1983 - The Blast
I was six years old when I went blind. It was particularly hot that summer in Beirut. The air was dusty and laden with tension and fear. There seemed to be no end in sight for the increasingly violent civil war that had raged since 1975. But for Karim and I, it was just another gloriously free day during the summer holidays when as long as we went together, we could go anywhere. Or so it seemed like at the time, it was only later that I realised that as children of the civil war, we were born into a much-restricted life and didn’t know otherwise. We spent most of our time either playing in his family’s apartment on the 4th floor or at mine on the 2nd. We had a wonderful time on the whole, the only conflicts we had to deal with were when we argued over who got to claim the balcony as their General’s territory or whether I cheated at cards (I did get frustrated at the fact that he always won). He was an only child and my siblings were much older so we spent practically all of our spare time together and had a strong bond. I looked up to him, he was much better at practically every game we played, stronger, quicker but he never made me feel small or weak. Using our imagination and a few kitchen props, we would make up endless role play games, leading armies through the living room and out onto the balcony or shakily roller skate around the tiled floors of our apartment, much to the consternation of the neighbour who lived in the apartment below. As it was Karim’s uncle who did the complaining, we were allowed to continue roller skating (outside his uncle’s cherished siesta hours).
On our own, we were also permitted to venture out occasionally but only up and down our street – Bliss Street – which stretched from the old lighthouse by the sea through to the end of the beautifully landscaped campus of the American University of Beirut. There was a lot to see and do there; we would stop by the butcher who always had a live goat tethered outside his shop ready for slaughtering on Fridays, and we would pet and feed it. If we were lucky enough to have been given some money, we might also visit the corner shop that sold our favourite sweets – we were charming and polite in a way our parents might not have recognised as that might have led to an extra sweet for free. Everyone knew us, looked after us. If Karim was spotted on his own, he would be asked, ‘Where is Yasmine?’ and the same for me. But our one obsession at that time was our combined shrapnel collection. To reduce the scope for arguments over who found what, we decided to pool our resources and put on a monthly show of our best finds to the grown ups. Karim also had a stamp collection, but I was not at all interested in that.
That fateful morning, we asked for permission to go outside and comb through the disused car park by the Saudi Embassy, a couple of hundred metres away from our building. The previous night involved heavy shelling and we had to get up and go downstairs to seek shelter at our neighbour’s house on the ground floor. Karim and his family were already there, and we drowsily whiled away the time with a pack of cards that he had smuggled in his pyjama pockets until the noise of the shelling died down and we went back to our own beds. So when Karim came by to pick me up a few hours later, we were both very excited about what we may be shortly adding to our collection.
‘Karim, come in and have a bite with us, I have just made some Manakeesh,’ my mother shouted out. Manakeesh are Lebanese flatbreads with za’atar (a spice mix consisting of toasted sesame seeds, sumac, salt, oregano, thyme and marjoram) and olive oil scattered on top. Similarly to a toasted cheese sandwich, they have a tantalising aroma which tempts and lures even the most hardened of taste buds. Karim loved his food and despite our rush to get to the shrapnel before any of the other children did, he came in and sat down with my family to have his second breakfast. We wolfed down our still warm Manakeesh, drank the freshly squeezed sweet orange juice and after heaping praise on how good they were and saying our thanks, darted out the door. Even from that young age, the importance of good manners had been drilled into us, make eye contact, say thank you, say that they are the best you had ever eaten. That breakfast has been indelibly etched onto my memory. When I recall it now, I see Karim’s greedy face, forever 8 years old, his mouth covered with za’ater down to his chin and up to his nose. It was the last time I saw him eating anything and when I make Manakeesh now, I still feel a tinge of sadness at that memory.
When we arrived at the parking lot, we were thrilled to not only have it to ourselves but also to note how much debris there was from the previous night’s bombardment. ‘You take the left hand side, I will take the right, remember, only big pieces.’ With that Karim went off and I could hear him picking stuff up, discarding it and whenever he had a piece he wanted to hang on to, he would declare loudly: ‘A GOOD ONE here!’ In the meantime, I had not found anything of interest and suspected that as usual, Karim had set it up so that he covered the area most likely to have treasure. I got up from being on my knees with the intention of joining him when the loudest sound I had ever heard shook me and tethered me to the spot. I looked up and saw the brightest flash and felt the heat of fire start to enfold me. Then my world went dark.
MANAKEESH
MAKES 6
325-400ml warm water
1 tsp fast action yeast
2 tbsp olive oil
600g strong white flour (plus extra for dusting when rolling the dough)
1 tbsp caster sugar
1 tsp salt
3 tbsp za’atar
1 or 2 tbsp olive oil
1. Into the bowl of a free standing mixer, pour the water, gently stir in the yeast until dissolved then add the flour, sugar and salt. Mix everything together by hand, cover the bowl and leave for 10 minutes.
2. Using the dough hook, knead on a medium speed for 5-7 minutes. You will need to add extra water if the dough is dry or extra flour if it looks too wet. It should resemble a standard bread dough and come away from the sides of the bowl. Cover and leave in a warm place for 1-2 hours until risen.
