A photo of my father and my mother on their wedding day.

My sister and I developed very different philosophies on life and the concept of “the future” after my father’s passing. A fairly obvious statement, surely. Everyone processes these game changers differently, but it seems my sister and I went in completely opposite directions.

If you’re to ask her where she sees herself in five years, she’ll tell you exactly what the picture looks like: where it takes place, who’s in it, who she will be and all the pieces in place around her. She holds this vision in her head and, rest assured, will spend the next five years of her life making decisions with this dream in mind. She’s adaptable yes, she’ll take on changes as they come, but will always swing these unexpected events back in line with her vision.

If you ask me where I see myself in five years, I’ll give you a fairly vague answer. I can tell you how I want to feel about myself, how I want to feel about my life thus far, and maybe a little about who I’m hoping will still be close to me. It’s not to say I’m less ambitious than my sister, or that my outlook on life is much less considered. I think that ultimately, all I can ever know are the changes I can affect in myself. I’ve learned early on that there’s little you can do to change your circumstances, you just have to try to be a strong enough person, a self assured enough person, to ensure that whatever your circumstances, the changes they reap, will never ultimately defy you or your spirit.

Tonight, I remembered a very specific conversation I had with my sister about our idea of the future. We stayed up late together one night chatting in the two-bedroom apartment we lived in with my mother in West Vancouver, my sister was around 14 or 15 at the time and I was around 12. My mother was sound asleep in her empty bed that my sister shared with her. Throughout our youth, one of us always had to share a room with our mother – so she wouldn’t sleep alone. If you had told us this was the picture we should expect “in five years from now”, with us living in Vancouver, in an apartment, without our dad, our friends or any of our familiar surroundings, we would have surely laughed, even scoffed.

My sister, who held a much stronger attachment to her friends back home being 14 and having felt she was ripped away from her vision of her joyful future surrounded by life long friends, turned to me and asked the simplest question: “Do you ever wonder where we would be right now if dad had never died?” My response came quickly and without hesitation, “No, not at all. What’s the point? None of that stuff will happen now, so I just don’t ever think about it. It’s just never going to be.”

In hindsight, I realize that I was a total buzz kill on my sister’s trip down nostalgia lane (or can it really be called nostalgia if you’re concocting memories of a future that will never come to fruition?), but that’s truly how I felt. I remember even being slightly confused by my sister’s question, pontificating on the “what if” question seemed like such a total waste of time.

I’d almost forgotten how much I believed in what my 12-year-old self had so confidently declared all those years ago, until tonight when, in a casual conversation with some friends, one of whom happened to have very recently experienced a mighty game changer herself, noted that she needs to get over her grief right now, because you can’t hold on to memories that will never happen. That future just isn’t the future anymore.

I was a little stunned, and stumped, by her clarity and equally stupefied by this show of incredible strength. I was so dumbfounded that I completely failed to articulately empathize with what she said. All I could manage to mumble was, “Whatever you do, hold on to that”, because somehow since that conversation with my sister, I seemed to have forgotten about that myself.

So, here’s something I do know about the next five years: I have no idea where I’ll be living. I have no idea if I’ll be working the same job or at the same company. I have no idea if I’ll be in a relationship or have children. I have no idea where my friends and family will be. And while I hope the best of all these situations, I cannot possibly foresee the future. All I can be absolutely certain of, is that I won’t be making any decisions based on fear that I won’t attain some pre-fabricated vision I’ve set out in my head. The future will change as it will, and the only thing I want is to remain resolutely happy ,whether it’s with or despite my circumstances.

I’m going to do my very best to hold on to that.

I was 16 years old the first time I ever sunk my teeth into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I was babysitting for my friend’s younger siblings (about three of them) at various ages of toddler-dom. Before she left to work, leaving the children in my charge, she gave me the run-down, the facts, the “if you do exactly as I say we shouldn’t have to deal with any meltdowns, breakdowns or disasters” list. I listened intently. I did exactly as I was told. Don’t fuck with the routine. 

Amongst my laundry list of “make sure you do’s” – the necessary ones to make for a smooth day – one of the items was, “if they get hungry, just make a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They love it”.

