I am one of those dilettantes who believe that a culture is perhaps more easily understood through the cuisine. If I must want to be someone else, I suppose that I would wish to be Anthony Bourdain of the traveling ex-chef-cum-amateur-sociologist variety. Being as it is that I respect a well-roasted chicken as much as an elegant turn-of-phrase or a catchy pop song, it is not beyond imagination for me to think about culture and food.
The making and sharing of a meal is an activity that can either lead to bickering and obstinate table silence or rather open up conversation, which, if entered into honestly, can lead to a type of understanding.
Caitlin arrived at noon on Christmas carrying a few gifts and a wee hangover from her mom's celebration on the Eve. She previously had gingerly lugged back, through airports in Casablanca, Budapest, New York and Pittsburgh, a tagine she bought in a souk with the aid of her Moroccan host family. The tagine is a kind of pottery cooker with a conical top that steams the ingredients and seals in a lot of flavor. The word refers both to the implement and the dish itself. It is a brilliantly efficient way to cook.
Since Caitlin was small, we have cooked together and she has taken some of the skills she learned to London with her, where I understand she whips up a mean risotto.
We had decided that as our Christmas was going to be quite spare as far as attendees go, we would do something a bit removed from the standard fare. We have done this in the past. One Christmas I spent weeks working on a passable cassoulet and more recently we made a paella that was quite good.
The day before I cooked my mother's chicken soup, both because not to have it would have been unthinkable, and because mom had sent some homemade noodle along with her pastry care package. So that would be the one nod to tradition.
I know of no place here that sells the traditional Moroccan bread, but we were able to find something that would do. The bread is not at all like the ubiquitous pita, being more bready and thicker than the flat bread.
I also threw together a cabbage salad with garlic, lemon and mint for a side dish. The tagine was to be a fish variety.
A few weeks ago, I had taken on the task of seasoning the tagine, which amounts to soaking the thing in warm water for a couple of hours and then baking it for a few more. This tempers the clay and allows one to use it on a stove top. Caitlin had also brought back some Moroccan chilli powder, harisa I believe, to use as a condiment and an ingredient. I spent the weeks before our dinner researching different recipes and hunting down the famous preserved lemons that is a staple of Moroccan cooking. I had wanted to make them myself, but instead I tracked a jar down at Sur la Table. Caitlin said that they didn't taste as good as those her host mother made, but they would do.
Among the gifts that Caitlin brought was a Menorah she had bought in Israel. It is handmade out of brass and is meant to either sit on a table or be hung from a small loop at the top. We decided that this would be the one we use on our Hanukkahs. She also gave me two Moroccan cookbooks that we immediately pressed into service.
As we cooked, Caitlin did the tasting and supervising. We sauteed onions, peppers and garlic in some olive oil over rather low heat.. After these were soft, we added some carrots, olives and half a preserved lemon, cut up. The harisa went in next, with some cumin, salt, coriander and turmeric. That was all mushed together before adding in some stock. The top went on for a few minutes, after which diced potatoes were added. Another ten minutes. Then the fish and the rest of the lemon. Some fresh lemon juice was added along with parsley and cilantro. Eight minutes later we were ready to eat. It was wonderful, the perfume of the dish billowing up as Sherry lifted the top off at the table.
Along with this we had some olives and lemons, a kind of deviled egg and the harisa sauteed with onions, garlic, lemon and cumin as a condiment. Success.
While we were cooking and eating, Caitlin regaled us with stories of Morocco and Israel, broken up with a few others of London. Her last time in, after Morocco, we didn't have all that much time to talk. But now, with the day stretched out before us and nowhere to go, the conversation meandered through topic after topic until after all the dishes were washed (thanks, Sherry, for taking that on) and well into the evening.
As Caitlin talked of her host family in Rabat, of her trips around the country, of her visit to Israel, I was struck with the realization that I knew so little of the world. Each time some sticky subject would come up, I would listen to Caitlin and the answer, "Well, so-and-so says..." as if I knew what I was talking about.
"No, Dad," she would gently, firmly say, "it's really not like that." And she would go on to illustrate some incongruity, some complexity that only someone who had been there and observed with two open eyes and an open mind could explain. I decided to shut up and just ask questions, instead of insisting that my arguments be heard. My arguments are damned, actually, to a provincial and awkward view.
I think now that Caitlin will probably end up doing something in MENA eventually, not only because she is drawn to it, but because she has the ability to look at the myriad situations in a clear manner. And that is what we need.
I admit to being one of those who, after September 11, decided that the world could go to Hell. I was filled with a rage that I had never known before. I set about trying to get to the bottom of it all, and the more I studied, the angrier I became.
Now, truth be told, there is a lot to be angry about. But I realize now that my anger can tip dangerously close to hate and look not so much unlike racism. I do this all from the comfort of my tiny office in Pittsburgh, punching through the Internet to find the latest outrage. And I find that more often than I concede, the anger is, if not misplaced, then at least inconsistently applied.
Yes, there are elements at work that desire to spread a virulent brand of Islam, but that doesn't excuse me from making sweeping generalizations about Muslims and Arabs. From what Caitlin has told me, in fact, America, for what it's worth, is still admired across the region and our liberal society is generally seen as something to aspire to, but with the understanding of where on lives. This is what is so disturbing, for instance, about the so-called debate about torture. I fully accept that there are things that are done in our name that we would not like to own up to, but are from time to time necessary. I have no illusions that NSA or CIA operatives might be compelled to engage in unsavory practices. And I also am no Pollyanna when it comes to the Middle East. But these things should be the exception in and from America, and should not be shrugged off as no big deal. This can only lead to standard practice wherein torture now becomes the rule. If that happens, we are doomed.
Likewise, I have no patience for the lefty argument that everything the US does is a crime. But the fact is that we must be in the world every day, and this is only hurting our stance in the International opinion. Like it or not, we live in a world where perception is often reality, and if the US is perceived as condoning torture, or playing some kind of exclusionary game, we might as well apologize to Osama bin Laden and get it over with.
I am still angry, of course, but each day I become more angry at the incompetence evident in our own leadership. I am afraid that our government is at war with itself just as much as it is at war with Islamofascism.
What I have learned so far is that even if human rights in MENA are not up to Western standards, there is an abundance of variations across the region and countless local initiatives to better life. Even though we in the US get fed a monotonous depiction of life in the Middle East and North Africa, it is far from a monolithic culture.
Caitlin's reflections on her experiences, along with the scholarly work she explained to me, opened up a way of thinking that had been closed to me before. I have no misconceptions that I was all wrong from the start, but I am beginning to see that the way we conduct ourselves is in need of some change. And just making a meal doesn't suddenly make one an expert. But it does afford the opportunity to open up the dialog and allow for the possibility that one's precious notions may not all be true.
I don't know what I will do with this new realization, but I feel the need to back off the rhetoric and find some better way of understanding. This was my girl's greatest gift this Christmas and one I will put to use every time I think I know something.
