A wise man once told me, "Don't touch that." He was referring to my penis, and I was furious and outraged with the containment I had to endure. I was 8 years old, a budding male soon to experience something outlandish to my normal daily routine. Did you just say poutine? Anyways. I was helping my momma in the kitchen and we were preparing ourselves for a busy get together. Family coming over and the sort. I was ecstatic, except for my cheeks, which were about to face the dreaded pinch and grab. My mother however, maintained her cool and just kept handling food like it was her bitch.
Just being in the kitchen was breathtaking. Seeing her pound out more food than Mario Batali can eat, in just minutes. My dad always rushed me to clean stuff, I was like the dishwasher in the kitchen, bossed by everyone, and loved by all. If I no-showed, hell would ensue. Dishes would be unwashed, and my dog would be rampant. So as I helped my mom, she started to make all sorts of different snacks for my family. Just simple platters of hummus, olives and cheeses. An array of nuts, dried fruits and pita bread laid on the table. I was the taste tester of course, and I made sure everything was according to mom's liking. I loved this job.
I got to taste everything. EVERYTHING. My finger was my tool. I dipped it into garlicky hummus. Handfuls of spicy olives thrown into my mouth. Stinky, stretchy cheeses, ripe for the taking. Nuts I couldn't pronounce but loved. And the bread was just awesome. All this was just typical stuff in an Arab home. I just started to appreciate it more. Especially the cheeses. My mom made some kick ass cheese. This stuff was a thousand times better and stretchier than those mozzarella sticks every Italian boy had at lunch. It had black sesame seeds in it too, which is a bonus! I learned only recently it's called Ackawi.
Anyways, the real acid trip started happening when my mom prepared the meals. Before I just ate whatever she put on the table. Sure I'd ask questions, but they were just plain out of a child's curiosity. Now I started asking questions because I was intrigued. I started smelling everything. The aroma of anise, fennel, garlic, cumin, and pine nuts. Good god the pine nuts. My mom was preparing a dumpling soup, called Madzoon Kufte which are what you would refer to dumplings in yogurt. Now before you thinking we eat dumplings and yogurt on its own, it's not. It's a soup, made with barley or rice, with yogurt. The dumplings, or meatballs, are made out of cracked wheat and ground up flank steak. Inside the dumplings can be an assortment of things. Meat, garlic and onions. Whole garlic cloves, whole pearl onions, wh- Yes you read right. My mom put whole garlic cloves into some. If you got it, you were lucky. I'm very fortunate for being unlucky. My brother, however, is not. Haha, sucker.
So by the time she finished this concoction of sorts, I was ready to dive in and taste the flavors as they engulf me whole. I ate like a king. I had my sarma ( grape leaf rolls, primarily filled with rice and meat), dolma ( stuffed zucchini and eggplants), lamh bil'ajin ( pronounced lahmajeen (pause with the h, it's faint) which is a form of arabic pizza.), fattoush ( bread salad, yum), tabbouleh ( a parsely salad, which is bursting with flavor), labneh ( strained yogurt dip/spread), and don't forget the falafels. I was in lebanese/armenian heaven. I had all these different kinds of meals at my disposal. Many years of culinary knowledge passed down onto me in one night. My mother told me nothing because I asked nothing. I was amazed at what she produced. Then the desserts came! Goody!
Slabs of baklava, drowned in Attar (orange or rose water simple syrup). Halva ( sesame paste, usually hard almost like a crumbly texture, filled with pistachios and pretty sweet). Ma'amoul ( cookies! filled with dates, walnuts or pistachios and usually for special occasions like easter or christmas). And my all-time favorite, Kunafi. It's the mecca of my dessert world. It's a pastry stuffed with a sweet cheese, nuts and loads of syrup. Tons of awesome is built up in these bad boys, enough to make you want to wear Larry King's underwear. But don't, he smells. I was opened into the world of culinary, even though I didn't realize it. I didn't say, " Gee golly momma, I sure do love that cooking, makes me want to become a chef myself!" Although, if I talked like that, my father would smack my shit up. I did, however, appreciate my mother's cooking a whole lot more. I spent time with her in the kitchen every now and then. Helped roll out some sarma, or chop some onions and cry like a baby. It was a past time for me, aside from my video gaming which is still something I cherish more than air sometimes. I just knew that this wasn't the end. I wasn't just going to see my mom cook for the rest of my life. I just knew that I wanted to do this. Maybe not in those words exactly, and probably not professionally at the time, but I wanted to create. I wanted to share. If I could bring a family together by simply making their faces full, then holy shit, slap my ass and call me Wolfgang, I'm in.
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