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My mother always travels with a carefully prepared selection of Lebanese specialties. No less than 20 kilos of culinary treasures fill her suitcase, which serves as a refrigerator, brimming with vibrant colors and enticing aromas. In a fabric bag, you will find freshly washed, chopped, and finely minced leaves of flat-leaf parsley, ready to end up in a juicy tabbouleh. You will also find the humble brown of bulgur, along with tiny, juicy and crunchy cucumbers. A box of pistachio halva, and most importantly, zaatar, add to the assortment! Cashews, almonds, caraway, you name it… Everything you need in vacuum-sealed bags brimming with the classics of Lebanese aperitifs.
As a Lebanese, she tries to slip more and more food items, as long as she does not exceed the allowed limit of 23 kilos. With the discretion of an altruistic thief characterized by excessive generosity, she strives to add as much as possible to her suitcase, her sole dilemma being whether quantity or variety should prevail. After all, she needs a little bit of everything to carry fragments of Lebanon in her suitcase and remind her daughter of the flavors of her roots. In Paris, olive oil does not taste the same. European cucumbers are not real cucumbers, and flat dried beans can never compare to the true fassoulia. As for pine nuts, nothing can match those harvested from her homeland.
Preparing for her trip to France is primarily about meal planning, as if offering a banquet. She meticulously prepares lists, as she notes which items or ingredients to take along. She cooks dishes and carefully wraps them for transportation… At border control, God knows how she always manages to seamlessly evade inspection.
In contrast, my father once slipped a bag of zaatar into his bag, only to face the inquisition of a meticulous customs officer, who judgingly asked my father, “Sir, this spice that you seem so proud of has zero nutritional value. What is the point of carrying it around?” My father always recounts the scene with the same words and the same vehemence, “Can you believe he said that about our zaatar? But how else to eat a mannoucheh in Canada?”
No one dares impugn our zaatar with impunity. The customs officer, in our collective agreement, was a fool. We all join in, mocking his culinary ignorance. We stand united as accomplices. But hearing my father finally laugh at this oft-repeated story made me come to the realization that he has aged. And age seems to have softened what he once perceived as a personal and national offense. “Zero, can you imagine?” He laughs about it now, like a child finding amusement in the harmless silliness of it all.
Every time my mom visits me, I protest, hypocritically, condescendingly, yet in awe, at this “cavern of mama”. I protest at the abundance of food items scattered among the suitcase clothes. I protest at an unexpected yet very necessary sight. Her suitcase is as essential as tenderness itself, inexhaustible in its capacity. Her dishes are like gestures of rediscovered sweetness. Mäamoul, maakroune, samboussèke-el-zouk… her homemade pastries; home is her.
This makes it seem as though we all share the same mother. After all, we all attest that “no one cooks as well as mom!” They all carry the same baggage when they join their expat children. They all strive to save us from a life lived without maternal nourishment. With them, we enjoy food again. Mtabbal, laban-emmo and fatayer, just to name a few. And at the mere mention of such delicacies, we playfully tease them and say, “We can find everything in Paris!”
We can indeed find everything in Paris. What we cannot find, however, is our mothers’ hands, their eyes, their scent, their voice and their words of wisdom.
Gracia Bejjani