As an Arab kid, peanut butter and jelly on white Wonder Bread, was a foreign thing I had only heard about on television, in shows like “The Wonder Years” where there was always a stack of white bread on the table. I associated it as a retro-American version of shawarma. The jelly typically strawberry. I was encountering my first opportunity to consume this piece of North American nostalgia, as we didn’t usually stock any of these ingredients in my own home (where woud the lahmah – meat – go?)

Come lunch time, I was pretty excited. I started crafting sandwiches in my best “Leave it to Beaver” attitude, my butter knife smoothly slicing through the peanut butter like a JIF commercial. Or was it Skippy’s?

My first thought was: I hadn’t really had much toast that was purposefully left un-toasted, before. This is new. But eventually I grew to enjoy the stickiness of the peanut butter on the roof of my mouth and the little pops of sweetness and tartness simultaneously from the jam (must look up difference between “jelly” and “jam”).

It was a formative experience in my North America-life.

And now I’m one of those people who considers good old PB&J a staple to her fridge. Of course, it’s always alongside the lahmeh.

Oh memes. The source of so much whacky internet hilarity and oddities, and now there’s one for Arabs too! I always felt a tad guilty at my constant poking fun at my own culture, or really just illuminating how ridiculous my peoples can be. But, thanks to a couple of sites I have newly discovered I am now much relieved to know that there are others out there, just like myself, who find being an Arab a rather funny affair. 

What do hairpiece, herpes and Yasser Arafat have in common?

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before!

The actual answer is no where near what you’d imagine (unless you’re hardcore into devising internet memes or have already seen this brilliant use of animated gifs in action).

From the wits that brought you bacon or beer can, I now present to you Yasser Arafat in “Hairpiece” or “Herpes” [Click on image to be taken to the site and explore the genius that is this joke, then come back here for further reading...]

Upon discovering this, I promptly sent a link to it to my sister who very quickly replied, “OH MY GOD I’M SHOWING THIS TO EVERYONE I KNOW!” and surely, they got a really big laugh out of it. I’m not sure if it’s funny to just Arabs, or funny to anyone-who’s-mildly-interested-in-the-news kind of thing, but let me tell you, as an Arab this is a real tickler.

Arab Memes

My very own mini-me (read: cousin) turned me on to a nifty Tumblr called Arab Memes. In full disclosure, I was slightly ashamed that I sooner learned of the Inbred Cats phenomenon than I did of one that was about my very own peoples. Several of these jokes had me laughing embarrassingly out-of-nowhere loud on public transit as I perused them on my phone. Here are a few of my favourites that, I feel, perfectly encapsulate all that is ridiculous about my culture:

Masterfully concocted by Omar Ayloush

This absolutely, positively, most definitely will be elaborated on in a future blog post and that is: the paradox of the salon (living room) that is too nice to actually use and that us kids were NEVER allowed to step foot in, nay, look at.

This question has made for awkward moments galore growing up. Actually, the awkward moments persist to this day whenever the custom of cheek kissing ensues.

Modern Anglo-Arab and the Art of Chatting with other Arabs in the Internet Age

This is no recent phenomenon, but it seems that the birth of the internet once gave rise to a new style of communication amongst modern, net-savvy Arabs: Anglo-Arab speak. Here, we’ve devised a clever way to replace certain Arabic letters with numbers, framed by English letters, in order to represent an Arabic word. Take the following comment on the Arab Memes Facebook Page wherein one fan attempts to provide another fan with some posting instructions:

@ hussein I haid the same problem lezem tekbos l “standard” button byotla3lak l typing box

Allow me to deconstruct this for you:

lezem tekbos = “You must press”. In Arabic this would appear as such:  لازم إكبس *

byotla3lak =” It will get you”, “it will give you”, “it will appear”. In Arabic this would appear as such: يعطيك *

All told, what this fan is generously advising @hussein is that he must press the “standard” button which will then provide him with the text box.

Et voila, modern Anglo-Arab defined. My university rhetorics professor would have surely given me an A+ for this observation.

And there you have it, a short post capturing the evolution of modern Arabs making fun of themselves on the internet.

The world, and the web, just got a little less lonely.

Photo by simplerich, via Flickr

The subject of today’s post, and what I’m sure is a more-common-than-I-expect writer’s conundrum, is: How much of your family’s dirty laundry can you air  (read: turn into a novel, a book of short stories, or a screenplay) before it is seen as tasteless exploitation and/or potentially damaging to members of your clan and your relationships with them? Are there stories you really can’t tell?

