A couple of weeks ago, the weather began to warm somewhat and we were able to open the windows during the day and get some fresh air into the house. The winter needn't mean holing oneself up indoors, but morning roads in the cold wind are never much fun, and it is a herculean task to get the kids to want to do anything outdoors when the weather is less than inviting. Unfortunately, now, there is cold and rain in the forecast. Spring can't come fast enough.
We did take advantage of the break in the weather to drive north to Umm Qais. The following weekend, we joined some friends for a cooking class at Beit Sitti for mansaf and mutabal.
"Beit" means "house" in English, and "Sitti" is "my grandmother", so translated it means "My Grandmother's House". Interestingly enough, my brothers and I called my paternal grandmother "Sitti" growing up. My grandparents were Lebanese. My grandfather, Jidu, was born in Lebanon, and my grandmother was born in Boston to Lebanese parents. Of course, as a small child, I never put two and two together, or thought to much about why my grandmother was called Sitti.
I have many memories of Sunday afternoons spent at their house in Flamingo Park in downtown West Palm Beach. My grandfather passed away when I was very young, but I remember he carried a string of prayer beads (I remember them being called "worry beads" for some reason. Knowing how much my own father worries that shouldn't be a surprise) and he would cut the crust off our sandwiches for us. Their house was large and sat on a large lot surrounded by orange, mango, and avocado trees. He would squeeze fresh orange juice for us which we weren't nearly as excited about as we should have been, because -- of course -- fresh-squeezed meant it had pulp in it.
We would often meet my grandparents at the Syrian-Lebanese Club off of Forest Hill Blvd. I don't know if it is still there. As a young boy with no point of comparison, it was its own special torture. The highlight was the food, spits of grilled chicken and lamb, but the Arab music, the smoke, dance, and flocks of unknown relatives who would dote over us and squeeze our tender cheeks between weathered, calloused fingers was a rite of passage I could have done without. I don't know if the club is still there. I have thought to take my own kids there as a form of retribution, so they could share in my misery. But if I took them there now, it would have a whole new and special meaning. It would remind them of Jordan, and hopefully bring back a swell of happy memories, an experience akin to the one we have now when we go to an Indian restaurant for dosas and idlis.
Going to Beit Sitti felt like the end of a journey, in a way. But also knowing the journey is not quite over. I don't think it will be until we go to Lebanon, but this was a happy start. I was curious how much Beit Sitti might remind me of my own grandmother's house, and it definitely did not disappoint. The old refrigerator and the black and white photos on the walls were just like the refrigerator in my grandmother's kitchen, a can of Hawaiian Punch in the door.
The kids kneaded dough for bread to accompany the mutabal. The main dish was mansaf, the one and only true Jordanian dish. It is a dish of lamb cooked in a sauce of fermented dried yogurt called jameed. It is served on a large platter and has its origins in the deserts of Jordan among the Bedouin tribes. You can't come to Jordan without having mansaf, the national dish, and we had not yet had a chance to have it, so we were excited to finally have the chance to try it!
We did take advantage of the break in the weather to drive north to Umm Qais. The following weekend, we joined some friends for a cooking class at Beit Sitti for mansaf and mutabal.
"Beit" means "house" in English, and "Sitti" is "my grandmother", so translated it means "My Grandmother's House". Interestingly enough, my brothers and I called my paternal grandmother "Sitti" growing up. My grandparents were Lebanese. My grandfather, Jidu, was born in Lebanon, and my grandmother was born in Boston to Lebanese parents. Of course, as a small child, I never put two and two together, or thought to much about why my grandmother was called Sitti.
I have many memories of Sunday afternoons spent at their house in Flamingo Park in downtown West Palm Beach. My grandfather passed away when I was very young, but I remember he carried a string of prayer beads (I remember them being called "worry beads" for some reason. Knowing how much my own father worries that shouldn't be a surprise) and he would cut the crust off our sandwiches for us. Their house was large and sat on a large lot surrounded by orange, mango, and avocado trees. He would squeeze fresh orange juice for us which we weren't nearly as excited about as we should have been, because -- of course -- fresh-squeezed meant it had pulp in it.
We would often meet my grandparents at the Syrian-Lebanese Club off of Forest Hill Blvd. I don't know if it is still there. As a young boy with no point of comparison, it was its own special torture. The highlight was the food, spits of grilled chicken and lamb, but the Arab music, the smoke, dance, and flocks of unknown relatives who would dote over us and squeeze our tender cheeks between weathered, calloused fingers was a rite of passage I could have done without. I don't know if the club is still there. I have thought to take my own kids there as a form of retribution, so they could share in my misery. But if I took them there now, it would have a whole new and special meaning. It would remind them of Jordan, and hopefully bring back a swell of happy memories, an experience akin to the one we have now when we go to an Indian restaurant for dosas and idlis.
When we arrived, there was already a pot cooking on the stove outside. We would begin by making mutabal, an eggplant dip similar to baba ghanouj, but without the tahini. It has a wonderful smokey flavor that is achieved by placing the eggplants whole on a direct flame so the skin blisters and peels.
The adults didn't do much actual cooking which was just fine by me. The kids, however, were each handed six-inch knives and asked to chop tomatoes and cucumbers for a farmer's salad. Peter wielded the dagger with an uncomfortable amount of relish which made me squirm with anxiety. I couldn't fully relax until the blades were all safely sheathed, and all fingers were still intact.
The women who led the cooking class were local women who were employed to help empower them economically. They are the sole bread winners in their families. Sittis in their own right.
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