Outside my bedroom, the eerie emptiness feels vast and haunting. Since all the windows face north, and the back of the house is surrounded by high trees, it never gets direct sunlight. Everything is gray. It feels a bit like a black hole, vacuous and suffocating. I think, So this is what it looks like at the start, and quickly turn on all the lights the way I’m used to, before I could feel the fear my mom insisted I would feel being home alone. In the living room, a ceiling lamp that is never turned on stands guard in the center, and four spotlights connected to dimmer switches are always set to low, leaving the room clouded in a warm darkness. Three plump, chocolate couches flank a maroon rug and dark mahogany and granite coffee table. A large TV is mounted above a matching mahogany mantle. It seems to buzz faintly in confused anticipation. In the kitchen, brightness prevails. White tiles sweep through the long expanse. Eight small spotlights mounted into the ceiling are almost always set to high. Old walnut cabinets, now faded to a light mauve surround a formica counter the color of gravel.
I’m hungry and the house smells like nothing. I weigh my options. I could pick something up, or order something in, but I realize that spending my weekdays at an office in New York has spoiled me. I once tried to see if we had Seamless in New Jersey; the answer is yes with an asterisk—Panda Express or Papa John’s abound, our usual small-business haunts like the China Express or Palumbo’s, curiously absent. I stifle a craving for pho or tibs wat, open the fridge. I could throw some turkey on pita or melt a mozzarella stick, and grab some chips, my usual Saturday lunch, but somehow I don’t want to do any of these things. Closing the fridge, I look to the stove, polished, everything neatly in place, untouched for the last week, waffling, and I realize what I’m not smelling.
I don’t remember the last time this stove was off.
My mom started cooking and baking when my grandmother died ten years ago. It started as a way to grieve—day and night in the kitchen kneading dough to replicate Teta’s famous fino recipe, boiling chickpeas for fresh hummus, teaching herself baklava at four in the morning—but quickly became a practicality, a need to feed a family that’s been magically sustained by Teta for years while she worked, and eventually became a passion that would burn your ears off if you made the grave mistake of engaging her in the topic. If I happen to drift through the kitchen while my mom is cooking, it’s like getting pulled into a gravitational orbit. She tells me to stir this, taste that (and adjust accordingly), but mostly she just talks.
“The trick is to put the onions in while the oil is hot. Otherwise they’ll overcook and lose their flavor and texture. But you also have to keep stirring as soon as you drop them. They can burn in a second.”
“An adha is your secret weapon. You can practically grind one up and throw it into any dish.”
“You gotta be really careful with yogurt. It can overflow at any moment. That’s why I use this thing. There’s one in your Hope Chest, so don’t worry. Come here, let me show you how it works.”
“You can’t use fresh bread with fet’te. It’ll just turn into mush. That’s why it’s always a good idea to keep old bread in the freezer.”
I never get to cook. But I guess theoretically I know how.
I open the fridge again, the cabinet with the three rotating tiers of spices, the pantry, and then do it all again. I start pulling out jars, smelling them, laying them out on the counter open, trying to decide which flavors go together. I keep digging, bypassing all the typical spices, the allspice, the 7-spice, the cloves and nutmeg, cardamom and turmeric, past the Italian herbs on the second tier, past the steak and fish seasonings on the third tier, until I find the curry powder and rosemary. One pungent and earthy, one sweet and spicy and layered, neither like anything my mother ever makes, and I’m suddenly sure they’ll work perfectly together. With chicken of course, potatoes, carrots. Peppers? Maybe. Broccoli? No, no. Onions? Of course.