I say this because my family, like most other families, have developed our own strain of functioning dysfunctionality and yet my intuition tells me that there are a lot of bat-shit crazy stories floating around that are sure to make for a really compelling read. The kind of stories that make you doubt how true they actually are because they seem so surreal that every detail invariably sounds like blatant hyperbole – type stories, except for one thing: they’re true.

So far, the more radical stories in my family, the really obscene or embarrassing ones that make us look like caged animals, seem to be kept within a tight knit circle of family and family friends. Anyone new to the family is subjected to a kind of initiation process to see if they can really roll with our crazy. Because there’s a lot of it.

Here’s a for instance of one of our more out there family stories:  My grandparents, aged 80-something and 71 respectively, have had an on-again, off-again marriage for the better half of their seniority. Last year, for the third time in under a decade, my grandparents have undergone a legal trial separation, with my grandfather – a man who’s never independently cared for his own welfare- going so far as to move out to his own bachelor pad which consisted of a twin bed, one recliner, a small TV and a microwave. Despite our best efforts to find him a little day-to-day help,  he’s considered too capable to be eligible for assisted living and yet he’s not capable enough to remember to feed himself three times a day. Laundry is an entirely separate beast.

Inevitably, a month or so later, my grandmother seduces my grandfather with enough home-cooked meals, diabolically: his favourites, that he breaks his lease and moves back in within the month and they re-enter the honeymoon phase. That is, until their next major battle, about a week or so later, in which they threaten divorce all over again.

For two people who consistently claim that they’re old, decrepit and exhausted, they seem to put a lot of energy into their multiple (almost) divorces.

Yet, despite having told you all this, I assure you, there are many, many more details of this story that I have intentionally left out.

Back to this mystical initiation process, it usually goes down a little like this: First, we sit around the dinner table as though we’re about to tell horror stories around the campfire. Then we start talking with one another about the latest batch of utterly insane stories, except we start somewhere in the middle, teasing the uninitiated with the most scintillating scandalous details of the story – like we’re about to reveal this enormous inside joke long held within the family.

And then, someone breaks the rhythm in order to bring in the new person, which is followed by a round of us collectively asking one another, “Should we say?”, “Can we say?” By this point, the new guest has no idea what to expect, save for some thoroughly ludicrous details that were leaked earlier. And then, as if it’s the most momentous occasion of life itself, we mutually all agree to let the person in on the story, and start from the beginning.

The tale is almost always as satisfyingly shocking as the theatrics had promised, in which case, our new guest is unequivocally hooked, both to our family and its drama.

This is how we go about indoctrinating new members into our family insanity. It was never a planned strategy, it somehow just always seemed to manifest like this.

So here’s the rub: I wish to do this on a higher level. With complete strangers. Potentially for a publishing deal and some cash. I don’t wish to slander anyone, merely to share my familial lunacy with others and prove to the world that the old adage is true, every family really is fucked up in its own way.

Is that so wrong?

Imam Khalid Latif photo courtesy of delawaremuslims.com

On the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 World Trade Centre attacks, I was humbled by the strength, courage and humility of Muslims as they expressed, many for the first time, how they felt on that fateful day. Over the weekend, I spent some time reading some of these thoughtful expressions (one happened to be written by my talented cousin Dina for her college newspaper – total proud mama moment there). But of all the pieces I found, this story, honestly and beautifully recanted by Imam Khalid Latif, the Executive Director and Chaplain at the Islamic Center at NYU and the Muslim Chaplain for NYPD, was by far my favourite.

Khalid Latif: Shattered Silence by The Moth on Mixcloud

Photo courtesy of Joel Cran

In my early 20s I came to the big fat realization that I was at risk of upholding an Arab tradition I never wished to be a part of: to move from my mother’s house straight into my husband’s house. The thought of having no independence – to truly discover myself and my own living habits, good, bad or ugly – was terrifying. To me, it was the biggest failure I could think of. It was giving up on myself. It was too easy. I had to know if I could go it alone. If I could rely on myself solely and completely without anyone’s help. I simply wouldn’t be able call myself an adult otherwise.

