What the sun brings

Laundry, is what I’ve been working on for the past week since our move to our new place. We had about a half room full, and I know this description does not help you much since it would obviously depend on the size of the room spoken of. But I thought a half room full sounds both impressive and scary. Dirty laundry is something we have in abundance, as I imagine the case for most house holds with young ones. The arrival of longer sunny days, adds to the heap of course, but we welcome it. And we throw all our clothes down our very own and very new–for us– laundry shoot. Oh my! I have to sort through most of the clothes and decide which items have been thrown prematurely and just completely out of excitement. A laundry shoot is a luxury indeed!

***

The warm weather did not only invite more dirty clothes piles, but a fresh wound; the kind that will leave a small mark to remind us that we are very fortunate. The kind that prompts flashbacks behind a mothers’ squeezed shut eyes, along side held breaths with forgotten exhales. Yes, breath. Apparently it doesn’t always come involuntarily, you have to remind yourself and force that exhale out, and open those shut eyes, and wipe the tears streaming down and prostrate twice and be thankful. They were just six stitches, and the girl was so brave. “If only all my young patients were as composed as this one”. She is still a cute little girl she tells everyone who needs to know. She also likes her new stitches. You see they make her look fweaky, like Fwankenstein, and both words mean that she’s beautiful in a very special four year old way. If only her mama would absorb some of this grand wisdom.

The stitches will come out next Monday, her scar will first turn red and within the year will blend in with the rest of her skin color, granted it’s covered with sunscreen and hidden from the sun. She’s fine. She truly is. I just like to take things out of proportion sometimes.

I’ll leave you with this though: Feed the poor. It’s not a charity for them. It’s a charity for your loved ones. If you can, feed the poor.

Peace.

Condolences

I was fourteen when I borrowed a black top from my mother’s wardrobe, found a pair of black jeans from my closet and headed over to a friends house. My mother gave my friends and I a ride to condole one of my girlfriends for the loss of her father. At the young age of fourteen, I had lost an uncle and a couple of grandparents when I was about four or five years old. Meaning I hadn’t really experienced or comprehended what the loss of a father meant. Most of my other friends hadn’t either. The aunties, uncles and older guests filled the large salon in my friend’s house. The teenagers were lead outside to the backyard’s gazebo to socialize until our friend was ready to join us. At first we all managed to keep a calm, graceful demeanor. By the time our friend finally came out to join us, most of us were crying… with laughter. It was terrible to say the least.

Yesterday, I spent most of the morning shopping and cooking for my daughter’s teacher who lost her father about two weeks ago to cancer. The school organized a sign up cooking sheet for the teacher and her family as a means of showing support and love in this hard time. As I was chopping up vegetables and placing them neatly in a casserole I briefly closed my eyes and wished with all my heart that I could go back in time with my moderate cooking skills and give my friend a homemade meal. She wouldn’t eat it I don’t think. But she would hold the warm dish in her hand and know that I care, know that I didn’t mean to laugh when her father was still warm in his grave, know that I was, am truly sorry and it’s a regret I carry with me to this very day.

Condolences no matter how culturally acquainted one is, is a hard thing to do. Nonetheless in a majority God believing country, condolences in Egypt are somewhat easier. Believing in an afterlife can sound absurd to some, but in hardships is a strong wall to lean against. Knowing that this is not it and that we will meet again in another life can make grief sometimes bearable. And so one says what they believe and attempt to comfort the grieving person as best they know.

In America that’s not usually the case. Condolences are a tricky subject and you can not assume that the person in front of you holds the same beliefs of an afterlife. Saying the right thing is like treading on eggshells, you want to show your respect without assumption or offense.

A warm meal will do that. Human contact too. But what I have heard many years ago and now say to people I have come to love without knowing where their belief system may take them is this ‘ Everything in life is born young and grows old excepting one– Grief, born old and keeps on growing young’

May you find the right words to say in times of need and do it with grace, respect, maturity and hopefully a warm dish to share.

Peace.