Digging for supplies, I realize that even though I’ve lived in this house for 30 years, I have no idea where anything is. On any other day, the pots are already on the stove, the Pyrex already prepped on the counter to be filled and placed in the oven, the meats already defrosting near the sink. It takes thirty minutes, but I finally manage to gather and prep everything I need. With a large pan on the stove, a mountain of chopped onions laying in wait, and one of my mom’s aprons tied around me, I take a deep breath and click, click, click, set fire to my canvas. I grab the bottle of oil set next to the stove and twirl it over the pan, waiting for the drizzle to come. Nothing. Shit. I look around me for a moment, unsure how to proceed, slightly panicked because the fire is burning—I can feel the heat at my belly button—but stopping doesn’t seem like an option. I study the smaller, matching oil bottle, debating, cringing. Could olive oil work for this? Without a second thought, I grab the smaller bottle and swirl that over my pan to no greater luck. The hell? Finally I concede that the flame must be snookered for the moment. I step back and consider abandoning the entire project, but find myself more annoyed by the prospect of figuring out a home for my onion tower and my microwave-defrosted, cubed chicken breasts. A quick scan of the pantry confirms I have no idea where the large bottles of vegetable and olive oil are stored. And the thought of the fresh hell of a dual-lecture/interrogation I’ll incur if I try to call my mom right now stops me dead in my tracks.
Hovering in the center of a tiled expanse in front of the pantry, the deflowered kitchen to my right, further to my left, past the dark living room, the safe haven of my bedroom where I could go now, close the door, and pretend I’m not in an alternate universe where I’m alone in a giant suburban colonial in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, I study the popcorn ceiling, the dust along the molding above the pantry, the space above the fridge—
Of course.
My oil. An old one liter Coca-Cola bottle, worn and flimsy, a vintage circa 1997 if I’d have guessed by the design on the weathered iconic red label, double-wrapped in dusty black shopping bags so it could safely transport overseas without spilling, filled with oil freshly extracted from the oldest olive tree in the world. It sat above the fridge in that state untouched since the day Maya brought it for me from Palestine, following a rather mysterious text message from a sim card she never told me she’d had during the trip.
+972 59-934-6732
Mon, Jul 10, 4:27 am
you dont need a man to be Palestinian! haha. your gonna love what I brought you though
Every day since, my mother would look at the bottle, probably more angry that it looked so unsanitary in her routinely polished kitchen than that it was being left unused, and would look at me hopefully. Just leave it, I would respond simply, as I made my way to my room to decompress after yet another long day. (The irony is that regularly falling asleep on the bus from New York to New Jersey every night left me more tired than awake.)
“It can’t just stay there forever,” she’d called to my back one evening, when I’d tried to make a beeline from the garage door straight to my room.
“It doesn’t go bad though, does it?” I asked, or hoped. I was standing in the middle of the family room, slumped under the weight of my stuffed messenger bag, bladder full, giving my mother leaning against the sink at the far side of the kitchen my most withering look. I could smell spaghetti sauce cooking, the tomato and beef and seasonings wafting across the divide, making me hungry, and could just see from my angle that another pot was already on the stove getting water ready for the spaghetti waiting nearby in a measuring cup. My mom knew not to ask me which noodle I want with bolognese. She turned in my direction, red silicone spoon in hand, her hip latched to the stove, so that our conversation continued across a thirty-foot divide. The bedroom was just ten feet behind me.
“What,” she scoffed and laughed, “you want me to put it in your Hope Chest?” her sarcasm punctuated by the fact that I actually have one that’s been collecting for years, a closet full of kitchen, bathroom, and some bedroom supplies for the day I finally open a home.
“Maybe!” I answered. It was only half sarcastic. “I’ll use it. I just…want it to be special.”
“You waiting to cook it for your man?”
I gave her stink eye and she laughed.
“Can we at least get it out of the bags?” she called as I turned back to my room, but I didn’t respond. I knew she was already moving on.
Now I study the bottle, standing sentinel, surrounded by a congregation of trays, baskets, and other lesser-used accoutrement. The truth is, the thing makes me just a little angry. The way it stands there, hovering, like it’s mocking me.