3. Divide the dough into 6 equal pieces, shape into balls and place on a (baking) tray. Cover and leave for 30 minutes so that they are easier to roll
4. Preheat the oven to 220*C/200*C fan. Put 2 large baking trays in the oven to preheat.
5. In a small bowl, mix the za’atar with olive oil until it resembles a thick paste.
6. Dust the worktop well with flour and roll out each ball until it’s disc shaped and about 15cm diameter.
7. Spread the za’atar and olive oil all over each disc leaving a 1cm gap from the edge.
8. Slide each mankoushé onto the baking trays and bake in the oven for about 12 minutes until the dough is crisp.
9. Enjoy whilst still warm!
That fateful morning, we asked for permission to go outside and comb through the disused car park by the Saudi Embassy, a couple of hundred metres away from our building. The previous night involved heavy shelling and we had to get up and go downstairs to seek shelter at our neighbour’s house on the ground floor. Karim and his family were already there, and we drowsily whiled away the time with a pack of cards that he had smuggled in his pyjama pockets until the noise of the shelling died down and we went back to our own beds. So when Karim came by to pick me up a few hours later, we were both very excited about what we may be shortly adding to our collection.
‘Karim, come in and have a bite with us, I have just made some Manakeesh,’ my mother shouted out. Manakeesh are Lebanese flatbreads with za’atar (a spice mix consisting of toasted sesame seeds, sumac, salt, oregano, thyme and marjoram) and olive oil scattered on top. Similarly to a toasted cheese sandwich, they have a tantalising aroma which tempts and lures even the most hardened of taste buds. Karim loved his food and despite our rush to get to the shrapnel before any of the other children did, he came in and sat down with my family to have his second breakfast. We wolfed down our still warm Manakeesh, drank the freshly squeezed sweet orange juice and after heaping praise on how good they were and saying our thanks, darted out the door. Even from that young age, the importance of good manners had been drilled into us, make eye contact, say thank you, say that they are the best you had ever eaten. That breakfast has been indelibly etched onto my memory. When I recall it now, I see Karim’s greedy face, forever 8 years old, his mouth covered with za’ater down to his chin and up to his nose. It was the last time I saw him eating anything and when I make Manakeesh now, I still feel a tinge of sadness at that memory.
When we arrived at the parking lot, we were thrilled to not only have it to ourselves but also to note how much debris there was from the previous night’s bombardment. ‘You take the left hand side, I will take the right, remember, only big pieces.’ With that Karim went off and I could hear him picking stuff up, discarding it and whenever he had a piece he wanted to hang on to, he would declare loudly: ‘A GOOD ONE here!’ In the meantime, I had not found anything of interest and suspected that as usual, Karim had set it up so that he covered the area most likely to have treasure. I got up from being on my knees with the intention of joining him when the loudest sound I had ever heard shook me and tethered me to the spot. I looked up and saw the brightest flash and felt the heat of fire start to enfold me. Then my world went dark.
MANAKEESH
MAKES 6
325-400ml warm water
1 tsp fast action yeast
2 tbsp olive oil
600g strong white flour (plus extra for dusting when rolling the dough)
1 tbsp caster sugar
1 tsp salt
3 tbsp za’atar
1 or 2 tbsp olive oil
1. Into the bowl of a free standing mixer, pour the water, gently stir in the yeast until dissolved then add the flour, sugar and salt. Mix everything together by hand, cover the bowl and leave for 10 minutes.
2. Using the dough hook, knead on a medium speed for 5-7 minutes. You will need to add extra water if the dough is dry or extra flour if it looks too wet. It should resemble a standard bread dough and come away from the sides of the bowl. Cover and leave in a warm place for 1-2 hours until risen.
3. Divide the dough into 6 equal pieces, shape into balls and place on a (baking) tray. Cover and leave for 30 minutes so that they are easier to roll
4. Preheat the oven to 220*C/200*C fan. Put 2 large baking trays in the oven to preheat.
5. In a small bowl, mix the za’atar with olive oil until it resembles a thick paste.
6. Dust the worktop well with flour and roll out each ball until it’s disc shaped and about 15cm diameter.
7. Spread the za’atar and olive oil all over each disc leaving a 1cm gap from the edge.
8. Slide each mankoushé onto the baking trays and bake in the oven for about 12 minutes until the dough is crisp.
9. Enjoy whilst still warm!
1986 - Leaving Beirut
‘Yasmine, Yasmine, habibti, it’s a big step between here and the boat, let me lift you into it.’ My father picked me up as I clung tightly to my cuddly koala. His name was Cola, Karim named him after our favourite drink that we were never allowed, but sometimes bought in secret and shared in the little alleyway behind the corner shop. Karim’s mother brought Cola with her when she came to visit me in the hospital after the explosion. Her voice was shaky and kind as she put Cola in my arms and I immediately recognised his shape. Karim always put him in the centre of his pillow on his bed. His bed was untidy but his cuddly toys were always neatly ordered in accordance with some sort of changing hierarchy only he knew. Only Cola’s place was secure. I took him in my arms and inhaled his scent that was still very much Karim.