Al Khawwafa

My earliest memories from my childhood entail scary bedtime stories told by one of our slew of maids/nannies. Eventually my mother noticed her terrorized children who stuck like glue to their nanny. The nanny made us promise not to tell my mom about the stories because if we told, something horrible would happen. One night my mother tricked me into confessing, the next morning the nanny was gone. The nightmares however were trickier to get rid of.

I am not sure about the obsession with terrorizing young children in Egypt, but this was not the last incident of the sort to happen. Sons and daughters of construction workers, wives of security guards, neighborhood shop owners and our next door cousins all shared the same sadistic tendency. Some children survive such stories, and some stop sleeping altogether until the sun comes up. They refuse to go into any room in the house unchaperoned lest the monster/murderer/genie appears.

I was known amongst my siblings and relatives as al khawwaffa. ‘Khawf’ is the root word for ‘Khawwaf’, which is Arabic for Terror. ‘Al’ signifies an unknown like ‘The’. When you want to exaggerate a word in Arabic you repeat the middle sound and extend the sound even more by adding an ‘A’ sound after the repeated sound. Al khawwaffa would here mean The one who gets intensely terrorized. Aka: Me.

In my childhood my parents owned a small farm, with donkeys, cows, sheep, and strawberries (the only produce I remember on the farm, also my favorite summer fruit at the time). We had two peasant families living on the farm with their wives and about a dozen children. The families came up with a preposition to help with my nickname and sleeping habits simultaneously. My parents would provide a live animal (usually a sheep), slaughter said animal in front of ‘Al khawwafa’, and then dowse her hands in it’s blood. ‘Al khawwaffa’ having witnessed an animal’s sacrifice, and dowsed her hands in the blood would gain courage and will no longer fear blood. The meat would of course be given out in charity to the poor. My parents complied.

The nightmares now included dead animals and tiny-palm-blood-prints on walls.

One of the things I learned from always being dependent on the company of others was ironically being an excellent story teller. My brother would not come to the room with me this one more time, unless… “Please Ahmad, I have a new ‘Carl and his magical cat (excuse my french but we were occupied by the brits thankyouverymuch) Pussy’ story for you. They went to the land of ‘half’ and the gate was closed and the gate keeper wouldn’t let them in but…” “but what? what happened next?” “I’ll let you know if you come to the room with me *smile*”

I also had the answer to everything. If my brother was confused about something, or was wondering how the rain came down from the sky, he needn’t worry. I know how! The rain machine of course! There’s this man who lives above the clouds, and he’s a great inventor, he had to leave earth and live on the clouds because his inventions weren’t met with gratitude amongst his people…you know?

True I was known as ‘Al Khawwaffa’ all most of my childhood. But I was also ‘Al Fattayya’ (the one who exaggerates the truth and walks with fake stories) although it’s still not a positive title but it helped a lot with the first one.

There is no heaven on earth but sometimes there is wit.

Peace.

The Upper Bunk

We live in a very old house. The sort of house that you might find in an historic guidebook to our neighborhood. I can proudly say I currently live in the second house ever built in our wonderful neighborhood. Old places have a history, a charm and a certain energy gained from generations of previous occupants. Old places also have an incredible amount of spiders. They weren’t built for an arachnophobe and they definitely weren’t built to accommodate the needs of two separate families to be stacked on top of one another. Especially if one of them have young screaming children and the other, two teenage girls and a dad with teenage musical ears (loud music is what i’m implying here). Luckily I am not only an arachnophobe but I also have an unexplained fear of basements. ( is there a term for this one?) Century plus old basements are no joke. They are the kind of basements that come straight out of horror movies. Understandably I do not go down there often. Bless the man for volunteering the laundry chore.  Otherwise we would’ve all worn very dirty clothes for the duration of our rental period.

Tonight I was lying next to Grabby in bed as I usually do to read her and her sister Quran before sleep. Mei was especially active in her upper bunk tonight and it made me think of our upstairs neighbors. They live in the upper bunk if-you-will. If you want to sleep, the person on the upper bunk should try and not move, which is of course not ideal for the person in the upper bunk. Although the person on the lower bunk would much appreciate it.

