Italy #5: The Photo Series

You know what happens when you go through all 900 or so pictures from your trip to Ireland and Italy? You get a little dizzy and you see a lot of colors that probably aren't there. But also, you start to notice some common trends. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves this time, because...well, you'll see. Words would take away from the wonder, I think.

Photo Series #1: Throwing a coin into the Trevi Fountain.




Photo Series #2: Dad using his arms (or foot) to show how big things are.





I am my father's daughter.

Photo Series #3: Dad admires food on the street.




I think that's all I have to say.

The Pita Inn

There's a little restaurant in Skokie, IL called The Pita Inn. Oh yes, that link has music. This place is amazing. Vegan and straightedge kids, hardcore carnivores and drunks, come from far and wide to sample tastes of the smooth hummus, garlicky baba ghannouj, and succulent meats. Well, wait. The vegan kids don't eat the meat. And maybe some of the straight-edge kids don't either. Sometimes the drunks may stick to the veggie options, but other times they choose meats. Oh lord, where was I?

Sometimes when I'm visiting my family in Chicago, I get to go on a little outing to The Pita Inn with Dad. If the weather is nice, we take his red convertible. He asks me repeatedly if I'd like to drive, and after saying "no thanks" three or four times, I finally ask "Do you want me to drive?" He promptly hands me the keys and settles into the passenger seat. I drive that car like an old lady. It's just too beautiful for my regular Impatient Jackass driving.

We drive to The Pita Inn Market, which is next door to the restaurant. My father is greeted by his friend at the counter immediately; they start laughing and catching up in Arabic, and I begin wandering down the aisles. There are at least 14 types of olive oil on the shelf right underneath about ten types of honey. Some of the honey has chunks of honeycomb in the jar, but no label. Just down from there are about 30 types of jam. My eyes linger on the fig jam but I move away reluctantly, remembering the jar I already have in my refrigerator in Madison. In the back of the store is a small refrigerated case with three kinds of feta cheese (French, Greek, Bulgarian) and several types of olives. Dad's friend hands us tiny plates with samples of everything to help us decide what to get. Behind us is the shelf of nuts: pistachios, almonds, cashews, walnuts, some with spices, some plain, all taking up an entire aisle. Another aisle of the store is devoted to non-food items including tea sets, olive oil soaps, other skin products, movies, dvds, hookahs, and tobacco. You can buy a beautiful tea set for under $20.

Each shelf in the store is stuffed full with groceries and other items that you'd find at most markets, as well as certain gems that you really cannot find just anywhere. For example: preserved lemons, a special food coloring that's used for the dessert kunafa, and sesame candy, along with various chocolates I only recognize from my childhood times in Ireland. Oh, and phone cards. You can buy a ton of phone cards here. I love this place. I could stand around in the aisles for hours.

I always leave the store with bags full of wonderful groceries that I wouldn't even attempt to find in Madison. My staples are hummus and baba ghannouj and fresh-baked pillowy pita bread, but I've collected some other odds and ends on various trips. Like this one - I also got a bag full of dates and a package of lahem b'ajeen (which my parents referred to as "Arabic pizza" when I was a child to get me to eat it. Nice work, Mom and Dad!). The jar of pickles is straight from my dad though; no store can compare.
At the bottom of this picture is the lahem b'ajeen, and at the top is the hummus. Delicious.

On this most current trip, I bought some of that unmarked honey. It's delicious, and very good looking, which is always a lovely combination.

Honeycomb!
I also bought a giant bottle of Sultan olive oil because, you know, it's called Sultan. And this kind of olive oil tastes different. Better.
I always feel well-stocked after a shopping trip to the Pita Inn Market, mostly because I can do so much with just these few items. I can easily put together several diverse meals with just a few items. Meals like this are some of my favorites. Maybe it's in the same realm as One of Each; you get so many tastes and flavors, and you can combine everything just as you like it. There is something so appealing about having just a few items, but so many possibilities.