Maya and I were supposed to take that trip together. I’d discovered it by happenstance, through a mailing list I didn’t know I’d signed up for. A handful of donations to the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund, and suddenly I had access to insider information. Sitting under a headlamp getting a deep conditioning treatment during my weekly salon trip, sometime last summer, I was skimming through my emails when I saw it, a trip called Know Thy Heritage, which further digging told me was ostensibly and unofficially a version of Palestinian Birthright. I forwarded it to Maya right away and we both agreed that we’d apply. We had no doubt in our minds that this trip would be an exception to the rule that “Our girls don’t sleep outside the home until they’re married.”
Because this was different. This was Palestine. That elusive, faraway place we grow up being told is home. Generations pass without seeing it, but still we say we are Palestinian. Neither of my parents had ever visited the country, my grandparents having fled Jaffa, our hometown, in 1948 during the Nakbe. But when I’m asked where I’m from, what I am, the answer is always the same. I grew up learning about the orange groves that filled the port city, a bustling metropolis of industry and commerce, how you could smell the citrus all around you, even inside the closed doors of your house. How my great-grandfather would come home from work in the afternoons carrying cartons of oranges, and the whole family would feast on the abundance. I knew about the olive trees that lined the mountains, how no matter how proximal the supply—from Lebanon, Jordan—the imported oil would never be as good as Palestinian oil. We watch the news, pay attention to when an intifada happens, or how many children are arrested or killed on a given day, how many homes are stolen; though admittedly, I often repel this information, to the constant agitation of my mother. Palestine would always be ours. So we knew our parents wouldn’t bat an eye at us going there and we were right. If anything, they were jealous.
But then, shortly after putting in my application, I met Mohammed #2. Two months later we were engaged, another two months and we’d started planning our wedding. three months after that it was over before it started. During this time, we got the calls for our interviews; Maya took hers, I waffled. Mohammed didn’t seem to allow for the same exceptions and concessions my parents made. He wanted me to dress more modestly than my parents did. He was visibly uncomfortable when I traveled for work one night to attend a market research session. And even though he was from Palestine, a relatively new immigrant, I sensed he wouldn’t be okay with me traveling without him, even there, especially since the trip was scheduled for after our wedding date. Two months after we broke up, I got laid off from my job, but it was too late. Maya was invited to be a part of Know Thy Heritage. She decided to go without me. I told her I was happy for her.
I peel away the plastic bags to reveal the (also dusty) Coca-Cola bottle underneath. It’s filled almost to the rim with the greenest oil I have ever seen. The oil looks like liquified gold set to the backdrop of a rainforest, shining iridescent under the eight kitchen spotlights. I find a box of wipes under the sink and glide a cold, damp sheet around the bottle in a slow spiral, coming back to the top to scrub the ridges of the cap. Then with washed hands I pull at the seal, listening for the faint fshh of released air and the smell hits me instantly.
Truth be told, until very recently, I hated olive oil. I’m only now starting to tolerate the taste of it, recognizing its appropriate place in mediterranean foods, but rarely do I actually appreciate it. I don’t know if it’s because this bottle came from Home or if it’s because this is one of the nicest things Maya’s ever done for me, or if the oil actually is different, but I am mesmerized. I stick my nose as close to the opening as I can without touching it, contaminating it, and I inhale deeply. An audible groan seems to release directly from my chest, ricocheting against the staticky TV and echoing across the walls of the empty suburban New Jersey colonial.