Doctors, and I have seen hundreds of them in the intervening years, different specialties but mainly eyes and head, have explained to me that losing my sight was more than flash blindness. It seems that a balcony from the Saudi Embassy building landed on top of Karim and crushed him. They think I saw that happen and my mind decided to stop seeing as a result.
As the ferry left Beirut harbour, we were all on deck waving goodbye to the coastline. We could clearly hear the sound of shelling and the other passengers would exclaim: ‘Look, look, it’s like fireworks!’ I think it was only then that I felt scared. In the space of a few short years since going blind, I had adjusted to my new life of darkness in Beirut. Everyone helped me, occasionally I found it overbearing but when I did, I spoke my mind in a polite but determined way. I was given free sweets everytime I went to the corner shop now. I never had to ask or even be that polite. School was fine, they weren’t too sure what to do with me and I gather that my parents were invited in and advised to put me in a special school, but it was wartime and the special schools were many miles away and had a terrible reputation for being run down, short staffed and not at all focussed on education. My family filled in the gaps in my erratic schooling. There was a rota of family members who would read to me every night on all topics and I clung on to every spoken word. My imagination was infinite and curious. I loved to hear of different lands and times, learn about other religions and cultures and of course what people all around the world ate. This last item was my mother’s realm, she would read recipes out to me from her favourite cookbooks. Maybe not an obvious choice but I instantly fell in love with the rhythm of the words. Then, when she saw how entranced I was but realising that the quantities were incomprehensible to me, she realised that this was also an opportunity to teach me maths via those recipes. She used an apple to explain proportions and fractions. She would cut it in eight slices and place the pieces in each of my hands to show me how much butter there was in relation to sugar for example (I could eat the apple slices after she finished the list of ingredients). Over a relatively short period of time, I started to visualise the cakes and cookies and wanted to try them out in our kitchen. My parents encouraged me, they never once uttered: ‘But Yasmine, you are blind.’
My very first ‘cake’, one I still make and love, was a chocolate biscuit cake. I found it easy and delicious – it didn’t even need baking. My confidence grew steadily, I would always need someone there beside me but I was the main player. I felt so proud of my achievements.
Losing Karim was a different matter. I would have happily given up another sense to have him back. I felt his absence every moment of every day but no one knew. I would race up the two flights of stairs leading up to his apartment, I didn’t need my sight for that, my feet just knew what to do. Then arriving outside his door and feeling for the floormat, I would remember and slowly and carefully turn around and make my way back home and quietly let myself in. Learning to hide my feelings so early on in life has been my real disability.
We stayed in Cyprus for a few weeks, until my parents had arranged our onward journey and accommodation. We were in a hotel so I couldn’t cook and that added to my anxiety. I could not yet swim and therefore felt like a misfit amongst the other children playing and splashing about. Again, my family came to the rescue. My sister had found a bookshop and bought whatever books in English it stocked. My time in Cyprus is marked by her reading to me Louisa May Alcott’s ‘Little Women’ in the evening before bedtime. I lost myself in girls’ world and decided that Jo would make an excellent role model, independent, self assured; she knew what had to be done and got on and did it. She did not let herself get crippled with self doubt or wallow in self pity.
My parents decided that London, England would be the right place for us to live, at least until things settled down in Lebanon. My father’s brother had taken his family there a couple of years earlier and they were all doing well. I already knew a little about England from the books that I had listened to and loved the sound of it. I was not of course expecting all the hardships and tragedies that were yet to come, but I was filled with hope.
CHOCOLATE BISCUIT CAKE
Apart from tasting delicious and being easy to make, this is a great way to use up any leftover chocolate and packets of biscuits that may have gone a bit stale. Traditionally, digestive biscuits are used but I love using lighter ones like Rich Tea or Malted Milk. I have on occasions, also mixed up different flavours of biscuits-ginger snaps add a lovely warmth and crunch.
SERVES 6
250g plain biscuits
250g milk chocolate broken into small chunks
250g dark chocolate broken into small chunks
150g unsalted butter
150g golden syrup
1. Use clingfilm to line a loaf tin, leaving extra hanging over the sides.
2. Put the biscuits in a plastic bag and bash them up into pieces with a rolling pin.
3. Melt chocolate, butter and golden syrup in a heatproof bowl set over a pan of simmering water. Stir occasionally.
4. Remove the bowl from the heat and take out roughly a quarter of the mixture; set this aside to use for covering the surface of the cake so that it’s nice and smooth (you can alternatively use a chocolate spread for this).
5. Stir in the broken biscuits to the remainder of the melted chocolate then spoon this mixture into the loaf tin. Press it down with a potato masher.
6. Add the reserved chocolate on top and level it out with a spatula.
7. Put the cake into the fridge to set for at least 1-2 hours.
8. Turn it out onto a plate, remove the clingfilm and cut into slices. Enjoy!
Doctors, and I have seen hundreds of them in the intervening years, different specialties but mainly eyes and head, have explained to me that losing my sight was more than flash blindness. It seems that a balcony from the Saudi Embassy building landed on top of Karim and crushed him. They think I saw that happen and my mind decided to stop seeing as a result.
