Life From Scratch (35 page)

For supplies, Ava and I head out for Laxmi Spices, a market tucked away at the forgotten end of a strip mall. Inside a haze of cumin, coriander, and cinnamon drifts like incense, clinging to my skin as I meander through the dim aisles. A mosaic of curling Bollywood movie posters blocks the only window. I’ve lived in Tulsa for three years, but never set foot in this shop.

From behind a newspaper, the owner eyes me curiously. He’s brown and wrinkled, like an autumn leaf. “Can I help you find something?” His accent is thick and lush.

I glance at the scrap of paper in my hand where I’d scrawled “rose water” in red ink. I’m not entirely sure it exists outside of the perfume aisle. I’d certainly never seen it at my regular grocery store, and none of my classes at the CIA used it. Rose water sounds so exotic, like something the women in the
Arabian Nights
would dab on their racing pulses before slipping into bed on their wedding nights.

“No, thank you,” I say, shaking my head slowly. It’s been so long since I cooked—
really
cooked. I want to smell every package, peer into the frosted cases, and dream of the faraway places these foods come from. I want to linger a while.

Next to me a wide, long shelf bursts at the seams with heavy sacks of rice and lentils. Basmati. Cracked red rice. I trace my fingers along the woven bags. Most of them weigh 25 to 50 pounds. It would take me ten years to eat all that rice, I think, not to mention the quarter-pound bags of cracked mustard seed and cumin seed one shelf over.

In the next aisle, I find dozens of carbon steel woks—some as small as a teakettle, others nearly three feet across. All have two small handles for maneuvering. When I kneel on the dusty floor to examine them more closely, I see a faded price sticker: $20 for the medium one, about 18 inches across.

It would cost $60 at Williams-Sonoma.

“You want one?” the man asks. Without waiting for me to answer, he carries it to the front of the store.

“Is it a wok?” I ask, trailing behind him.

He makes a slow, circular motion with his arm: “Stirring pot.”

“What do you cook in it?”

“Everything,” he says. “You imagine. Stirring pot does.”

Perfect, I think, smiling at his broken English. His white mustache dances as he explains that I must give the stirring pot attention; I must oil it to keep it from rusting. I must bake it in the oven between uses. I must keep it dry. I nod impatiently, thinking only of how enticingly different the rugged black metal looks from my shiny, stainless-steel, 11-piece pot set gathering dust at home.

Twenty minutes later, I turn down the last aisle, arms bulging with a pile of eggplant and a half dozen spices like whole cardamom pods that smell like the first sweet flower of spring, as well as whole coriander, cumin, and saffron. Even though saffron is one of the most sought after spices in the world, it still feels scandalous to spend seven dollars for a tiny box of squiggly red crocus stamens.

“And where do you keep the rose water?” I finally ask. I think of how my great aunt used rose water in her linen drawers and quickly add, “To eat.”

The old man cracks his first smile and nods. “Yes, to eat. We have all sizes,” he adds and reaches toward a one-liter bottle below the counter. I quickly shake my head and take the smaller four-ounce bottle. I give it a little shake, and Ava watches as the water laps lyrically inside. She giggles, and then reaches toward our new stirring pot.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I whisper. “I have a feeling this pot is going to change everything.”

When I burst through the door with an armful of eggplant, it is Keith’s turn to groan.

“What is that?” he says, staring at the shiny black orbs.

“Keith, meet eggplant; eggplant, meet Keith,” I say lightly. “It’s dinner in Afghanistan. And it’s going to be your dinner tonight.”

He takes a deep breath, frowning.

“For Ava’s sake,” I whisper to him. He shifts on his feet.

When I’d initially suggested the project, Keith had been on board—he even helped me look into its feasibility. Despite his picky tendencies, he’d agreed to taste every recipe, no matter what was on the menu. He said the adventure sounded
fun
—that it’d probably be good for him. Considering his medical history we agreed to emphasize heart-healthy foods along with a dose of celebration foods. But today, face-to-face with the eggplant, he doesn’t look convinced.

I sneak into the bathroom and call Vanessa.

“Would you like to come over to eat an authentic Afghan feast?” I ask, trying not to sound desperate. I explain the project and add, “I need a little … peer pressure to get Keith on board.”

She agrees.

For the next five hours, I stumble through the recipes while Keith entertains Ava. Every time they poke their heads into the kitchen, I’m deeper in the trenches.

First they find me kneading the bread. There’s yogurt in the dough, making it yielding and soft. After much clatter and fuss, I wrestle the mixture into a smooth ball and tuck the bowl in a sunny spot on the couch to rise.

The next time they peek in, I’m blistering eggplant slices in hot oil, dancing around the splatters. I reduce the heat and braise the strips in their own juices along with turmeric, garlic, cayenne, and chopped tomatoes. By now, the kitchen counter is riddled with spills, open containers, and discarded vegetation.