Since coming to that realization, I’ve consistently sought to test my ability to be self-reliant: I moved to Toronto for a year by myself, having never visited the city and without knowing a single soul who resided there. I travelled around Asia and Australia for four months and survived losing all my debit and credit cards (but thankfully not my passport).

Yet, despite my best efforts, a year and a half later I found myself nestled safely in my mother’s home in North Vancouver, eating food that she had prepared, watching cable television that she had paid for and ignoring my pile of laundry just long enough until it invariably drove her crazy and she just did it herself.

Needless to say, the whole independence thing just never quite stuck.

During the time that I was coddled spoiled looked after by my mother, I sought to establish independence in small and symbolic ways: I made my own doctor’s, dentist’s and what-have-you appointments, I paid my own bills, I forced her into accepting rent, I even started seeing a financial planner to get a better handle on how to save my money. All very big girl stuff indeed.

But there was one thing my mother and I relentlessly argued over, something I felt was a massive symbol of my independence, and something, in her mind, was completely insignificant and futile: Owning my own luggage.

Christmas time always brought about this prickly subject. Amidst my shopping, I would be confronted by hard-to-resist sales on otherwise-too-expensive-to-purchase luggage sets. The shiny, professional looking ones that came with a large bag and sophisticated matching carry on. I would envision myself well-dressed with my fantastic luggage wheeling it around the airport on my way to jet set across the world. It was the icon of independence in my eyes. I remember thinking, “Until I have luggage, I will never be free.”

For some reason, living with my mother often meant having to seek her approval on things, particularly ones that involved some kind of financial investment. Being the type of woman who could justify just about any purchase, I knew if my mother couldn’t justify this, then I really need to rethink the whole deal.

Unsurprisingly, her answer to the eternal luggage question was always the same: “Why would you waste your money on that when you could use mine? We have a ton of bags in the storage room you could use.” And my answer was always the same, “Because mom, one day when I move out and I need to travel I’m going to need my own bags, so I might as well get them on sale now”.

Looking back, I realize that mine was a decidedly infallible argument, a perfect justification, and yet she always disapproved, and I always heeded her advice, however reluctantly.

I am now 26 years old. Two months ago, I moved into my own apartment, granted, with a friend, but it’s Vancouver and it was nearly impossibly to afford living on my own (how’s that for an adult decision?).

I do my own grocery shopping, I do my own laundry, I cook (or try to), I clean, I budget and do all the gloriously independent things I’ve long dreamed of but never achieved. And this time I really think it’s going to stick.

Only, I’m going on a wee trip this weekend and just remembered that I do not own any luggage.

If this wasn’t an ideal “I told you so” moment, I don’t know what is.

Rather than rub it in my mother’s face, though, I’ve come to the realization that perhaps the reason my mother never wanted me to buy my own luggage was that it was just too hard a fact for her to face. The same way my bringing up the subject of “finally moving out” would always ruffle her feathers.

It was yet another thing I would not need her for. One less thing to borrow, one less thing to come to the house and poach from her like all kids do with their parents, one less tie to one another, one less bond. As much as I wanted, or demanded, to assert my independence, I’d failed to realize the impact it would have on her. I had spent (almost) 26 consecutive years being her kid, under her roof, and now, seemingly overnight, I would be a 26 year old independent woman who can do things on her own, including buy her own luggage and fly away with it at a moment’s notice.

What I had completely failed to realize, overall, was that what, to me, was a profound symbol of my ultimate independence must have been, for her, a desolate symbol of her worst fear realized: loneliness, abandonment, and being left behind.

All this time, I was so blindly and selfishly stuck on amassing this laundry list of “symbols” of my independence, these insignificant trinkets that I thought were the ideals of what growing up really meant.

But it’s about none of that, and I’m glad I had this insight now before I turned into a ridiculous caricature of an adult as opposed to just actually being one.

So, what do I intend on doing? I intend on calling up my mother tomorrow and asking her to borrow a duffel bag, that’s what. Because the reality is, there is nobody’s baggage I would be more honoured and privileged to lug around than that of the woman who has birthed me, raised me, fed me, cured me, listened to me and been so fucking patient with me for 26 years (and counting).