I have jumped in fear many a time when I was certain that nobody was home and heard footsteps coming my way. And then I’d remember our upstairs neighbors. If they want to win the ideal neighbors award they should try not to walk at all. They will probably never win, it’s a very challenging skill not walking in ones own private space you see. Our previous upstairs neighbors were three medical students, they were hardly home. We liked them very much, and often remember them fondly of how we can not really remember them.

They would’ve made excellent candidates for an invented award.

Peace.

A hearty soup in Amereeka

My significant other and I went to West Side Story last Friday and now I have this song stuck in my head. I almost got rid of it this morning but while picking Mei up from school this afternoon I heard one of the older kids sing it in the hallway. Why thanks.

On a different note, I finally decided to plan a weekly menu. I have tried this many a time, but never succeeded since I have to include a very picky eater in our menu planning. The menu ended up being entirely composed of some form of pasta and steamed veggies, my options can only include any of the following: Green beans, broccoli, or asparagus, GAH. As for protein, we usually had chicken and if I’m feeling adventurous I’ll try out a form of red meat. If it’s not steak, Grabby won’t eat it. As for fish… well, it’s complicated.

It has finally occurred to me, that I can actually plan the menu without including our picky eater. For her, I can save some plain rice or plain pasta, steam something green on the side, while the rest of us enjoys a more  flavorful/ less boring dinner. Now, why did it take me two years to discover? we’ll never know. (Yes, we’ll never know I said!)

So here’s to eating something other than noodles, boiled chicken and steamed broccoli friends!

The inspiration for this recipe came from Mei’s two favorite veggies (Artichokes and Mushrooms) After googling and reading about 10 recipes that included said ingredients, I came up with the following hearty soup, I give you:

Artichoke and Mushroom Winter Soup:

I agree, not the most appetizing picture, but I remembered to take this after we ate. Also I was too lazy to edit or grab my fancy camera.

You’ll need:

A bag of frozen Artichoke hearts (what I used) or about 2 cup of fresh artichoke hearts. Sliced

A box of white button mushrooms, or portabella. (I had white button) Sliced

Half an onion chopped very small.

2 Tbsp butter and 2 Tbsp olive oil. You can use all oil or all butter. I felt better about the compromise, I’m all about compromises.

4 cups chicken stock or vegetable stock or water. Whatever you have, only thing if you use water you’ll need to flavor the concoction more.

3 or 4 Tbsp flour.

1/4 cup cream. Or half n Half. (I’m flexible)

A handful of chopped dill

Salt, pepper, all spice, cloves, and freshly ground nutmeg to taste.

What to do: In a stock pot or a dutch oven on a medium-high heat melt butter and mix with olive oil if using. Add onions and stir until translucent and aromatic. Add your mushrooms and cook while stirring for five to ten minutes or until tender and liquid comes out. Add Artichokes, cook while stirring for another five minutes. Add all your spices except for the nutmeg.

Dissolve your flour in about half a cup of your broth or water. Mix it in with the rest of the stock and dump the whole thing in your pot. Reduce your heat to medium and stir the stock until it thickens. Add cream, dill and nutmeg stir and cover. Turn off your burner, and let it rest on the stove for five minutes for the nutmeg to blend in.

Serve with a slice of freshly baked bread with a slab of butter and a simple Arugula salad.

How did it turn out you ask? Like being under a warm blanket with hot cocoa in hand and a burning wood stove in front of you. Or in not so many words… Comforting.

Peace.

Mother Love

The weather today has been icky. High thirties with constant rain is never good. Add to this gloomy, slushy mess a sickness that’s not really a sickness. We all have it, it’s been with us for the past two weeks maybe three. It shifts and gains momentum with one member of the family then slows down and naps for a while, it never really goes into deep recession, you always feel it in the background, and your voice changes a little, and you get dizzy and crash on the couch in the middle of the afternoon, and wake up and wonder what it was all about.