For the yogurt sauce, I mix in caramelized onions, chopped spinach, garlic, and mint. The flavors are sharp, even for a garlic lover. I slip the bowl into the refrigerator, hoping it will mingle and mellow by dinnertime. Meanwhile, the sweet custard bubbles on the stove, nearly forgotten, the rose water and spice making the house smell like a field of saffron roses.

Finally, I pull out my new pot and prepare the kabeli palau. Keith and Ava watch while I toast the chicken, saffron, and garam masala in ghee. The spice blend gives off a surprising sweet note from the cinnamon and cardamom – a stark contrast to their stout companions, cumin, coriander, clove, and black pepper. Then I layer on the pureed onion, garlic, tomato paste, and rice. Only once the pot is full do I realize it didn’t come with a lid. A lid serves to trap the steam, create pressure, and evenly plump up the thirsty rice. I bang through my cupboards. None of my lids fit. Keith, who watches my feverish cooking display with stupor, suggests a round pizza pan.

It doesn’t create a seal, so I opt to go without. I add some extra stock to make up for the dry oven and then pop the whole thing in.

When the doorbell rings, I’m cooking the bread while nursing Ava in a sling. Stray saffron threads and cumin seeds fleck her fine hair. I have 25 seconds to tidy the kitchen, just enough time to slide an entire pile of dishes into the sink. When Keith brings Vanessa and her boyfriend Gus back to the kitchen, they peer at me through the haze. Vanessa asks if she can help.

“That’s OK!” I say with a strained smile, slapping another piece of homemade naan onto the skillet. The cumin seeds crackle and fill the air with a white cloud of earthy fragrance.

When we finally sit down, I feel as though I’ve run a marathon. Gus looks over the spread. The stirring pot sits in the middle of the table, brimming with rice and chicken laced with saffron and garam masala, topped with fried carrots and golden raisins: a new feast, a new memory in the making.

“Where is the silverware?”

“There is none,” Keith explains. “Sasha says they don’t use any in Afghanistan.”

Vanessa leans forward, points to Gus, and whispers, “He hates touching food with his hands.”

Keith squints at the eggplant dish, now unrecognizable in its red and ocher cloak. “I don’t really like to, either,” he muses.

“That’s the eggplant,” I offer, hoping the homey scent of garlic will entice them.

No one moves an inch.

Afghan music tiptoes softly about the room. Steam rises from our plates. Like the first one to drop their towel before skinny-dipping, I slide my hand into the pot, take a few fingers of warm food, and hope everyone else will follow suit.

The flavor explodes in my mouth, unlike anything I’ve ever eaten. It’s smoky from frying, rich from the oil, and heady from the spice. The cayenne pepper makes my eyes water. “Wow. This is
good
,” I say.

Then I try the yogurt dip. The flavors have mellowed, and now they sing. Finally I reach into the giant pot of rice, still steaming. The cinnamon note from the garam masala works beautifully in the savory dish.

The tension gives way to giggles. Everyone—even Keith—gingerly digs their fingers into the communal pot—the stirring pot. I wait, searching their faces.

One by one, they smile.
Yes, this is good
, they say.

Soon our hands find their rhythm. With no silverware to clink, the room fills with the silent concentration of busy eating. Eating with our fingers does not come naturally, so we eat slower and talk more. Thirty minutes goes by, then an hour and two.

“When you blog about this, are you going to write about the war?” Vanessa asks.

I look long and hard at the beautiful display in front of us. For the most part, this is food I’d never heard of a week before. This is a real feast.

“No, I’m not,” I respond. “There are enough people talking about the bad things in that part of the world. It’s time for some good. The food is enough.” I surprise myself with the forcefulness of my answer.

That night, as I stand in front of the sink washing a stack of dirty dishes notably lacking any knives, I make a vow to be a voice for the good, the happy, and the downright silly. Food, I realize, is family, not just survival. It’s peace.

This, I decide, will be my goal for the next four years—to create a place of calm inside and outside of my heart. Before I go to bed, I move the remaining spices from the market into the spice jars. They don’t fill them all, but it’s a start.

Kabeli Palau

The national dish of Afghanistan is a highly spiced basmati rice dish made with lamb, chicken, or beef, piled onto a large platter that everyone dips into with bits of
noni Afghani
(naan). The festive atmosphere this creates makes kabeli palau an important celebration dish, ubiquitous at weddings and festivals. The rice is colored—commonly with a touch of caramelized sugar, though many use browned onion and saffron with similar effect, as presented in Terri Willis’s
Afghanistan, Enchantment of the World.
The Afghan season theirs with char masala—here I’ve substituted more readily available garam masala. And although some like a few chopped tomatoes, I opted for the concentrated smack of tomato paste. A skyward platter brimming with spiced rice, tender chicken, and cardamom-laced carrots and golden raisins will feed a crowd in more ways than one
.