As the ferry left Beirut harbour, we were all on deck waving goodbye to the coastline. We could clearly hear the sound of shelling and the other passengers would exclaim: ‘Look, look, it’s like fireworks!’ I think it was only then that I felt scared. In the space of a few short years since going blind, I had adjusted to my new life of darkness in Beirut. Everyone helped me, occasionally I found it overbearing but when I did, I spoke my mind in a polite but determined way. I was given free sweets everytime I went to the corner shop now. I never had to ask or even be that polite. School was fine, they weren’t too sure what to do with me and I gather that my parents were invited in and advised to put me in a special school, but it was wartime and the special schools were many miles away and had a terrible reputation for being run down, short staffed and not at all focussed on education. My family filled in the gaps in my erratic schooling. There was a rota of family members who would read to me every night on all topics and I clung on to every spoken word. My imagination was infinite and curious. I loved to hear of different lands and times, learn about other religions and cultures and of course what people all around the world ate. This last item was my mother’s realm, she would read recipes out to me from her favourite cookbooks. Maybe not an obvious choice but I instantly fell in love with the rhythm of the words. Then, when she saw how entranced I was but realising that the quantities were incomprehensible to me, she realised that this was also an opportunity to teach me maths via those recipes. She used an apple to explain proportions and fractions. She would cut it in eight slices and place the pieces in each of my hands to show me how much butter there was in relation to sugar for example (I could eat the apple slices after she finished the list of ingredients). Over a relatively short period of time, I started to visualise the cakes and cookies and wanted to try them out in our kitchen. My parents encouraged me, they never once uttered: ‘But Yasmine, you are blind.’
My very first ‘cake’, one I still make and love, was a chocolate biscuit cake. I found it easy and delicious – it didn’t even need baking. My confidence grew steadily, I would always need someone there beside me but I was the main player. I felt so proud of my achievements.
Losing Karim was a different matter. I would have happily given up another sense to have him back. I felt his absence every moment of every day but no one knew. I would race up the two flights of stairs leading up to his apartment, I didn’t need my sight for that, my feet just knew what to do. Then arriving outside his door and feeling for the floormat, I would remember and slowly and carefully turn around and make my way back home and quietly let myself in. Learning to hide my feelings so early on in life has been my real disability.
We stayed in Cyprus for a few weeks, until my parents had arranged our onward journey and accommodation. We were in a hotel so I couldn’t cook and that added to my anxiety. I could not yet swim and therefore felt like a misfit amongst the other children playing and splashing about. Again, my family came to the rescue. My sister had found a bookshop and bought whatever books in English it stocked. My time in Cyprus is marked by her reading to me Louisa May Alcott’s ‘Little Women’ in the evening before bedtime. I lost myself in girls’ world and decided that Jo would make an excellent role model, independent, self assured; she knew what had to be done and got on and did it. She did not let herself get crippled with self doubt or wallow in self pity.
My parents decided that London, England would be the right place for us to live, at least until things settled down in Lebanon. My father’s brother had taken his family there a couple of years earlier and they were all doing well. I already knew a little about England from the books that I had listened to and loved the sound of it. I was not of course expecting all the hardships and tragedies that were yet to come, but I was filled with hope.
CHOCOLATE BISCUIT CAKE
Apart from tasting delicious and being easy to make, this is a great way to use up any leftover chocolate and packets of biscuits that may have gone a bit stale. Traditionally, digestive biscuits are used but I love using lighter ones like Rich Tea or Malted Milk. I have on occasions, also mixed up different flavours of biscuits-ginger snaps add a lovely warmth and crunch.
SERVES 6
250g plain biscuits
250g milk chocolate broken into small chunks
250g dark chocolate broken into small chunks
150g unsalted butter
150g golden syrup
1. Use clingfilm to line a loaf tin, leaving extra hanging over the sides.
2. Put the biscuits in a plastic bag and bash them up into pieces with a rolling pin.
3. Melt chocolate, butter and golden syrup in a heatproof bowl set over a pan of simmering water. Stir occasionally.
4. Remove the bowl from the heat and take out roughly a quarter of the mixture; set this aside to use for covering the surface of the cake so that it’s nice and smooth (you can alternatively use a chocolate spread for this).
5. Stir in the broken biscuits to the remainder of the melted chocolate then spoon this mixture into the loaf tin. Press it down with a potato masher.
6. Add the reserved chocolate on top and level it out with a spatula.
7. Put the cake into the fridge to set for at least 1-2 hours.
8. Turn it out onto a plate, remove the clingfilm and cut into slices. Enjoy!
1989 - The Balcony
Life in London was not that easy for us. My parents were struggling for money, they worried about my teenage siblings settling in, we were staying with an uncle in an already cramped house in Wandsworth. Also, despite the fact that we were all fluent in English, we struggled to understand the different accents, the expressions and colloquialisms that make up so much of daily communication. Even with our correct grammar and vocabulary, from our own accents, people tended to assume we didn’t speak much English and would issue instructions very loudly. Initially, I wondered whether they assumed I was deaf as well as well blind but soon I realised that in the U.K., it’s standard practice to speak in a shouting voice when addressing people who one assumes have a shaky grasp on the language. We started looking for a house or a flat to rent but were priced out of anything more than a tiny two bed for a family of five. One property we visited, didn’t even let us in. After we buzzed the number we were given on the intercom, an angry voice shouted out ‘SORRY, NO ARABS HERE!’ My father took these instances of shame and indignity very badly.