Death or Rice? - photo by Kamath_In, Flickr

My own private shame is that I, as a woman, as an Arab, do not know how to boil rice. It’s a skill practically embedded in the genetic code of every Middle Eastern female in existence, except for me. Sometimes I think about the fact that if someone were to spontaneously confront me with the choice: “Death or Rice,” I think I would seriously consider the death option. Just because it seems a little more straightforward.

In some Arab circles, my inability to master the perfect pot of rice may render me fundamentally “unmarryable”. It’s the elephant in the room whenever the group discussion turns towards cooking and/or the mystery of my being single (which it inevitably almost always does). I can hear the women at my mother’s afternoon teas and their comments now: “That poor girl, if only she had learned to at least make a half decent rice, she wouldn’t be alone eating only side dishes and half meals right now”. This is our version of the infamous “Spinster with a zillion cats” fable.

Never failing me, my generous mother has never stopped trying to teach me the intricacies of rice boiling. We had our first lesson when I was 14, then again when I moved out at 19, then again when I moved to Toronto (to really, really live on my own this time) at 22.

Each time, she would patiently explain how to soak the rice in warm water and then drain it (do this a few times) to get rid of the excess starch, then how boil it in water, remaining ever conscious of the fine balance between the amount of grain proportionate to the amount of water in the pot. For whatever reason, somehow it never worked out for me. Instead of a sumptuous pot of fluffy, soft white rice I either wound up with a mushy disaster or a pot of vastly undercooked inedible grains. Every time I tried, it was rice apocalypse. My mom still can’t quite explain the phenomenon.

In a couple of weeks, I’ve made a date with my mom to try and learn this essential skill yet again. The motives behind why she’s agreed to undergo this futile endeavour confound me. I suppose her relentlessness is a testament to her maternal skills, or perhaps it has something to do with her own fears of what people will think of an Arab woman who’s managed to raise a daughter with absolutely zero rice-boiling capabilities.

I’m not certain how my next attempt will fare, and admittedly the thought of facing my shame for the umpteenth time in my life is enough to make me want to back out of the lesson altogether (maybe we can just order in some damn rice). And yet, this means too much to me and my for my fate as an Arab woman.

On the bright side, I figure that if all else fails, that is, if the rice should never boil,  I think I’ll make a slightly less dramatic choice than opting for death, I’ll simply meet destiny half way and buy a rice maker.

Taiwan: The Heart of Asia, logo and slogan by Taiwanese Tourism Bureau. Photo courtesy of Mooi Hsieh, Flickr

My favourite reaction to any post is when people leave a comment, here, on Facbeook, or via Twitter, telling me they identify with the story. It makes the most foreign sounding experience a universal one, and there’s infinite power behind that.

This lead me to want to hear other stories about feeling foreign, or being in a place where you have been culturally misunderstood, or on the flip side, have completely misunderstood another culture. I asked my ridiculously talented friend Monica Hamburg, the master mind behind the blog Your Dose of Lunacy, to submit a guest blog post surrounding this theme. To my delight, she took some time out of her busy schedule to contribute. Without further ado, I present Monica Hamburg in “Just Dance”.

A few years ago, my boyfriend and I were invited by our friend, Tim, to a gathering one of his Taiwanese friends, Ariel, was having. I had met her before a few times and found her friendly and lively – if slightly bossy.  I found it both fascinating and amusing how, at restaurants, she and her other Taiwanese friends seemed to be obsessive about photographing their food.

We arrived at Ariel’s house, and she introduced us to her son, who was about 18, and the rest of the guests.  The group was entirely Taiwanese with the exception of my boyfriend, Chris  and me (so starkly Caucasian, I’ve often had people be impressed by the realism of my eerie white vampire makeup on Halloween. I hadn’t worn any).  And, well Tim, is white too, technically – but he speaks fluent Mandarin, his wife is Taiwanese and he lived in Taiwan for many years.  And so he fits in pretty well.

Ariel was a consummate hostess: very welcoming – and constantly encouraging to eat.  There was no need to encourage, however, as the food was delicious and there was lots of it.  The group was exceptionally kind too: conducting some of the conversation in English. One of the guests, was apparently a very famous poet in Taiwan – and much of the conversation centered around him.

