I love the devotion in middle-eastern cooking. My dad purchases fresh and dried spices from local ethnic markets including dried lemons, fresh turmeric roots, cardamom, whole nutmeg, coriander, saffron, anise, cinnamon sticks, cumin seeds, whole peppercorns, the list continues. My mother roasts the spices in the oven or on the stove before grounding the blend. She makes bulks of the spice and stores glass jars of spices in the freezer. The aroma of the spices dances throughout the house. Spice day is my favorite, my mother is full of patience and dedication, pride for her cooking beaming through her eyes.
I am the black sheep of the family having been a vegetarian since elementary school. Vegetarianism is a foreign concept to Arabs; why wouldn’t you want to go to a local farm, fondly pet a luscious goat before bringing it home for dinner, it’s body in one bag and the severed head with baby-browns in another. I don’t judge my family for eating meat, I have my own reasons and they have theirs. I know the meat they purchase is halal- a muslim belief that requires the animal to be raised in a clean and healthy environment, and the slaughter is done after leading the animal to it’s favorite spot after having been tenderly cared for all day. The slaughter is a quick chop of the head, and the animal is not supposed to see the knife. During this time, the person slaughtering the animal is reciting a prayer. Islam teaches compassion for animals, and I cannot think of a moment where anyone in my family went against this belief.
I only detest their need to insistently persuade and judge me for not cooking large meats. I cannot stand the process of cooking meat and poultry. Arab cooking is not as simple as burger meat and steak (which I can cook), it requires knowing how to properly clean and soak the animal, a long process of marinating the meat, and various methods of cooking the meat. I do not like it.
Watching the experimental art film “Dinner As I Remember” by Francis Almendárez, I am reminded of how important passing cooking traditions is to family. Cooking is an act of devotion, a primary love language within ethnic cultures. My dad complains we do not care enough for him, which confused me because I just finished purchasing this man an expensive apple watch and sent him a message to express my appreciation. I do the same for my mother, and she’s even fancier so I really have to save a bit before buying her a gift. Now, I realize hanging on to traditional cooking is more important to them.
I know cooking and baking is important to me. Whenever I am stressed or a friend of mine is going through something, I bake. The amount of times I accidentally snorted powdered sugar in the middle of the night is concerning. Despite the joys and comfort of cooking, food as a love language can be difficult because not all of use speak the same language. I love cleaner foods, not to say I am a health nut because as much as I’d love to be that is not reality, but most days I want to eat foods that leave me feeling clean. My mother loves to cook too much (I inherited that trait- we can’t help it, let’s feed the whole block) and she is not shy with butter and dairy. And guess who has an intolerance to dairy? Yes, me, the grass-eater. There have been far too many arguments with my mom about why I do not want to eat all of the rice pudding she made and me pointing out that one time I was in the hospital because she made us drink a glass of milk everyday (and I threw up everyday and had intense headaches because we did not know how severe my intolerance was). So, you see, food as a love language can be beautiful but communication boundaries still exist.
confessions of a con artist 