What is it about food in general though? Food is memories. Food is comfort. Food is home. Food is family. Food is definitely my family. You cannot come into my parents' home (or my aunties' homes, or my cousins' or sister's homes - it runs in the family) without being well-fed and, very likely, uncomfortably stuffed. It doesn't matter if you're not hungry. Perhaps you'll sample new and unfamiliar fruits or be treated to homemade soup, or maybe, if you're lucky, get an entire meal complete with cousins, upwards of seven meats, zillions of sides, people stealing off your plate, and perhaps even a rendition of the family song. Eating, sitting around the table together, it's all so important and critical. Food is huge.

This past Sunday comes to mind. I eat brunch with my family in the backyard of my parents' home. As we finish our fried eggs and bangers and rashers (irish breakfast meats - sausages and bacon, basically), we sit in the sun, chatting, and my father, without breaking the conversation, hands me a small piece of Arabic bread with cheese and tomatoes stuffed inside. I take it wordlessly and eat it; the perfect ending to a lovely family breakfast, My Lovely Family breakfast. Irish and Iraqi, all in one. It's perfect and natural and delicious.

Yes, the food is delicious, and yes, this is a very important factor in deciding what to eat because, you know, you should eat delicious things. But there is also that little spark of culture and history and family, all wrapped up in a couple of food items. The need to connect somehow when I feel homesick. And this homesickness is not about Chicago as a city. When I'm homesick for Chicago, I turn on WBBM NewsRadio 78. We get totally clear reception up here. I listen to the traffic report on the 8's and it makes me smile with a little pang in my heart. But this other homesickness, this is about my family, and being homesick for them, for sitting around a table and my dad passing me olives at the end of a meal, and for my mom making the most delicious foods from both sides of our world, which is no easy feat.

And so, tonight's dinner: spoonfuls of hummus and baba ghannouj with sliced tomato, greek feta cheese, olives, and warm pita bread. So many items! So many combinations! So many sexy results!
Maybe tomato and cheese inside the bread.
Or perhaps a tomato dipped in baba ghannouj.
How about a single, perfect olive? How about 12 of them? Because that's how many I ate.

And as for dessert...I'm not huge on dessert-y things right now, but I did find the perfect, tiny bite - Turkish Delights! I remember tasting these at parties when I was younger and knowing they tasted funny, but also knowing it was a good funny. Like, "let me get a couple more of those" funny. They're usually flavored in lemon, mint, or rose, which is actually flavored with rose water.

Okay, I'm going to go try to fry an egg like my mother can. Please understand if I or anybody else in my family tries to feed you all the time. It's probably because we love you.

Happy Birthday, Dadoo!

My father turns 65 today, September 17th, 2010. Just a few weeks ago, he told me about a conversation with a friend of his. His friend asked him if he felt like he was entering old age. My dad replied "this has been the year of old age, and I'm through with it. What begins next is my New Age."

I am constantly and consistently inspired by my father. He continues to teach and learn every day of his life. His positive attitude and outlook on life is remarkable. He acts out of love and compassion, always offering whatever he can to others. I know he was like a second father to many of my friends growing up, and I'm so grateful that I have gotten to, and still get to, have him as my father every day.

My father always taught me to face my fears with humor, to laugh when I'm frightened, and those times come when I am terrified and have no idea how I got to be this 31-year-old-supposed-adult and what I'm supposed to do ever in life. And I hear my father's laugh in my head, contagious and wonderful, and suddenly nothing seems all that scary at all.

Here's to a beautiful, hilarious, joyful, and peaceful New Age full of even more love and happiness, Dad!







Since I am, apparently, obsessed with my father, here's a link to about ten other blog entries I've written about him.

Dates. No, I Mean the Food Kind.

As a kid, I was a very picky eater. My mother would cook amazing Iraqi food, delicious salmon dishes, and flavorful, creative recipes of all kinds, and I'd eat fishsticks. On my birthdays when I got to choose where we went out to dinner, I'd choose Chili's or Applebees. For real, I would. Gross, eh? I think my father is still regretful about those meals, even 15 - 20 years later. Whoops a daisy!