Of course, the conversation topics were fairly foreign to us – and we had little to contribute – but this was perfectly fine.
While there were moments we felt out of place, everything was going reasonably well until the entertainment section of the evening where were informed that everyone was now to perform in some fashion: read poems, do a dance etc.  No one had told us about this.  Perhaps we could just sit it and watch?

No.

A few people read Mandarin poems – written by the poet guests. All stood up in front of the guests to recite.

 They asked Tim to read the English version of one of the poems.

I recall it going something like the following, but I may be paraphrasing:

Tree branches.  Night.
A swan is saddened by the waves.
The sea whispers.  

Waves. Why?
A man touches a snail and walks towards the water. 


“You read now,” the hostess commanded Chris.

“No, it’s OK.  Tim read it nicely.”

“You read it again.”

So Chris stood up and read the poem.

“Not good! When you read poetry you read like this.”  She read a line with her voice lilting up during one part of the sentence and down towards the end.  “And you look up! At people with each line!”

“Oh. OK.” Chris said.

“You read again.  This time better!”

Slightly uncomfortable, and mildly amused, Chris read the poem again.

“OK.” She responded. “Better.  But needs work.”

Chris sat down. I didn’t know we were being graded, I whispered to him. The hostess focused her attention on me. “Now you.  You dance.”

“Uh.”

“Oh! What kind of dance do you do?” One of the other guests asked, excitedly.

I paused.  Uncomfortably, I responded. “Pole dancing.”

“She’s very good,” said Ariel, “You dance for us now!”

Dance? Sensually? In front of a group of Taiwanese intellectuals…? 

I really couldn’t picture anything more awkward. And I am the queen of awkward experiences.

My brain whirled. How do I get out of this? My master plan was to make a desperate plea that I needed to have the “right music”.

“What kind of music?” Her son asked. “I have lots of music.”

Damn.

 “Lil Jon. I, uh, can only dance to Lil Jon.”

“I don’t have that.  Mom doesn’t let me.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

I’d like to be impressed by my quick thinking, but I think there was another element that helped distract the guests from the intended plan: the 104 proof Chinese Rice Whiskey.

All in all, a good night.

And, as per usual, I managed to look like a fool, even sans dancing.

“It’s fascinating,” I remarked to Tim, “that the Taiwanese seem to always want pictures of the food.”

“Uh, Monica… That’s not a Taiwanese habit.  They’re all food columnists.”

Oh.

Presenting Monica Hamburg, photo taken by Erica Hargreave

Monica Hamburg acts, blogs, podcasts, tells true stories, writes, speaks and markets.  In her spare time, she rides public transit.

If you have a story about feeling foreign or know someone who might want to share one, please email me at lima [dot] alazzeh [at] gmail [dot] com

Mansaf: Jordanian National Dish, photo by Naciketa Datta

There are certain foods that are so filled with nostalgic appeal, that sometimes it’s hard to decipher whether a craving for said food is really a hankering after its flavour, or just a need to connect with a certain place, state of mind or emotional state that it invokes. That’s the definition of “comfort food” to me, or “take-me back-there food” as I like to call it.

Any immigrant will surely tell you that finding national dishes, made to your tastes, just the way you remember them, in a foreign country is enough to quell any feelings of alienness or otherness. It’s the perfect way to find that little place that brings you home within yourself.

In my family, we have many “take-me-back-there” dishes, but a particular favourite is Mansaf, a dish that is native to my father’s homeland, Jordan. Mansaf consists of layered flatbread and rice served with lamb that has been cooked in broth made of fermented dried yogurt and finally topped with almonds and pine nuts. Goat is also an acceptable protein alternative to be served with the dish. It’s unfortunate that the literal description of one of our favourite foods will likely force any gag reflex to react unfavourably, and admittedly it’s an acquired taste, like most national foods. However, Mansaf is a food of the ages, steeped in rich traditions and always making an appearance when making new ones.

Mansaf is one of those dishes that seems almost Darwinian; it evolved to survive the eating habits of the bédouins (Middle Eastern nomadic tribes). As it is usually prepared in copious quantities, it easily accommodates a large scale feeding of sufficient appetites, ideal for a group of people who make it their business to roam the desert.