My personal experience was much more positive however. I was taken under the care of a wonderful doctor who by the end of my first week in England, had me on a waiting list for a dog to help me get around. I was enrolled in a school where I learnt Braille and slowly but surely, the world and all its treasures were unlocked and I could access them without anybody’s help.
My mother who previously had helpers at home whom she paid to do the cooking and cleaning found herself becoming such a helper herself. My father was no longer the main provider, his wife, once an envied lady of leisure, became the breadwinner. It can’t have been easy, but they adapted, always putting on a positive front and reminding us of how lucky we were to have these opportunities at a time when so many of our friends and family were still stuck in Lebanon enduring the hardships of war. ‘Lucky’ was the word I heard time and time again throughout my childhood.
At the age of twelve, I found myself becoming the main chef at home. My mother would come home exhausted after being on her feet all day. My father would help me find things in the kitchen and supervise my chopping and use of the oven. It was in those moments that we talked in a way we never had before and I found out so much about his early life. He told me stories of growing up in Palestine, tending to his father’s orange grove. I could imagine him running around the trees, hiding behind the shed, cheekily trying to evade work. He told me how his family were evicted in 1948 and how the image of his father walking around the orange trees, saying goodbye to each one brought tears to his eyes each time he recalled it. We became really close during that time over dinner preparations. In Lebanon, my father was hardly ever there, always busy with work or when at home, entertaining friends. But here in London, for those few precious hours each afternoon, he was all mine. He told me about his parents and what his mother loved to cook for her family. I listened with all my heart, enraptured, whilst I worked. It was those moments in the kitchen that have informed what I do now. I try to capture the essence of my father in the dishes I create.
‘What do you miss most about life in Lebanon, Baba?’ I asked my father on one of those afternoons. ‘The balcony,’ he replied simply and I understood what he meant. Our wide balcony in Beirut was the hub of our entertainment. It was the most used space in our flat. In the early hours before the city woke up, my parents, whose bedroom opened out onto the balcony, would have their morning coffee there. Thick, treacle-like Arabic coffee with cardamom whose aroma would drift indoors indicating the start of another day. During the day, it was my play area, mine and Karim’s, occasionally we were shooed away as my mother received a visitor and tea and cakes were served out there. It was also the place where all types of groceries were received. Our version of online grocery shopping in those days consisted of a wizened old man, his skin brown and leathery from the hours spent under the sun picking the harvest, pushing a big cart down the road which was brimming with fruits and vegetables. He would shout out the prices, per kilo, of the various produce he had that day but in a melodic, almost mournful way, highly distinctive. People came out onto their balconies, looked at what he had and called out to him what they wanted to buy. He would weigh out the desired amount, bag it up and then place it in the basket that the soon-to-be proprietor would ease down on a rope to the street. In the basket would be the money for the purchases. The butcher downstairs did the same with the meat that my mother ordered by phone. Down came the empty basket on a rope that was gradually eased until it arrived outside the butcher’s shop, up it went filled with a leg of lamb and a chicken. Later, at night, when the sun had set, the balcony became the place to eat dinner with family or family and friends. The big plastic table with the colourful tablecloth would be slowly and surely filled with plates of cheese, hams, salads, hommous, moutabbel (a duo made from chargrilled aubergines and tahini), olives, pickles and soft papery thin Arabic bread, perfect for scooping everything up. When one of the grown ups realised that it was way past my bedtime and I was sent to bed, as I drifted off to sleep, I would hear from the balcony the easy rumble of conversations, laughter, sometimes mild arguments, the clatter of crockery as food was passed round, pistachio nuts being prised open and ice cubes clinking in glasses. Those sounds were my lullaby.
MOUTABBEL
Also known as baba ganoush in Syria and Egypt, this smoky aubergine dip is a staple of a mezze spread. In my opinion, it is the richer cousin of hommous. The intense flavour is outrageously complex and tantalising for the taste buds. It is a labour of love though, as the aubergines need to be cooked over an open gas flame (or a barbecue) to get the distinctive and intense flavour. This will make a total mess of your kitchen (I have tried covering the hob with foil cut out for the burners but this didn’t help much). The aroma of the aubergines as they char will waft throughout your home but for me, this is very welcome. It is a good idea to cook the aubergines in big batches and then split the purée into several containers which can go into the freezer. That way, when you want to make moutabbel you can defrost the purée in one of the containers and skip the first four steps below, without even a messy kitchen to clean up after.