Early morning my voice disappears. Right at noon Mei’s head hurts. An hour later Grabby comes home early from a birthday party to crash on the couch. She wakes up and plays but an hour before bedtime she stomps dizzily towards her bed to put herself to sleep. Five minutes later she has her clothes and bedsheets covered in puke. The man feels it too but he holds on, because what other option does he have?

This has been our Sunday, not an ideal one we agree but we are still grateful for this Sunday. A day spent cuddling, and hugging because that’s what we all do when we’re not feeling so great, especially little ones piling up on their mama (who sometimes has to shoo them off like flies when she too can’t take it anymore). Jumping off mama after regaining enough energy to use her knitting needles, which otherwise were collecting cobwebs, to drum on cardboard boxes. Or watching favorite shows on Netflix and remind mama that really she shouldn’t be watching those shows with us because they are only for four year olds!

***

I was asked by my friends who only had one child at the time if I loved my second child as much as I loved my first and that they can’t even conceive of loving anyone as much as they love their first born. They asked me if I have a favorite. It was a legitimate question because I too was worried that I wouldn’t love any other child I have next as much as I love Mei. “It’s just not possible, I don’t have more love to give for I have given it all” I thought to myself. But of course that’s not true. Some mothers start loving their babies after birth but I started loving Grabby when she was still inside me. When I had her in my arms I was shocked at how much more love I still had. I did not love Mei more to my surprise. And she did not share my love for Mei. It did not get divided, it doesn’t work that way. She was born with her love intact just for her as strong and as immense and as consuming. I love Grabby so much it hurt just like I love Mei so much it hurt. And then I knew how mothers are invincible. We have this powerful all consuming and all healing emotion stored between our ribs and we don’t even know it.

I grew up with four other siblings. It was a tough competition for my mother’s love as you can imagine. We all asked her the same question when we were alone with her “Who do you love most?” and she gave us all the same answer “You”. We all knew she gave us all the same answer. When confronted she said that, that’s how she honestly feels when she’s alone with one of her children. She said that she felt that she loves that one right in front of her the most.

When we were together we also asked the same question but this time she gave us the answer of the wise woman (an old traditional story that comes in handy for mothers like my mom) “The young until he/she grows. The sick until he/she is cured. And the traveler until he/she returns” And then we’d all chorus together no you just love Ahmad best. Ahmad was our youngest brother. The wise woman did not win this time. But then my brother grew and we are all traveling except I’m not sure when we’ll be returning “home”.

Peace.

Random Randomness

Grabby moved to a new montessori school and although it’s only her second day, she feels different overall, like something inside her sparked. I can’t explain it. It’s bizzarre.

After listening to Animal Sacrifice. I appreciate growing up in a culture that sacrifices animals routinely and is engaged with their animal butchering. I also simultaneously think more highly of Ira Glass because of his relationship with his dog and also find him ridiculous. I love the man.

Did you know that when walking real life red carpets O’Brien looks like this? True story!

Repeat after me. Guns kill people. Guns kill people. Guns kill people. It’s not a math equation.

Fascinating.

Kick-starter project that seems promising. Watch the clip and make a pledge if you can.

I make huevos rancheros for breakfast, lunch and dinner. You can too.

I should probably leave you with a song right? Here you go.

Goodnight kids.

Peace.

Pink pills tonight

 

My head has been throbbing all day today. Just now I decided to succumb to the two dreaded pink pills. I do not like medicine.

I haven’t been reading anything about the turmoil in Egypt because there’s only so much one can absorb. My mother is currently out of the country and my father is blessedly living in one of Cairo’s new fancy suburbs that is so far removed from the events. I have a few relatives and friends that are politically involved and I pray for them along with the rest of my people at night before I go to sleep. The next morning I will continue to hide all of my friends shared articles and not read any news coming from Egypt. My pink pills will allow me to sleep tonight.

Peace.