I was always extremely resistant to Arabic food, or what I perceived to be Arabic food. My mother would make kibbeh, or "rice and gravy," which was basically white rice and red tomato gravy with meat and/or vegetables, and I'd pout and whine about it like a little baby. I was not a bratty kid, but this was one place where I really did it up. In addition to the beautiful cooking on which I missed out, there were lovely individual items that I hated on as well. My father always had a love for figs and dates, and believe it or not, I wouldn't even try either until well into my teenage years. What a fool I was...I cannot believe I missed out for all those years.

Now when I see dates, I feel like I'm home. My father speaks about the date palms in Baghdad and how they grew everywhere, and the fruit trees in the backyard of his parents' house, and my heart swells with love and pride and sadness, all at once. To be able to reach up and pick a fig out of a tree as you sit in your backyard reading...can you even imagine? It makes me want to cry a little bit. And so, I am incredibly thankful for my father's persistence (as well as my mother's patience) with my eating habits over the years, and happy that I now, finally, have so much love for dates and figs. See here for further evidence.

I was going to go grocery shopping tonight, but then it started raining really hard and the tornado sirens went off, so I stayed home. Somewhat short on food, I searched my fridge to find some satisfying Dinner Two ingredients (Dinner One was Special K Red Berries and almond milk when I got home from work at 5:15. Classy). I spotted the giant plastic container of dates my father had given me the last time I was at home, the bag of walnuts I bought at the Co-op the other day, and a container of Greek yogurt. It was totally a "HEY GIRL" moment. Meaning, I got real excited.

When Christopher visited me last fall, he seemed to make masterpieces out of practically nothing, at least in terms of food. I remember this dessert he made, poached pears with dates, honey, and cream.

I mean for real, it came out of nowhere. And it was amazing. So, I decided that Dinner Two would be date-based tonight. Please note, I used FANCY dates. That's right, I only eat fancy things.
Dates look like small, fat turds. Or giant raisins. Or both. Whatever gets you excited.
Now, for the extremely technical description of how to remove the pits and put in the walnuts:

1. Wash your hands real good.
2. Dig your fingers into the dates, making a lengthwise opening.
3. Pull out that damn pit.
4. Stuff a walnut back in there.
5. Wash your hands real good again. Probably clean underneath your fingernails for date guts.

Beautiful! Now, here's where my parents would usually leave it and put the dates on a nice plate to serve to guests. But I was in the mood for more ingredients, so I got out the Greek yogurt. Greek yogurt is really good; it's creamy and thick and not sweet. Plus it's full of protein, but I'm more concerned with the deliciousness. Although my father would probably criticize this part, I went ahead with it anyhow. He's a purist, you see, and he has extremely strong opinions on the treatment of fruits. A direct quote from him: When you want to mock lovely fruits, you put chocolate on dates or cheese on figs. This is an insult. Yeah. He is adamant about this. Sorry, Dad.
I drizzled a bit of honey on top of the dates, although it was totally unnecessary because they are incredibly sweet already. But it was a nice touch. It was like there were two different sweetnesses, but they blended together really gently and smoothly.
Dip the honey-covered dates and walnuts into the Greek yogurt, and you got yourself a snack! Yow! Thanks, rain and parents and food that was in the fridge! You made it a good night!

Happy Love Day!

Valentine's Day! Woooo! Love! Love rules. Here are some of the awesome ways I've already gotten to celebrate this year. I hope you all are having a day full of love! xxoo

J. (age 13) came into his lesson Thursday, thrust this into my hands, and said "My mom said I should give this to you."


Here's a valentine I got from one of my student's little sister. I think she is 5 or 6...


Here is a Video Valentine from my sister and the one and only Sharky! Watch him on his adventures through the kitchen! Listen to his brilliant voice! Well done, sister.


And here is a picture my father just sent me from his phone: a deer eating from the bird feeder in my parents' backyard! Beautiful!

So Stupid...and So Worth It

My father loves the classics. He loves Casablanca, he loves old Clint Eastwood westerns, and he loves The Godfather, quoting the Corleones at family dinners. His appreciation for these movies is apparent on his face as he watches. It's like clockwork - they'll say "that one line" that everybody knows, or the mob scene around the table will happen, and he'll get this slow, pleased smile on his face. He'll turn to whoever is watching with him and say "You know, this is great." It's like he's been waiting for this moment, and now that it has happened, it was all he could have ever expected it to be.

