Food, well, food connects us to our history, to our lineage, to memories and childhood and celebrations and mostly it soothes and nurtures.
My bloodline is like many Americans, a mix of northern European (Scottish, English, Czech) and in my case, Mediterranean as well. I come from a crazy Lebanese family whose passions run deep and love of food and family is absolutely legendary.
We talk about food. We eat food, we talk about food we've prepared and eaten in the past, and food we'll prepare for upcoming life events. And we tend to bicker a bit, which makes it fun.
My Aunt's take on Grandma Alice's recipes is a little different than mine. I believe my Grandma, at whose hip I learned to estimate measurements using the palm of my hand, my eyes and my tastebuds, would want me to adapt a bit to best suit my family's taste.
So I do. But as I was making a treasured dish the other night, pthiad (triangular pies filled with spiced meat and pine nuts), I realized how little I've strayed from the original recipe that Grandma shared with me when I entered my teens and began collecting the treasures of family recipes...
As I was rolling out dough into circles, then carefully placing just the right amount of meat filling in the middle, then sealing the little meat pies just so, I realized I could feel Grandma Alice right there with me.
She was smiling, in all her 4'11" glory, beautiful yellowish eyes twinkling, and would occasionally pat my cheek and smile at me, letting me know she is there, will always be there in spirit even though her material form no longer exists. She assured me that the shape was just fine, that the seasoning was right on, that the French style yoghurt I'd chosen as the dip for the pies would work beautifully.
As the pies were browning in the oven and an absolutely heavenly aroma drifted through the entire house (activating the salivary glands of a group of friends who were visiting my daughter at that moment), I made a salad to accompany the pthiad.
The Lebanese salad includes crisp greens, cucumber, avocado, mint, and a lovely lemon/olive oil/sea salt/garlic dressing. I discovered to my chagrin that we'd successfully hindered the spread of the mint that grows on our patio to the point that there was none, so I substituted basil. It was delicious. And I believe Grandma would have approved.
Daughter's boyfriend JB came over for dinner after basketball practice. (He was given the choice earlier in the day between lasagna or Lebanese, and chose Lebanese...he's kind of enjoying our food focus, I think, and eats generous portions of whatever we manage to conjure up).
As I carried the plate piled with warm, rich, pthiad into the dining room and laid it on the table, there were smiles.
My husband's and daughter's, anticipating a taste they've been enjoying forever, and now JB's, anticipating a taste he'd not yet enjoyed but was about to try on faith and because he knew how much this meant to all of us.
We ate, we conversed, we enjoyed.
And as we shared this simple meal, we became bonded by our shared experience, and JB learned a little more about our life, daughter's lineage, and the passion we share for family, food and friends.
Grandma Alice was a wise, wise woman. I love that her blood runs through our veins, and that the traditions continue.
My bloodline is like many Americans, a mix of northern European (Scottish, English, Czech) and in my case, Mediterranean as well. I come from a crazy Lebanese family whose passions run deep and love of food and family is absolutely legendary.
We talk about food. We eat food, we talk about food we've prepared and eaten in the past, and food we'll prepare for upcoming life events. And we tend to bicker a bit, which makes it fun.
My Aunt's take on Grandma Alice's recipes is a little different than mine. I believe my Grandma, at whose hip I learned to estimate measurements using the palm of my hand, my eyes and my tastebuds, would want me to adapt a bit to best suit my family's taste.
So I do. But as I was making a treasured dish the other night, pthiad (triangular pies filled with spiced meat and pine nuts), I realized how little I've strayed from the original recipe that Grandma shared with me when I entered my teens and began collecting the treasures of family recipes...
As I was rolling out dough into circles, then carefully placing just the right amount of meat filling in the middle, then sealing the little meat pies just so, I realized I could feel Grandma Alice right there with me.
She was smiling, in all her 4'11" glory, beautiful yellowish eyes twinkling, and would occasionally pat my cheek and smile at me, letting me know she is there, will always be there in spirit even though her material form no longer exists. She assured me that the shape was just fine, that the seasoning was right on, that the French style yoghurt I'd chosen as the dip for the pies would work beautifully.
As the pies were browning in the oven and an absolutely heavenly aroma drifted through the entire house (activating the salivary glands of a group of friends who were visiting my daughter at that moment), I made a salad to accompany the pthiad.
The Lebanese salad includes crisp greens, cucumber, avocado, mint, and a lovely lemon/olive oil/sea salt/garlic dressing. I discovered to my chagrin that we'd successfully hindered the spread of the mint that grows on our patio to the point that there was none, so I substituted basil. It was delicious. And I believe Grandma would have approved.
Daughter's boyfriend JB came over for dinner after basketball practice. (He was given the choice earlier in the day between lasagna or Lebanese, and chose Lebanese...he's kind of enjoying our food focus, I think, and eats generous portions of whatever we manage to conjure up).
As I carried the plate piled with warm, rich, pthiad into the dining room and laid it on the table, there were smiles.
My husband's and daughter's, anticipating a taste they've been enjoying forever, and now JB's, anticipating a taste he'd not yet enjoyed but was about to try on faith and because he knew how much this meant to all of us.
We ate, we conversed, we enjoyed.
And as we shared this simple meal, we became bonded by our shared experience, and JB learned a little more about our life, daughter's lineage, and the passion we share for family, food and friends.
Grandma Alice was a wise, wise woman. I love that her blood runs through our veins, and that the traditions continue.
Comments
Post a Comment