SERVES 4
2 large aubergines
50g tahini (stirred until creamy before measuring)
1 tbsp lemon juice
2 garlic cloves crushed
1 tsp salt
1. Prick the aubergines all over with a fork and sit them over the flame of a gas hob. Rotate them with tongs once the skin gets burned. This will take approximately 15/20 minutes.
2. Remove once the flesh feels tender and place in a sieve or colander to let some of the extra juice to drain away and for the aubergines to cool down enough to allow you to peel the skin which you discard.
3. Leave the flesh of the aubergines in the sieve/colander for another 15 minutes to let more juice drain away. The key is to allow as much moisture as possible to evaporate so that you get concentrated aubergine.
4. Place the flesh into a bowl and mash it using a potato masher- you want to end up with a purée that isn’t too smooth. Some people do prefer it smooth though so you can also use a hand blender.
5. Add the tahini, lemon juice, crushed garlic and salt to taste and mix well.
6. To serve, place in a small bowl and make a well with the back of the spoon in the middle of the dip, you can add pomegranate seeds and parsley plus any other spices you like (sumac, cayenne pepper) and always, a drizzle of olive oil
My personal experience was much more positive however. I was taken under the care of a wonderful doctor who by the end of my first week in England, had me on a waiting list for a dog to help me get around. I was enrolled in a school where I learnt Braille and slowly but surely, the world and all its treasures were unlocked and I could access them without anybody’s help.
My mother who previously had helpers at home whom she paid to do the cooking and cleaning found herself becoming such a helper herself. My father was no longer the main provider, his wife, once an envied lady of leisure, became the breadwinner. It can’t have been easy, but they adapted, always putting on a positive front and reminding us of how lucky we were to have these opportunities at a time when so many of our friends and family were still stuck in Lebanon enduring the hardships of war. ‘Lucky’ was the word I heard time and time again throughout my childhood.
At the age of twelve, I found myself becoming the main chef at home. My mother would come home exhausted after being on her feet all day. My father would help me find things in the kitchen and supervise my chopping and use of the oven. It was in those moments that we talked in a way we never had before and I found out so much about his early life. He told me stories of growing up in Palestine, tending to his father’s orange grove. I could imagine him running around the trees, hiding behind the shed, cheekily trying to evade work. He told me how his family were evicted in 1948 and how the image of his father walking around the orange trees, saying goodbye to each one brought tears to his eyes each time he recalled it. We became really close during that time over dinner preparations. In Lebanon, my father was hardly ever there, always busy with work or when at home, entertaining friends. But here in London, for those few precious hours each afternoon, he was all mine. He told me about his parents and what his mother loved to cook for her family. I listened with all my heart, enraptured, whilst I worked. It was those moments in the kitchen that have informed what I do now. I try to capture the essence of my father in the dishes I create.
‘What do you miss most about life in Lebanon, Baba?’ I asked my father on one of those afternoons. ‘The balcony,’ he replied simply and I understood what he meant. Our wide balcony in Beirut was the hub of our entertainment. It was the most used space in our flat. In the early hours before the city woke up, my parents, whose bedroom opened out onto the balcony, would have their morning coffee there. Thick, treacle-like Arabic coffee with cardamom whose aroma would drift indoors indicating the start of another day. During the day, it was my play area, mine and Karim’s, occasionally we were shooed away as my mother received a visitor and tea and cakes were served out there. It was also the place where all types of groceries were received. Our version of online grocery shopping in those days consisted of a wizened old man, his skin brown and leathery from the hours spent under the sun picking the harvest, pushing a big cart down the road which was brimming with fruits and vegetables. He would shout out the prices, per kilo, of the various produce he had that day but in a melodic, almost mournful way, highly distinctive. People came out onto their balconies, looked at what he had and called out to him what they wanted to buy. He would weigh out the desired amount, bag it up and then place it in the basket that the soon-to-be proprietor would ease down on a rope to the street. In the basket would be the money for the purchases. The butcher downstairs did the same with the meat that my mother ordered by phone. Down came the empty basket on a rope that was gradually eased until it arrived outside the butcher’s shop, up it went filled with a leg of lamb and a chicken. Later, at night, when the sun had set, the balcony became the place to eat dinner with family or family and friends. The big plastic table with the colourful tablecloth would be slowly and surely filled with plates of cheese, hams, salads, hommous, moutabbel (a duo made from chargrilled aubergines and tahini), olives, pickles and soft papery thin Arabic bread, perfect for scooping everything up. When one of the grown ups realised that it was way past my bedtime and I was sent to bed, as I drifted off to sleep, I would hear from the balcony the easy rumble of conversations, laughter, sometimes mild arguments, the clatter of crockery as food was passed round, pistachio nuts being prised open and ice cubes clinking in glasses. Those sounds were my lullaby.
MOUTABBEL
Also known as baba ganoush in Syria and Egypt, this smoky aubergine dip is a staple of a mezze spread. In my opinion, it is the richer cousin of hommous. The intense flavour is outrageously complex and tantalising for the taste buds. It is a labour of love though, as the aubergines need to be cooked over an open gas flame (or a barbecue) to get the distinctive and intense flavour. This will make a total mess of your kitchen (I have tried covering the hob with foil cut out for the burners but this didn’t help much). The aroma of the aubergines as they char will waft throughout your home but for me, this is very welcome. It is a good idea to cook the aubergines in big batches and then split the purée into several containers which can go into the freezer. That way, when you want to make moutabbel you can defrost the purée in one of the containers and skip the first four steps below, without even a messy kitchen to clean up after.
