. For us, that was a life-saver. On the weekends when we needed to wash our hair and our clothes, we headed over to Khalo's house. We would time it so that our arrival coincided with when the generator had just come on so that we could get the most benefit. Yes, that generator had a schedule, too. On the weekends it was on more than during the week, but it still had its down times and we did not want to have to climb seven flights of stairs in the dark carrying our load. If we arrived a few minutes too soon, we would hang out in the lobby of the building and make small talk with the concierge until it was show time. Then the fun began.

It was a fine dance getting everything done in time, especially when Khalo's family needed to do much of the same things we were there for, and considering how we could only have so many appliances turned on at once. If the hairdryer needed to used, the water heater would have to be unplugged, for the washer to run, the refrigerator needed to stop, and so on. Then, you had to remember which appliance you turned off when you were done. If we turned too many on at once, then we were all out of luck for the precious few minutes it took the concierge to readjust the fuse in the basement. And, those minutes ticked quickly by; the generator waited for no-one. When it was time to turn it off, it went off, regardless of whose laundry was stuck in the washing machine and whose hair still had soap in it.

I have not lived in Lebanon for nearly a decade but I still hear stories about power outages. It makes me shudder to think that in this day and age these things still happen. But one thing that makes me smile is knowing that the people there have mastered the skills to get through that roadblock. Here, in the US, people seem less prepared for such situations. They consult websites that tell them what to buy and how to stock up. They scramble to the stores and line up at gas stations. When the power went out earlier this summer, we were considering staying at a hotel to escape the heat, and ate at restaurants to fill our stomachs. This time we were spared. We were better prepared but luckily were spared. Next time, maybe we can be even more blackout ready and have a gas stove, or even a generator. Or maybe we will live in a place where the lights don't go out.

A taste of summer

In my mind nothing says summer like a crepe banane chocolat - read nutella. Growing up, I looked forward to the weekends when my mom would take us to the beach to spend the day. The whole day! We would head over there just after 8am to beat the weekend traffic and stay until close to sunset. More often than not, though, we did get stuck in the evening traffic heading back; guess everyone used to have the same idea about what is a good time to leave the beach!

We would stop for a mankoushe on the way there, or, if we did not have enough time, we would eat sandwiches in the car. Sometimes, mom even brought lunch and drinks from home. But on days that she was feeling like giving us an extra treat, we would lunch from the snack bar. And if she wanted to make our day even more special, we would be allowed a crepe banane chocolat as a mid-afternoon snack.

With cash in hand, we would hurry over to the crepe counter, place the order, watch and wait. The smooth, cream colored batter would flow carefully out of a ladle onto a hot, round, black surface to cook. Once turned over, the cooked side was  then smothered with the wondrous hazelnut chocolate concoction and sliced bananas, and for a little extra cash you could get sprinkles of chopped almonds too. A few minutes later the round dessert got folded into a square shape and hoisted neatly onto a paper plate transformed from a flat circle into a concical carrying case.

As kids, we thought the plates were a waste for once the slice of heaven was in our hands, it barely lasted a few minutes. Other than protecting our hands from the grease and the heat, it really did nothing to protect the crepe from our teeth; if that was ever the plan for the plate in the first place. By the time we got back to our beach towels, all we had to show for where we were would be chocolate covered lips, and a belly.

Both the summer days and childhood days are now long gone. All that remains are a few pictures and a lot of memories. Stories woven around a time filled innocence and joy in the ordinary, every day. Stories based in reality, but distorted by time gone by. A past romanticised, good times exaggerated, details forgotten. Still, it brings smiles, nostalgia, and flutters. Some days I want to just be back, be transported in time and place, relive those days. Alas, that surely is not possible. And so, I write about it, and talk about it. One day maybe I can relive it through my young, narrating my stories to them, and weaving new stories with them.

spice your rice series ~ 1: Riz bi Lahme or Rice with Ground Beef

There are lots of things I love about Lebanese food. One of them is how simple some dishes can be. Rice with ground beef may not be a "traditional" Lebanese dish, but it is served in many of the households I grew up with, and it was always the meal of choice at my Teta's house whenever there was a large lunch gathering. Served warm, topped with pine nuts and almonds sauteed in butter, with huge chunks of chicken hiding among the rice, it was always a satisfying meal. Garlic-mint yogurt is always this meal's trusted companion. It is not complete without a bowl of the yogurt sitting on the side, waiting to be drizzled on top.