 

February 1st or a cake might help

My girl was really frustrated today because our next door sewing shop sent us an email announcing their age increase for their upcoming beginner’s level class for kids. Their previous age was six, which Mei has been oh-so-eager to hit so she could start that sewing class already. Now the new and improved age means that she’ll need to wait for two more years. The good news is her mama actually knows how to sew and has recently acquired on an extended loan (thank you anonymous aunt!) an uber cool sewing machine. The bad news is her mama has been trying to recollect her courage into venturing back into the world of craft with no craft space and the headaches of pre and post cleanup work plus all the extra materials that go along with such craft. Maybe this weekend we’ll tackle something, especially that the coldest month of the year has arrived (hello February!)

***

I shared a picture–on facebook–of a celebratory healthy-ish chocolate cake I made last week to get my girls excited about the birthday of Prophet Mohammed. I’ve been saving this local magazine in hope to buy fresh beets and make that gorgeous looking chocolate cake sometime in the near future. Two years later here we are. The pictures got about a dozen likes (if I’m remembering correctly) and many requests for the recipe. Since I am not a hedgehog (an inside joke with the man) here it is.

For the cake you’ll need:

2.5 cups cooked and pureed beets. (cooled)

6 eggs, beaten

3/4 unsweetened cocoa powder

1tsp vanilla

2 cups sunflower oil

3 cups sugar (now we’re talkin)

3 3/4 cups all purpose white flour (recipe asks you to sift it, but I never ever sift anything and things work out, but maybe that’s just me)

1 1/2 tsp salt.

1 1/2 tsp baking soda.

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F or 175 C.

(Recipe makes 3 eight-inch layers or 2 nine inch layers plus a couple cupcakes.

Grease pans and line with parchment paper.

In a large bowl or stand mixer with a paddle attachment if you’re amongst the fancy ones (I am most definitely not) combine cocoa, vanilla, and oil, then beat in beets, sugar, and eggs. In a separate bowl “sift” together flour, salt, and baking soda.

Add to wet mixture and mix until well incorporated. (now enjoy the deep red color because it’s not going to last).

Pour into prepared pans and bake for 30/35 minutes (depending on your pan size), until toothpick comes out clean in the middle.

Completely cool on racks before frosting.

For frosting you’ll need:

4 ounces butter softened

4 ounces cream cheese softened

1 tsp vanilla

1 cup powdered sugar

1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

How to:

Cream butter and cheese together. Add vanilla. mix with powdered sugar and butter.

You’ll probably need to triple the frosting recipe for the cake. Mine was a tad dry I was told because I only doubled the frosting recipe. You’ll notice a hint of earthy tone in the cake’s background which is somehow reassuring. And what more would one want from a chocolate cake than to be reassured?

Peace.

At The Dinner Table

At the dinner table tonight I held my youngest close to my heart and felt the back of her chest rattle. The two puffs cleared some of the rattling but some still lingered, in four hours she’ll get another dose to clear the remaining blockage. At that dinner table I sat across from my eldest and prompted her to please eat her dinner for probably the thirtieth time this evening, and she continued to tell me about what one needs to do in life is follow his path and when he faces a cross road he should just choose one and keep going because that’s what you do in life. When I asked her where she had heard this, she told me that she heard it inside her head with her own voice and then went on and clarified that it is her own thought. I told her that she is a wise girl and I asked her to try and remember to listen to her small voice inside her head even when she grows old and her voice is no longer small. She said she will, we both smiled and then I told her for one more time to please eat her dinner…

At the dinner table tonight my man was feeling a little under the weather, He had leftover lentil soup with homemade bread (It was leftovers night). He thanked me, cleared the table and then helped the girls get in their pjs.

At the dinner table we usually turn off any music lingering from dinner prep. but tonight Grabby requested that we keep the music on during dinner. And so we did.

Here’s our playlist from the table.

The Lumineers — Ho Hey

Regina Spektor — Please Don’t Leave

Fun. — Tonight We Are Young

Joanna Newsom — Sprout And The Bean

Elizabeth Mitchell — Froggie Went a Courtin’

And although a lot of people have moved on, my baby girl still requests the coming song with heightened enthusiasm…

Psy — Gangam Style

Sending you blessings from one dinner table to another…

Peace.