The genius of the dish is that the soaked flatbread acts as a bonding agent for the grains of rice, flecks of pine nuts and ribbons of lamb. A handy trait considering the fact that bedouins eat with their hands (some do to this very day). What’s even more brilliant is that the soaked flatbread allows for easy manipulation so that the tribespeople are able to roll all the ingredients into a ball using only one hand (propriety dictates that the left hand be held behind the back while sharing food from a large platter, avoiding the incivility of  greedily digging in with both hands).

As time moved on, Mansaf became a celebratory dish, much like the Christmas turkey or Easter ham. Only Mansaf was more multifaceted, not being limited to religious occasions alone. It was often common to expect it at birthdays, graduations, or even at humble family gatherings and reunions. Over the course of my life, I came to associate Mansaf with happiness, togetherness and overall satiety, in belly and in life.

That was until my father’s funeral. Not to be overly dramatic, but Arab funerals are a bitch to endure. Most funerals are, I know this, they’re never joyous occasions, but unlike in the Western culture where it’s common to have a celebration of life, Arab funerals are aimed at making every mourner bawl their eyes out and then want to slit their wrists.

Wikipedia graciously describes the Islamic grieving process as a “3-day mourning period … observed by increasing devotion, receiving visitors and condolences, and avoiding decorative clothing jewellery.” Having lived through an actual Arab, Muslim funeral, I can attest that this translates to:  more than three days of listening to your grandmother wail at the top of her lungs, having your every move scrutinized and commented upon, particularly if you don’t seem to be mourning “correctly”, and a non-stop festival of Mansaf.

On the first day of my father’s funeral, the Mansaf offered a little solace and respite from the general mood of depression. It was also an appropriate tribute, being my father’s favourite dish.

On the second night, we were again pleased to indulge in our favourite food, again seeking comfort in its familiarity and thinking briefly on the happy occasions in which we shared this dish with our family and friends.

On the third night, we were perhaps willing to accept that Mansaf was simply a convenient dish to be served to a large group of visitors and mourners, and considered ourselves lucky that everyone at least ate from their own plate, using utensils.

On the fourth day, we couldn’t possibly fathom eating more Mansaf. The pile of beige and brown food, once appealing, even exciting, now proved to be a burden on us, not only emotionally, but digestively.

My sister and I were backed up.

We hadn’t had a piece of fruit or vegetable in days. Along with praying for our father’s soul to be invited by Allah into the heavens, we found ourselves ending each prayer with a little noncommittal “and if you don’t have anything to do after taking care of dad’s soul could you possibly arrange for a small salad or something green on the table later. We’d seriously appreciate it.”

My sister being 14 and myself being 11 at the time, both had some sense that our hearts may not have been entirely in the right place. We knew that being even slightly consumed by the issue of the ongoing Mansaf was irreverent and even highly inappropriate. We should have been consumed with our foreboding future, our father’s absence, and our mother’s grief. But constipation can be quite imposing on your ability to focus.

That night, dinner time approached, and we felt a slight dread in the pit of our stomachs ( along with guilt over our thoughts and three nights’ worth of Mansaf). Afraid to face yet another harsh reality after losing our father, my sister and I peeked around the corner into the kitchen to see if we could get a glimpse of what’s on the menu for that night.

And there it was. Layers upon layers of beige and brown, with not a hint of green in sight.

Dismayed, we hung our heads low and walked towards the sea of black in the main living room that was my grieving family. The whole experience was enough to warrant the demise of our love for Mansaf. It was simply too much, all of it.

That was until my aunt, sitting close to my bewildered, broken mother, called us over and cautiously whispered, “Girls, did you see any salad in the kitchen? I swear if I eat any more Mansaf I’ll never go to the bathroom again.”

That was our cue. The ripple of muffled giggles went around in a circle. First my aunt, then us, and then, even my mom.

The Mansaf came out of the kitchen with all its usual pomp and circumstance, and the visitors lined up to scoop their fill and move along. We were the last to serve ourselves, partly in reluctance, partly in reverence. We had to hide our smiles, of course, for fear of scrutiny, but it was that moment that sealed our love of Mansaf for years to come, for its ability to comfort us, to offer much-needed reprieve and to help us laugh to keep from crying.