To make this at your home, here is what you need:

• 1 cup of white rice
• 1 pound of ground beef
• 1 medium onion
• 2.5 cups of chicken broth; I use homemade
• salt, pepper and cinnamon
• olive oil

Finely chop the onion, and add it to the olive oil that is heating on a medium high heat. Once the onion begins to soften add the meat, salt, pepper and cinnamon; all to tatste. Brown the meat thoroughly, then add the rice and the broth. Once the broth has come to a boil, lower the heat and simmer the rice until cooked through, around 20 minutes. Adjust seasoning as needed.

To serve, as above, cook the pine nuts and slivered almonds in melted butter until brown. Do this on low heat and keep a close eye on the nuts as they brown quickly. Shred some cooked chicken on top of the rice, add the nuts and serve with the side of yogurt. Enjoy!

 

 

cook's note: if you want to change it up a little, you can add 3/4 cup frozen peas to the rice while its cooking; that way you get your protein, veggies, and carbs in one dish. With the diary in the yogurt you have one completely balanced meal.

 

 

Ramadan

Once a year, and for 29 or 30 days, Muslims around the world observe the holy month of Ramadan. During that time, they give up food and drink from sun-up to sun-down. And while this is the easiest way to describe what Muslims do during that month, that is not what its all about.

Ramadan is about community, about faith, about piety. It is about caring, sharing and recognising. It is about asking for forgiveness, forgiving, forgetting, and remembering. It is about forgiving those who have done you wrong, and forgetting the wrongs that have been done. It is about remembering Allah and his graces and asking Him for forgiveness. It is about coming together with those you love and sharing a meal, a prayer, an evening, a celebration.

In Lebanon, Ramadan was always a big deal. We, my cousins and I, looked forward to it all year, and the night before it was expected to be confirmed, we stayed up late to be the first to hear the confirmation. We also stayed up late to eat! For as kids, and later as adults, part of the celebration of the month lay in our having an excuse for a late night, or early morning meal. We would get up before the sun, to the sounds of the drummer boy, calling us to our Sohoor. How sad we would be when we would sleep through it, our parents not waking us up, and miss our chance to have a glass of milk and a labneh sandwich before brushing our teeth and heading back under the covers. Sometimes, all we wanted was a cup of water, but that was enough of an excuse to get up. As we grew older and our ability to withhold hunger got stronger, we started preferring sleep to its interruption and ate our last meal of the day as close to bedtime as possible only waking up for a gulp of water from the bottle sitting besides the bed. Now that the sounds of the drummer boy are part of my past, I find myself wishing I had continued waking up to his tune.

The first day of fasting was always the most difficult. We would try to keep ourselves as occupied as possible to make the day go by faster. But alas, those last few minutes were the worst. Sitting at the Iftar table, listening to Koran and waiting for the canon to blast, the minutes seemed to drag and drag. Food was calling, sight and smell; it was sheer temptation.

As kids, I remember we were first allowed to fast "half" days, missing breakfast and then eating at lunch. Then, it was missing breakfast and lunch and enjoying dinner with the family. That brought on being allowed to fast on non-school days. Finally, when we reached puberty we were "adults" and could stay the whole day without food. That was a year worth celebrating, for that year we could flaunt our fasting at school and hold ourselves "higher" than our non-fasting friends. It was an honor and a priviledge to be able to fast during school days, and we were living it up. Our biggest victory those days was when our non-fasting friends would dangle our favorite chocolate infront of us in an attempt to break our will and and have us take a bite and we would hold on tight to our fast and not fall for their tricks. It was mean, when you look back at it, but we were kids, and kids do these things. And, we did not care. We would even sit down at the same table for lunch with them at times and just look the other way, or distract ourselves with conversation.

At times, though, hunger got the best of us and we would "forget" that we were fasting. But as soon as the first taste of food hits our tongue, we would get jolted back to reality. There was one such instance that I can still clearly see in my mind's eye. My cousins and I were at a karate tournament in which they were taking part. After it was done, the organisers passed around with juice and cookie. Who can refuse juice and cookies! So I helped myself to some completely forgetting that there are still many hours to go before I could officially eat. I take a bite and only after I had taken a sip of my juice did I remember, then was reminded again by my cousins, that I was fasting. Oh, the disappointment. I was devastated. Of course I could have moved on and continued fasting, as forgetfulness is forgiven, but I was made to feel so bad that I decided to just take my shame and break my fast early. My cousins continued to tease me about it all that day.