SERVES 4
2 large aubergines
50g tahini (stirred until creamy before measuring)
1 tbsp lemon juice
2 garlic cloves crushed
1 tsp salt
1. Prick the aubergines all over with a fork and sit them over the flame of a gas hob. Rotate them with tongs once the skin gets burned. This will take approximately 15/20 minutes.
2. Remove once the flesh feels tender and place in a sieve or colander to let some of the extra juice to drain away and for the aubergines to cool down enough to allow you to peel the skin which you discard.
3. Leave the flesh of the aubergines in the sieve/colander for another 15 minutes to let more juice drain away. The key is to allow as much moisture as possible to evaporate so that you get concentrated aubergine.
4. Place the flesh into a bowl and mash it using a potato masher- you want to end up with a purée that isn’t too smooth. Some people do prefer it smooth though so you can also use a hand blender.
5. Add the tahini, lemon juice, crushed garlic and salt to taste and mix well.
6. To serve, place in a small bowl and make a well with the back of the spoon in the middle of the dip, you can add pomegranate seeds and parsley plus any other spices you like (sumac, cayenne pepper) and always, a drizzle of olive oil
1996 - The Crash
On July 31st 1996, my 19th birthday, I woke up feeling jubilant. My school days were over and I was going to university that September to study law. I had made my parents and teachers proud, I had made Karim proud. In my mind, he had grown up with me and was still by my side. I was already well versed in how your world can change in an instant but then, I didn’t yet know that in one day your world can change over and over again, as often as the British weather.
My parents were talking in hushed tones as I approached the kitchen. However, my hearing was about as sharp as the blade on a Japanese kitchen knife. We have a saying in Arabic that loosely translated means that what God takes away with one hand, He more than makes up for with the other. ‘Shhh, let’s not spoil her day,’ I caught my father whispering.
‘Baba, I am NINETEEN YEARS OLD, you can tell me, in fact as it’s my birthday, I insist.’
‘Habibti, it was a bad night in Lebanon, many bridges and power stations were destroyed by the Israelis and unfortunately, our building was also destroyed in the carnage, it’s all gone.’
I could barely take in the shock of this information. To think that I would never step into my home in Beirut again, to open the shutters in the morning to let in the sounds of the streets, to sleep in my own bed and play with my Barbie dolls. To never sit on that balcony again. Not only our apartment but Karim’s too. I ran back to my bedroom, grabbed Cola and threw myself on my bed and cried until my eyes stung from their dryness.
I gathered myself together and went back to my parents, still in the kitchen where I had left them. ‘Can we start celebrating my birthday now?’ I said in a mechanical tone. ‘Yes, of course, habibti,’ my mother replied. ‘Your father and I just need to go and collect the cake, it will take half an hour or so, do you want to come with us?’
‘No, I will just stay here and wait,’ I answered in a calm and collected tone. My mother sounded worried as she asked, ‘Are you sure you are ok?’
‘I am fine, what happened is sad but this is our home now, our only home, we are the lucky ones.’
‘Bravo, habibti, that’s the spirit, we have to focus on the positives, you are so right, we are the lucky ones,’ my father kissed me on the forehead and my mother squeezed my hand as they left to collect my cake. They never returned.
As I sat at the kitchen table with my brother and sister, where my parents had sat only hours before, I wondered what my life would be like as an orphan. When the police called round, my siblings and I immediately panicked that it was an immigration issue and we were about to be deported. But we were wrong, they came to tell us about the car crash, a drunk driver had collided head first into them, he was on the wrong side of the dual carriageway. Our already shattered world was splintered into a million heartbroken pieces.
My parents were talking in hushed tones as I approached the kitchen. However, my hearing was about as sharp as the blade on a Japanese kitchen knife. We have a saying in Arabic that loosely translated means that what God takes away with one hand, He more than makes up for with the other. ‘Shhh, let’s not spoil her day,’ I caught my father whispering.
‘Baba, I am NINETEEN YEARS OLD, you can tell me, in fact as it’s my birthday, I insist.’
‘Habibti, it was a bad night in Lebanon, many bridges and power stations were destroyed by the Israelis and unfortunately, our building was also destroyed in the carnage, it’s all gone.’
I could barely take in the shock of this information. To think that I would never step into my home in Beirut again, to open the shutters in the morning to let in the sounds of the streets, to sleep in my own bed and play with my Barbie dolls. To never sit on that balcony again. Not only our apartment but Karim’s too. I ran back to my bedroom, grabbed Cola and threw myself on my bed and cried until my eyes stung from their dryness.
I gathered myself together and went back to my parents, still in the kitchen where I had left them. ‘Can we start celebrating my birthday now?’ I said in a mechanical tone. ‘Yes, of course, habibti,’ my mother replied. ‘Your father and I just need to go and collect the cake, it will take half an hour or so, do you want to come with us?’