My father also loves some of the stupidest movies ever made. I really mean it. Spaceballs, Dumb and Dumber, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle, The Naked Gun Trilogy...all totally stupid movies. And he loves them all. He'll admit it though; one of his catch phrases is (while chuckling) "this is so stupid." But he still watches them. I remember talking to him one Sunday evening - he was frustrated because he'd had so much work to do during the day, but he didn't do any of it because he got sucked into watching "this stupid movie with these two idiots" with Emil. "Are you talking about Dumb and Dumber?" I asked. "This is the one! So stupid. I can't believe I watched the whole thing...but it's really funny, you know?" It's as if he can't not watch it. And as stupid as all of these movies are, he loves watching them. He may not admit it, but I know.

The reason I feel so confident in that analysis is because I'm the same way. I mean, I don't love Dumb and Dumber, but give me any of the Naked Gun movies any day. The use of dummies, especially in the first one, is brilliant. I can't get enough of the dummies. Oh god, dummies!! I found myself thinking about stupid movies a lot yesterday morning. I had the morning off, as I do many mornings, and I actually didn't have work to do, didn't feel like playing music, was not motivated to clean or do laundry, and was too lazy to go to the gym. What else is there to do on a Thursday morning? The answer: make a lot of food and watch a movie.

Those of you who have known me for awhile probably know how seldom I watch movies, especially new movies I've never seen before. It's not that I don't like them; I just think sometimes I don't have the attention span for an hour and a half of something new. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but waa waa, it's true. My BFF Sarah sent me three movies starring my future husband, Jack Black, for Christmas this year: School of Rock, Nacho Libre, and Orange County. I almost put on School of Rock, which I've seen numerous times, but then a flash of adventure shot through me. "Why not make it a new movie?" I thought to myself. "It is a Thursday morning! ADVENTURE!" That's right. So it was between Nacho Libre and Orange County. What to watch, what to watch. Oh wait! Does anybody think I should watch a movie about WRESTLING?? I mean, it's not like I've been obsessing about it or anything, right? I promptly put in Nacho Libre.

Man, I loved this movie. Yes, I am extremely biased, what with my husband starring, but really, it was pretty fantastic. It's Jack Black, and it's wrestling. Mexican Wrestling. And also, there's a chubby kid who has an accent. And Jack Black sings a couple of songs. And no, there are no dummies, but still. It was damn good. To be honest, I didn't pay attention at all the parts, but really, this was a hilarious movie. It was really stupid, and I found myself saying that out loud, which was what prompted me to think about my father. Although our definition of "stupid movies" may be different, we're similar in our needs, desires, excitement about watching stupid movies. Who needs Al Pacino in a suit when you can have Jack Black in wrestling tights? Or Jeff Daniels on a toilet, in my father's case.

Fantastic Thursday morning. I may make this a regular thing. Stay classy, Dad.



Three asides:

1. The food I made (not to be eaten all at once - just to have around the house): hummus, butternut squash, egg salad with not a lot of yolk. Delicious.

2. Everytime I read an article in a magazine or online about Jack Black and his wife is mentioned, I get really mad and often can't finish the article. Sometimes because I've thrown the magazine across the room. I'm so pissed that he's married to her. I mean, how obvious is it that I'm supposed to end up with Jack Black?? Come on! I get so mad...

3. My last blog, the one about Ring of Honor, got linked to by this lovely guy Bryan Alvarez who runs a big online wrestling newsletter, and the number of hits has gone up insanely. Check it out! Thank you Bryan!

A Wave + A Hug = Broken Ribs

Okay. So...I think maybe I have a cracked or bruised one of my ribs. I'm not positive how it happened, but I'm thinking maybe it came from a big hug sort of thing? Where I got picked up off the ground? Suck. I'm pissed.