I close my eyes, and I feel my body fall, as though in a dream, and land with a start on my feet. I am standing in a valley. The sun is high in the sky, its rays falling on my shoulders like a silk cape, sending heat down my spine. Salty sweat beads hang from my lips. Hard sand shifts underfoot and lands in my sandals, exfoliating my skin as I walk through a narrow, winding pathway; sharp yellow burrs, spread among the branches and stems, threaten to make Swiss cheese of my toes. I am flanked on both sides by dusty green foliage—trees and trees and trees sloping down the valley to my right and scaling the mountainside to my left. A fruity smell, earthy and bitter and buttery, wraps around me, making me salivate. Scraggly olive trees with long, skinny leaves and bulbous green marbles canopy us intermittently. Us. I am not alone. Small feet scurry in front of me, as though laying down a path for me to follow, but I am not lost. I’ve taken this path many a time. My heart fills with warmth. I reach an arm out and touch a leaf, feel its velvety texture, then let my fingers graze the branches along the path, like passing through water or wind outside a moving car, as I walk along. We turn a corner and there it is.
I gasp and my eyes fly open. Eight white spotlights blind me as I look upon the familiar shadowed room with the dark couches and the buzzing TV. Salty sweat beads hang from my lips. My heart flutters in my chest, pushing against my rib cage as I stare blankly across the quiet, empty house. The image of that towering, sprawling arbor with its wide-reaching canopy of leaves and glistening bulbs sits just behind my eyes, not like an imagining, but like a memory. What had just flashed through my mind was not the obscure picture Maya tried to show me of the oldest olive tree in the world. It was not anything I’d ever seen before. And yet, it was like I was standing there, right there. But…where?
I look down at the bottle in my hands, sitting on the granite countertop. I sniff the air again, and make a decision.
The chicken is still applicable, though not ideal in this form. The onions, of course. I’ll have to store the potatoes, which’ll be a pain. And the carrots will just have to be my lunch. I tuck the curry and rosemary back in their spots at the back of the third tier, and from the main tier pull down the spices I’ll need for dinner.
I’m going to make maftool.
Maftool is the name of the grain contained in the dish known as Israeli couscous, which is in truth, neither Israeli nor couscous (couscous is the tiny grain found in Moroccan food). In the traditional Palestinian dish of the same name, we take those little balls and cook them down in a hundred spices, letting them simmer over seared chicken that sits at the bottom of a pot, so it absorbs all the naturally-occurring stock. It’s a dish as comforting as it is explosive, so comforting that we grow up being told it’s Arabic macaroni, and we believe it.
The smell of cloves and cardamom and nutmeg and allspice and turmeric and safflower and cumin and cinnamon and paprika surround me like a warm blanket, as I portion out the amount of each I need. I set the maftool to simmer in a pot on a corner eye, until it expands and fluffs up into soft, little puff balls. The fire on the main burner is back on, now under my mom’s largest skillet. I take a breath, lift the Coca-Cola bottle from the counter, careful not to squeeze the flimsy plastic, and slowly tip it over the hot skillet.
A green molten drizzle lands on the black surface with a crackle and steam comes up in curlicues. I take another deep breath through my nose and I swear I see a tree forming in the curls of smoke rising from the pan. Soon the onions are sauteed, the chicken seared, and the boiled maftool settled on top like an upside-down layer cake, all of it cooking down in the spices until the flavor reaches deep, through the bones, and into every molecule in the pot.
Once it’s cooked, I’ll scoop the maftool into a Pyrex pan, laying the chicken pieces on top like a jigsaw puzzle. I can hear my mom saying, “The trick is to pour some of the juice into the pan so it doesn’t dry out in the oven, but make sure you leave some to put on your plate.”
The house doesn’t smell like nothing anymore. Every corner is coated, radiating the most aromatic maftool I’ve ever smelt. And for a moment, the house doesn’t feel scary, my aloneness doesn’t feel scary. I feel… serene.
Tonight, when my parents come home, it’ll feel like I’m serving them, like I’m a real adult.
Siham “Sam” Inshassi is a fiction writer currently finishing her MFA at The New School. Her work focuses on culture and identity politics, both in the home and beyond, tapping into her own identity as a first-generation Palestinian Arab-American Muslim female. She’s a passionate advocate for the Palestinian cause and immigrant and refugee rights. You can find her on Twitter @saminshassi.
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