Since then, Mansaf has always been a very special food in my house, that we now delight in on no particular occasion at all. I’ve even joked about getting a dog and naming it Mansaf. I suppose you could equate it to the same feeling that drove Gwyneth Paltrow to name her first-born “Apple”: it represents everything that is good and whole and right with the world. And it will always back you up when you need it most.

For more food-related tales be sure to check out the next Rain City Chronicles show at the Firehall Arts Centre on May 11th featuring stories on the theme “Recipe for …”. Get your tickets now before they sell out.

"Hopefully" ... this will be you one day.

Over the course of my life, I’ve come to understand (and often misunderstand) the true meaning behind various Arab colloquialisms. The major one is “Inshallah”, which basically translates to “Hopefully”, or more specifically, “With the grace of God”. It is not to be confused with the stigmatized Spanish colloquialism “Manana” which implies laziness or procrastination.

“Inshallah” is a reverent term, basically saying that if God wishes it to happen, then it will, and it will be good. I suppose it’s closer to Karma than anything else. Lately in my life, there’s one Arab colloquialism that I’ve frequently had to reckon with: “Obalick”, more specifically, “And hopefully for you …” a term that, although always mentioned with the best of intentions, somehow always leaves me feeling absolutely hopeless.

As a 26 year old perpetually single girl with a married sister and an engaged mother, I’ve come into contact with “Obalick” more times than I would prefer. When I was a bridesmaid at my sister’s wedding last year, friends and family would greet me with a hearty congratulations for my sister’s good fortune accompanied by a hearty “Obalick” to slip into my pocket for a rainy day.

In fact, for the entirety of my sister’s 5 year pre-marriage relationship, whenever anyone asked for an update on her relationship status, the conversation would inevitably end up with a “Oh congratulations!” followed closely by a “And Obalick, Lima”. Most of the time I would be in an entirely separate room, not even part of the conversation, but would hear the phrase shouted across the apartment at me. There was no escaping it, even if I wasn’t directly part of the conversation.

What I think people don’t realize about “Obalick” is that, over time, it becomes an increasingly cumbersome phrase to hear. Despite its attempt at offering hope, what it inevitably does is highlight a decided lack. “And hopefully for you …” begins to take on the onerous meaning of “that thing which you don’t currently have but we hope you will get”. And really, who feels comfortable being consistently reminded of that which they are living without? And perhaps that thing that everyone believes you should be living with, but that you’re perfectly fine living without for the time being?

I’m frequently told that single women across many cultures suffer from some form of “Obalick” at one time or another. Especially at weddings. The ever-awkward “So, when are you getting married?” question is always indelicately dropped on these auspicious (for someone else) occasions. Whether you’re at your cousin’s Lutheran wedding, or at your second cousin twice removed’s Indian wedding, if you’re single, you’re going to be targeted.

Your aunts will want to know the intimate details of “what went wrong” in your last relationship, while your grandmother obnoxiously harps, “Why are you single and she’s getting married already?”. Your mother will try to come to your defense with a well-meaning “She’s just not ready yet” or “She’s been focusing on her career!”. It’s a conversation that infuriates just about everybody, mostly because there is never a concrete answer, at least not one you’re willing to get into over a slice of vanilla cake with buttercream icing.

But Arab females, in their discretely passive aggressive culture of guilt, have managed to avoid that conversation entirely and instead create a smarmy, rub-it-in-your-face term that encompasses that entire uncomfortable dialogue in a single reference. It’s really a mystery to me why more women haven’t been invited to plan some kind of Middle Eastern Cold War. They’d be genius at it.

Lately though, I’ve realized that what I most resent about “Obalick” is its subtle imposition on the hopes and dreams you have for yourself, which may not be in line at all with what others have in mind for you.

What if you don’t hopefully want that for you? What if you have indeed decided to focus on your career? What if you decided that your relationship doesn’t necessarily have to end in marriage? Or what if it just happens to be taking you a little longer than the rest of the family, or family friends, or the world over to meet someone who you want to finally commit your life to? Are you then expected to be subject to the pains of “Obalick” for countless years to come? It all seems a little redundant to have to deal with, if a tinge rude.

As someone who has been on the receiving end of over a hundred “Obalick”s in her life, I’ve finally figured out a swift solution to nipping the entire awkward conversation in the bud: Just nod your head and say, “Inshallah”.