Anyhow, I laid down on my bed about an hour after this particular hug, after having been at the drink, yes, so I didn't quite notice the pain at first. I knew something felt weird, but I thought I'd just sleep it off. The next morning, I felt this sort of pain at the top of my left ribcage. It wasn't that bad yesterday, but today it really hurts. It's hard for me to sit up after I've been lying down, and it really hurts when I cough, sneeze, or laugh. Needless to say, it's made this weekend a bit difficult...

I thought I'd be resourceful and look up "broken ribs" online. I knew already that you can't do anything to help heal broken ribs. But I thought I'd research anyhow. Apparently, it takes them one to two months to heal, and you pretty much have to just let it happen on its own. Double suck.

Despite the annoyance, I did come across this interesting advice...there are a few words here and there that really puzzle me. I'm wondering if it was translated from another language and there was some kind of glitch that randomly messed up some of the words. "I enjoy been to the doctor?" "clutch it easy?" I don't get it. Check it out...

my mom twisted and she thinks any her rib or something dislocated, she is going to the doctor tomorrow but what do you think they will do??

Answers:
How long does a sprain bring to heal? I enjoy been to the doctor for that. If you crack, dislocate, or even break a rib, in that is very little to be done. They will not put a style or even a brace on it.. ribs are very concrete to stabilize (every time you breathe, they move) They will probably perscribe an expensive version of ibuprofen (for misery and swelling) and possibly an antibiotic. You simply have to clutch it easy and tolerate your body heal itself. Save your self the trouble, unless your rib is broken and have punctured your lung so that you need emergency attention to detail, there is not much explanation to go to the doctor for this. It may hurt for a while, so only take your ibuprofen - I be told that you can take up to 800mg every six hours. But i.e. kind of alot so I might whip like 600 instead.

What the hell?

When I was on a vacation in Mexico with my parents and brother and his friend Art, I remember being out in the ocean with my father, who is an unbelievably bad swimmer. As in, he cannot swim. At all. The waves got bigger and bigger and one finally knocked my dad over. I swam over to him and helped him up. All seemed fine until a couple of weeks later...

It turns out, he was still feeling a lot of pain, so he went and got an x-ray done. And lo and behold...he'd cracked two ribs and one of his vertebrae. From an effing wave.

Hugs and waves. Really?

On the plus side, I finally got the Exploded Keytar Tshirt from Oddica that I've wanted for about a year. I guess this weekend isn't a total Suck Fest. Yay!



ADDENDUM

I have to share a letter that Tara's father sent out to some friends after a night of debauchery. Just FYI, he is Wire Nutz and his wife is Fuze Blower. Oh my god.

Howdy All,

As I sit here bedridden recovering from severely bruised ribs, all I can think of is Jimmy Buffet's Wasted Away in Margaretville - "Some people claim that there's a woman to blame". At least that was my immediate thought as I was on my knees trying to catch my breath. While dancing to some amazing zydeco music, Fuze Blower spun me and I went flying into the table holding the Birthday Cake. The table survived, I did not.

I next moved on to blaming the Birthday Boy and his fantastic playlist. It seemed logical to move on and blame the DJ. "But I know hell, it could be my fault."

I briefly thought about blaming the excellent choice of beer (Bells Two Hearted Ale), but I have surrendered to the Zen of Buffet - "I know it's my own damn fault".

The ER doctor informed me that my injury will heal slowly and remain painful for several days. Right now I'm resting comfortably, but the pain pills affect my ability to drive and think clearly. I'm not able to lift anything - I can barely stand. Nurse Fuze is doing a fine job of providing me with care, but I think I'm beginning to wear down her bedside manner.

I look forward to getting up and around again soon. Fuze Blower has recommended that I sign up for one of the classes at the Y that helps the elderly - Balance and Stability Training. Remember it is all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

"But there's booze in the blender and soon it will render,
That frozen concoction that helps me hang on."

On! On!

The Bruised but not Broken,
Wire Nutz

Welcome To My Family, Genia

Last week, Genia came to my house to meet my parents. No, we're not dating, and no, this isn't anything like meeting the parents and "taking our relationship to the next level" or anything. We were both in Illinois and had vacation time, so we spent a day together. That's all.

We spent the afternoon being pretty lazy, hanging out in the yard with my mom and watching cable. We later went out to dinner with my parents. That's what I usually do when I'm at my parents' house. It's an effing vacation right there!

