“They are also stealing our civilization and our cuisine.”

Here is an interesting blurb from the Times about nations laying claims to the origins of Middle Eastern food. Here is a commentary on the article from a Times blog.



Middle Eastern food is very serious business in my house. It is held on high, and for the most part I have to admit that in my own cooking, I don't even go there. I used to, but now that I'm married to a practical expert witness on the subject, I subconsciously don't think it's my place to mess with his Manna.
Not that he'd complain; it's me that has the problem, not him. Sure, I'll make the occasional batch of hummus (with very loud claims that it is "just an experiment"), the very rare batch of packaged falafel, or more often, a recipe for couscous with vegetables and harissa. But, I'll slap "Moroccan" on anything that seems nearly Middle Eastern in an attempt to separate my food from anything Aaron grew up eating. Moroccan Lentil Stew. Moroccan Couscous. Etc.



I tried learning to make Aaron's very favorite dish, Kubba, once. I have never made it. Maybe someday.



However, when it comes to Aaron's mom's recipes that she has taken from others, I am all over them. I have adapted her stuffed peppers, her blintzes, her chicken soup recipe (anything she refers to as "laundered chicken" is up for grabs, in my book), and even her grape leaves. I'd be willing to attempt my own take on her baklava, even though it is the self-proclaimed "best ever." But the family heirlooms...I just can't bring myself to even try. I am too prone to wayward and spontaneous spice adjustments, a result of emotional tumult as much as anything else.



I do use Aaron's mom's secret ingredient generously, though, in lots of things I cook. (That secret, ladies and gentleman, is...are you ready for it?...cinnamon.) Which does Middle Easternize much of my cuisine, right down to chicken soup.



I understand and research the millions of variations on simple dishes like hummus throughout the Middle East, knowing full-well that there isn't one Holy recipe for anything, unless you count anyone's mom's recipe for anything, in which case they are all Holy. That each mother, particular region, each village or nomadic group, let alone current idea of Nationality, may have it's own take on it, but that it is the entire concept of the dish itself in all it's forms that we as Americans really understand. Which is why I call it Middle Eastern food, an not something more specific (aside from Moroccan, but that's not really Middle Eastern, is it? It's just close enough to suggest the idea.)



All people do that, though. Noodles are from Italy, no wait, China. Pizza: Roman or Greek? There was an article this week about how Caesar Salad originated from Tijuana, Mexico.
I guess the question is, does it really matter where something first came from? I think it does, historically. But I also think that every variation is no less important, historically. Each footprint a dish leaves is equally, if not more interesting than the original. Which is why I should probably buck up and finally attempt some of these dishes myself. Or, better yet: Yoohoo, Aaron. You're needed in the kitchen.

this is just a tribute

There is nothing to write after this past week. Lots of people mentioned getting tattoos as a tribute to Cody's life and it made me think: if I were to get a tattoo that represented what Cody was to me, what would I get? What would I get for anyone I know?




For Cody, the answer is simple: milk.

I think a big old glass of milk would look pretty bad-ass. Tough guys drink milk.

"What's that on your arm?"

"It's a glass of milk, fool. What? You got somethin' to say about it?"

I'm probably alone on this one. But it's it, I'm telling you. It is what I'd look at and think of Cody. That kid drank milk like a madman.