The last day of Ramadan was also the toughest, for you never really knew when the last day was. Just like its onset, its ending has to be confirmed by the sighting of the new moon. And often times we were deceived, hoping for a holiday and a day - or rather three - off from school, and in later years work, only to wake up the next morning and learn that it is still Ramadan. Or, finish our homework the night before only to find out that school is out and that we could have spent our afternoon doing something else, like playing. But Ramadan does end one day and the morning that follows is one of great celebration and many feasts.

For us, it meant a big breakfast and a late lunch at my maternal grandmother's house. These two meals were punctuated with numerous family visits, and equal amounts of eating maamoul. The day began with the phone ringing off the hook, with people competing to be the first to call to furnish Eid greetings, usually waking us up from our restful slumber. As kids, though, we did not mind too much as the excitement was contagious. But as sleeping in became more of a luxury as adults, we started dreading the wake-up calls, and I, for one, started unhooking my phone from the socket.

The visits were typically divided into his and her families. One got to be visited on the first day of the Eid while the other got the second. The following year, the arrangement rotated. The visits were short, ranging between 15 minutes and half an hour; there were so many houses to call upon and not enough time, so we had to keep them short. Of course by the time coffee was ready and the sweets were brought out, it wa time to pick up and leave. As kids, we did not get much time to play as we had to sit with the adults and "make" conversation. But later as teenagers, the brevity of the visits was appreciated; we wanted to move them along to hang out with our friends. By the time we made it to Eid lunch we were so full of maamoul that we had to force ourselves to eat real food.

The third, and last day, of the Eid was reserved for the immediate family. Our parents would take us out to a quiet family lunch and at times amusement park. We would spend the afternoon at home waiting for visitors to knock on our door in their turn. These visitors were usually non-family members.

Not only was the Eid decorated with food and family, there was also the fun attached. The fireworks we were allowed to play with, the new clothes and shoes, and the Eid money. While some families exchange gifts for the Eid, in our family the tradition was to hand out money. That money was then either saved or spent; in my case it was always saved, or rather my  parents used to save it! When our reluctance to get dressed and go on these faily visits set in, our parents would use the money as the "carrot" to make us move. Collecting the money was one part of the tradition, comparing who had "made" more at the end of the day was the other. The cousins would huddle and start counting; when we were too young to count, we would compare the colors of the different notes. Fun times!

Then, the Eid would end, and life would go back to normal. The new clothes can now be worn every day, the fireworks would have to be put away, and sweets would go back to being reserved for special occasions. Fasting would have to wait for another year, and school out would have to wait for another holiday, of which there are many in Lebanon.

In the US, for me, Ramadan comes and goes without much fanfare. Every year I spend it in the US I feel like it is slipping farther and farther away from me. My family is far, and my community is non-existent. Even those same friends who used to celebrate it with me in Lebanon seem to be engrossed in other things and forget to bestow their wishes for the month upon me. It is hard being alone during such a holy month and very difficult to make it through on your own. But I push through it and try not to "take it personal" when my friends forget about the Eid and don't ask me how Ramadan is going. I do not make elaborate meals, and often the Eid slips by like any other day. The only reminder that this month is different than any other is my family in Lebanon, and my duty towards them to remember it and towards myself to honor it.

have you tried? pasta with spinach

In Lebanon we eat lots of stews served with a side of rice: okra, lima beans, green beans, eggplant, to name a few. One of my favorites, though, is spinach cooked with ground beef and rice. Growing up, my mom would make it at least once every other week. Until, one day, we all got tired of it being served with rice. Bring on the pasta! Since then, it has become the new favorite. And now, with a child of my own who will eat pasta with almost anything, spinach as a topping is an amazing hit. If you are looking for something different than simply mac and cheese, try this. You can serve it with a dollop of garlic-mint whole milk yogurt on top to make it even more nutritious; that's how we eat it here.

Here is what you need;

• 1/2 pound ground beef
• 1 pound bag of frozen spinach, not thawed
• 1/4 diced yellow onion
• juice of 1 lemon
• salt and pepper to season
• 1/4 water
• 2 tablespoons olive oil

Heat the olive oil in a pan. Add onion and cook until tender, but not browned. Add meat and brown completely. Season to taste. Once meat is cooked through, add spinach, lemon juice and water. Cover, lower the heat to medium low and cook for 20 minutes. When spinach is wilted and flavors have blended it is ready to serve.

To serve simply pile it on top of a plate of angle hair pasta, drizzle yogurt and enjoy.

To make the garlic-mint yogurt, crush a garlic glove with salt. Mix it with 3 tablepoons plain yogurt and 1 teaspoon dried mint.