After dinner, we were all kind of standing around in the kitchen when my dad decided to begin "preparing the fruits." This is an almost nightly ritual that takes place at my parents' house. Dad gets out several fruits, probably about five types, and begins preparing them. Oranges and pears are peeled, blueberries are washed and presented in a beautiful bowl, strawberries get the green parts chopped off, and melons are shaped into attractive pieces. Peaches and kiwis are avoided because he can't stand the way the fuzzy skin feels. Those ones are up to my mom to prepare.




Then comes the inevitable...Dad goes to the refrigerator in the garage, reserved only for fruits, giant jars of olives and pickles he makes himself, and a variety of beers that nobody ever really drinks. He returns with a crate of figs...and I use the term "crate" quite literally. This particular crate is about 12 by 24 inches. Full of figs.



So here's the part where Genia gets initiated. It has happened to several people so far, Tara included. I think my dad took her out to the garage and opened the trunk of his car, asking her "Do you like dates?" She was dating my brother at the time, and was thoroughly confused, until he showed her the giant-raisin-looking fruits stacked in his trunk, again, in crates, and made her sample one. It was probably all she could do not to spit it out. Actually, maybe she did spit it out later, covertly. Tara? Any information?

Okay, I'm digressing. Here's how it went:

Dad: Genia, have you ever had a fig?
Genia: No, I don't think I have
Dad: Come over here, have one. These are the most delicious things you will ever eat.



Genia samples a freshly peeled fig straight from my dad's hand. She likes it, which means she's in! Approval abounds, and she and my dad chat as they eat a few more figs each. My mom and I mention this one time we had dates wrapped in bacon at a tapas restaurant, to which my father replies (and this is a direct quote by the way...I wrote it down immediately after he said it, for the soul purpose of later repeating it in this blog):

When you want to mock lovely fruits, you put chocolate on dates or cheese on figs. This is an insult.

Beautiful, right? My dad is a lovely, beautiful man who just wants to share the wonder of unadulterated fruits with the world. Only, then the initiation turns into a weird sort of hazing. He pulls out the gross dates, the hard, round, yellow ones that taste awful to probably everybody except him and Auntie Vicky.



"Try this one," he says to Genia. As I watch her attempt to choke down a tiny bite, I think of my cousin Laith, who, when traveling in Saudi Arabia, was served a plate of cooked pigeon. Not wanting to insult, he began eating it. The men around him laughed, explaining that they always serve pigeon to "The New Guy." He stopped eating, relieved, knowing that he was officially part of the Arab business world, and waited for his meal of plain old regular lamb to arrive.

My father watches Genia and says "You don't like this one, do you?" She shakes her head honestly and he holds out his hand to take the half-eaten date and put it in the trash. "Not very many people do."

As I stand back and observe, Genia and my father keep chatting as if they've known each other for years. She asks him how dates grow, and he says "I will show you. Hold on a minute." He disappears from the room for a few minutes. Then we hear the voice from the front of the house, calling insistently "Genia! Come over here!" Genia, giggling, goes to find my father. A few minutes later, they two of them are leaning over the kitchen counter looking at a beautiful photo album that I've never seen before. My father explains that a patient of his used to travel in the Middle East in the 1950s and was a photographer. After my father treated him, the man wanted to give my father a gift. He put together an album of photos from Iraq and other parts of the Middle East, complete with captions, and gave it to my father. The pages are full of date palm trees, camels, people working in the souks, minarets atop mosques...these are some of the most beautiful pictures I've ever seen. And, per my father's request, little to no evidence of war or religion anywhere.

"Dad, where did this come from?" I ask in amazement. He looks at me, shaking his head and smiling. "Reemie, this has been sitting in the living room for about twenty years."

I later relay this entire story to my brother, who has never heard about this album either. It blows my mind that things like this exist in my life and only seem to surface as a result of the beautiful connection brought about by figs and dates.

Maybe I should try fresh dates again. Maybe I'll be justly rewarded. Maybe fruits are the answer to everything I've been looking for. What a lovely solution.