‘No, I will just stay here and wait,’ I answered in a calm and collected tone. My mother sounded worried as she asked, ‘Are you sure you are ok?’
‘I am fine, what happened is sad but this is our home now, our only home, we are the lucky ones.’
‘Bravo, habibti, that’s the spirit, we have to focus on the positives, you are so right, we are the lucky ones,’ my father kissed me on the forehead and my mother squeezed my hand as they left to collect my cake. They never returned.
As I sat at the kitchen table with my brother and sister, where my parents had sat only hours before, I wondered what my life would be like as an orphan. When the police called round, my siblings and I immediately panicked that it was an immigration issue and we were about to be deported. But we were wrong, they came to tell us about the car crash, a drunk driver had collided head first into them, he was on the wrong side of the dual carriageway. Our already shattered world was splintered into a million heartbroken pieces.
Epilogue
At the heart of grief, amidst mayhem, carnage and deep sadness, people can do beautiful things. On the day both my parents died, I felt that my lifetime’s quota of loss had been filled and more and that if I could just survive to the next day, I would be fine.
I didn’t go on to study law at university. I contacted all the people my mother had worked for to see if they could give me jobs. The families felt sorry for me but they couldn’t take the risk, I would be a burden not a help. A few offered me small organisational tasks that could be done by a blind person. I decided to start baking to thank all these people for taking my mother on and for trying to help me. That was my turning point. They genuinely loved my food and wanted more. One Lebanese lady asked me to make several different dishes for her tea party. From there, the seed grew. Orders started coming from her friends and then their friends. With every encouraging comment, I went home and delved into new recipes, stretched myself. I cooked from the heart and put into my cooking all the emotion that I could not otherwise express. It was simple food, mostly Lebanese which was a relatively new trend back then but I also played around with traditional British dishes to give them a Mediterranean twist. Within a year, I could no longer fulfill the catering orders by myself or even with the help of my siblings who were always by my side. I started recruiting. I sought out refugees, immigrants, people who needed a helping hand. Their cooking skills were always reliable, they had all been cooking since childhood. I had a hard-working and loyal team.
By the age of 27, I had saved up some money, and was able to convince a bank to lend me more, to open my own restaurant which I decided to call Karim’s. My aim was to make it as accessible as possible to people with disabilities. The decor, choice of furniture, colour scheme were all aimed at optimising the restaurant experience for a disabled customer. It was all consuming, utterly exhausting and at times, so disheartening it nearly broke me. But I just kept going. People ask me how I was not scared to take on such a huge undertaking (‘for a blind girl’). All I can say is that after losing so much in my life, maybe I lost my fear as well.
Karim’s is doing well now, we have lots of regulars and an equal mix of able and disabled customers. I have learnt to come to terms with how I feel, to let it come out when it needs to. There are low times, when amidst all the buzz of the restaurant, I feel very lonely. But it passes.
I didn’t go on to study law at university. I contacted all the people my mother had worked for to see if they could give me jobs. The families felt sorry for me but they couldn’t take the risk, I would be a burden not a help. A few offered me small organisational tasks that could be done by a blind person. I decided to start baking to thank all these people for taking my mother on and for trying to help me. That was my turning point. They genuinely loved my food and wanted more. One Lebanese lady asked me to make several different dishes for her tea party. From there, the seed grew. Orders started coming from her friends and then their friends. With every encouraging comment, I went home and delved into new recipes, stretched myself. I cooked from the heart and put into my cooking all the emotion that I could not otherwise express. It was simple food, mostly Lebanese which was a relatively new trend back then but I also played around with traditional British dishes to give them a Mediterranean twist. Within a year, I could no longer fulfill the catering orders by myself or even with the help of my siblings who were always by my side. I started recruiting. I sought out refugees, immigrants, people who needed a helping hand. Their cooking skills were always reliable, they had all been cooking since childhood. I had a hard-working and loyal team.
By the age of 27, I had saved up some money, and was able to convince a bank to lend me more, to open my own restaurant which I decided to call Karim’s. My aim was to make it as accessible as possible to people with disabilities. The decor, choice of furniture, colour scheme were all aimed at optimising the restaurant experience for a disabled customer. It was all consuming, utterly exhausting and at times, so disheartening it nearly broke me. But I just kept going. People ask me how I was not scared to take on such a huge undertaking (‘for a blind girl’). All I can say is that after losing so much in my life, maybe I lost my fear as well.
Karim’s is doing well now, we have lots of regulars and an equal mix of able and disabled customers. I have learnt to come to terms with how I feel, to let it come out when it needs to. There are low times, when amidst all the buzz of the restaurant, I feel very lonely. But it passes.
Angela Zaher is a Lebanese-British freelance food and fiction writer. She was born in Beirut, Lebanon but has lived in Brussels and in Hong Kong making her home in London for over 20 years. Her two passions are food and writing and she has been dedicated to both since leaving the legal profession. Follow her weekly blog on Instagram: @angela_zaher
|
supported by
|
awarded
|