A true Lebanese

I do not know much about toddlers; JR is my first. But I do know quite a bit about the Lebanese; my being one of them. They have a deep love for two things; they love to tell you "Bokra," and they love to practice their multilingual skills.

"I will call you; Bokra."
"When will you take me to the movies?" "Bokra."
"When is pay day?" "Bokra."
"When are you coming to visit?" "Bokra."

and so on and so forth; you get the point. But you may be asking what "bokra" means. Well, if you have not yet figured it out from context, or googled it, bokra simply means tomorrow. The Lebanese are known for putting off till tomorrow what they can, or cannot do, today. They do not make promises and they do not say "No." They simply play the time card and put things off, so that when bokra does come there is another one after it, something along the lines of "Waiting for Godot", if you are familiar with the book.

JR being half-Lebanese must have somehow inhereted the "bokra" gene. I really do not have an explanation to her behaviors other than helplessly attributing them to genetics. Now, it might well be a toddler trait, but like I said I am not an expert on toddlers, so I tell myself I have a true Lebanese on my hands. At least if I name it, I can fight it. But alas, it looks like this trait is here to stay.

"Jannah-Rae, it's nap time!" "No, Bokra I sleep."
"Jannah-Rae, are you hungry?" "La2, tomorrow I eat."
"Jannah-Rae, do you want to take a bubble bath?" "La2, I am not dirty, bokra."
"Jannah-Rae, its lotion time!" "No, I put lotion on last Sunday, tomorrow."

and one of my favorites,

"Jannah-Rae, do you want to go to story time (grocery store, get the mail, etc. insert your own)" "La2, bokra I will go!"

And, oh! Did I also mention she speaks like a true Lebanese? If you have not taken notice of the bilingual sentences, please do. They are not a typo. They are actual, real, spoken phrases. Yes, the Lebanese talk like that; we love to accentuate our sentences with words from several languages with French, English and Arabic being our favorite combinations.

If you walk down the streets on Lebanon, pass by cafes or overhear a phone conversation, you are certain to think you have gone mad for not one sentence is completely constructed in one language. Why would one do such a thing? When putting our sentences together, we take the most suitable word from one language and string it with the most appropriate one from another. I remember one time Jeff and I were dining out in Lebanon and I was teaching Jeff to ask for the bill in "Arabic." I told him, tell the waiter, "maitre, please l'7seeb," (waiter, check please). He looked at me like I was from outer space. "Are you serious?" he asked. I sure was! I do not know of any other way to ask for the check at a restaurant in Lebanon than this; a simple three word sentence where every word is from a different country! Now, that's a true Lebanese!

Summer Salads Series ~ 2

Here are two more easy summer salads for you to try.
Bon Appetit.

Beet and Carrot Salad

While at the Farmers Market this weekend, I happened upon beets, carrots and one of my favorite salad ingredients, onions. Beets are very popular in Lebanon and I want to keep them as part of my family's food repertoire. Growing up, I remember having them all the time. The go-to serving method is to cut them up, add garlic lemon juice (or red vinegar) and olive oil, and serve. With carrots on hand, I decided to modify the traditional recipe. Here is my version. 

• 4-5 medium sized beets, cut into eights
• 2-3 medium sized carrots, shredded
• 1 small sweet onion, thinly sliced
• juice from 1 small lemon
• olive oil
• salt to taste

Mix all the above in a serving bowl. Enjoy at room temperature. 

 

Baby Arugula Salad

Another Lebanese favorite is arugula. It took me a long time to find the American cousin of the Lebanese "rocca". I say cousin because although the two are very similar in taste, they are not identical in shape. The Lebanse version has flat leaves while the one found in American stores is crinkled on the edges. But, it is close enough, and will suffice for my purposes.

Like beets, in Lebanon rocca is served simply dressed with onions, lemon juice and olive oil. Some people may add black olives. I chose to add dried cranberries, mushrooms, almonds and feta cheese. Here is what you will need.

• 5 ounce bag of baby arugula
• 3-4 white button mushrooms, sliced
• handful of driend cranberries, I like the orange flavored ones
• handful of sliced dry roasted almonds, I like the unsalted ones
• feta cheese
• white balsamic honey-mustard dressing (recipe below)

Toss all the ingredients together. Plate and serve.

cook's note: (1) you can also add sliced onions to the arugula salad

                    (2) to make the white balsamic honey-mustard dressing you will need store bought honey mustard, white balsamic vinegar, and olive oil. Shake, to taste, the three ingredients in a bottle. Dressing can be made ahead of time and kept, in the refrigirator, for up to a month.