Spiritual Appetite

Liana

I’ve been Muslim for a dozen years now–hard to accept that the years are passing at a rate quicker than I can appreciate them.  As a new Muslim all those years ago, I looked at the advent of my first Ramadan as a challenging exercise of the will.  I was excited to put my faith to the test, to directly measure the depth of my faith by the depth of my willpower.  Once Ramadan started, I remember the pangs of hunger towards the middle of the month and feeling ill at ease with my overwhelming desire to eat.  If I were more deen-focused, would I not be able to ignore or put aside that hunger for the sake of God?  Why was I so driven by food?  Maybe, my faith was not as strong as I had believed and had hoped it would be….

Three years ago, my daughter was born.  As we actively prepared for her arrival, we attended a class led by my midwife.  Much of my pregnancy is a blur now–I had just changed jobs, we had moved state, bought a house, and signed on to some extensive renovations all in the last five months of my pregnancy.  I do remember, however, one noteworthy piece of advice that my midwife tried to drill into us during that class.  While the specific words may differ, the gist of her advice was this: “Don’t have pre-set expectations of how things are going to go at the hospital.  Don’t lock yourself in to a plan.  Just accept the way things will unfold as there are some things that you just don’t have complete control over.”

Of course, she was right.  Things did not go the way we had planned.  And, it was nothing like we had imagined it would be.  But, as we looked into our little tiny girl’s sleepy eyes as she tried her best to grapple with her new set of circumstances, we realized that none of our pre-conceived notions really made that much difference; nothing really could have made that moment any better than it was.

This year, in my post-fajr high (induced somewhat by a fat mug of chai, strong enough to sprout legs and walk away at any given time), I think back to those early days of being Muslim and how things have changed for me.  My perception is different; my patience threshold is a little higher although still miles short from where I would like it to be; my efforts to systemize my world have evolved into simply trying to reduce the chaos and unpredictability that defines it.

And, Ramadan feels different.  Not locked in by the handcuffs of defined expectations, I am better able to immerse myself in the undefined joy of Ramadan.

My appreciation for Ramadan is less fettered by what I thought it would be like and instead, is tethered only to a belief that its beauty exists in a vacuum with or without my pre-defined expectations of it.  Just as I discovered in the delivery room, I am realizing once again that there are some gifts we are given that are bigger than anything our expectations can define.  Perhaps, we can receive them better if they are left undefined.

Between the Layers: How to Make Burek

Lina Sergie Attar

On a hot August afternoon, I was in the kitchen planning a Ramadan iftar. The act of preparing a dish is as much about memory as tasting it. My personal memories involve making burek. Although this tradition stems from my paternal Turkish great-grandmother, the top burek chef in my family is my mother. Burek, is a pastry made of thin layers of dough that holds any variety of fillings: cheese; spinach; meat; the possibilities are endless. It is often described as a kind of pie, but it is more like a savory baklava.

Making burek is a commitment, a physical commitment, it is opposite of my usual “efficient” process of cooking with three burners and an oven all going at the same time. The process forces you to slow down dramatically, there is no multitasking, everything must be prepared and ready, the filling, the melted butter, the tray, the dough, the brush, all laid out in order. You begin the repetitive movements, slowly lift a paper-thin sheet of pastry, and place it carefully on top of the other, then move a butter-dipped brush across the new layer. Over and over, a rhythmic meditation.

They say musicians over the years, develop memory in their fingers. My fingers have a culinary memory, holding three generations and three countries within them, as my mother, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother guide my motions. But while your movements may slow, your thoughts do not. Your thoughts are racing, rushing across time and geographies, stitching together disparate recollections between the layers.

Ramadan is all about beginnings and ends, from anticipating the birth of a new moon, to watching the silver crescent slowly dissolve. And like the month, Ramadan meals are all about the unforgettable starters and finales. When the sun kisses the horizon, iftar begins with a silent prayer, as parched lips touch the glass of precious water and taste the sweetness of a date. Contrary to popular belief, iftar is not about the quantity of food, for as anyone who fasts will tell you, after a few bites you are full. But those few bites need to to satisfy all cravings, to satiate every taste bud. Combining as many textures and flavors possible is the brilliance of the classic iftar: the delightful Ramadan drinks, tangy tamer hindi and sweet amar din; the soothing creaminess of a hot lentil soup; the crisp, cooling fattoush salad; the spicy, nutty muhammarah dip; and the sheer perfection of the buttery, flaky, cheesy burek. The middles are distractions, everyday variables of rice, a meat, and a vegetable, utterly unimportant fillers that must be tolerated before the best part of the meal: dessert. And, the grand finale, my beloved, bitter, caffeinated coffee.

Ramadan desserts belong to the street not the kitchen. My favorite desserts take you on a culinary tour across the Aleppo from Sallora for kanafeh, to the tiny shop on the corner in al-Jamiliyyeh where the same man has stood for decades in front of a massive caldron of hot oil, frying luqum, literally “bites” of fried dough dipped in syrup. And the ultimate Ramadan exclusive, ghazel el-banat, “girls’ seduction,” the most romantic name for a dessert, fluffy white clouds of spun sugar, that melt in your mouth, only to surprise you with toasted Aleppo pistachios suspended in the nest of sweet threads. [Read more...]