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The Language of Baklava
 
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The Language of Baklava [Format Kindle]

Diana Abu-Jaber

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Descriptions du produit

Extrait

ONE

Raising an Arab Father in America

It's a murky, primordial sort of memory: a cavelike place, bright flickering lights, watery, dim echoes, sudden splashes of sounds, and--hulking and prehistoric--TV cameras zooming in on wheeled platforms. A grown man in a vampire costume clutching a microphone to his chest is making his way through rows of sugar-frenzied, laugh-crazed kids. He attempts to make small talk with the children through a set of plastic fangs. "Hello there, Bobby Smith!" He chortles and tousles a head. "How are you, Debbie Anderson!" I'm sitting in a television studio in a row full of cousins and sisters, not entirely sure how I got here--this was my aunt Peggy's idea. She'd watched The Baron DeMone Show for years and finally decided to send away for studio tickets.

He stalks closer and closer: I can see tiny seeds of sweat sparkling along his widow's peak. He squints at our oversize name tags: "Farouq, Ibtissam, Jaipur, Matussem . . ." I see his mouth working as he walks up our row of beaming, black-eyed kids. Eventually he gets to me. "Diana!" he cries with evident relief, then crashes into my last name. But apparently once this man starts going, he must see the thing through. He squints, trying to sound it out: "Ub-abb-yuh-yoo-jojee-buh-ha-ree-rah . . ." This guy's a scream! I can't stop laughing. What an idiot! I've got green eyes and pale skin, so evidently he feels I must speak English, unlike the rest of the row. He squats beside me, holds the big mike in my face, and says, "Now, Diana, tell me, what kind of a last name is that?"

This guy slays me! I can barely stop laughing enough to blast, "English, you silly!" into his microphone.

He jumps, my magnified voice a yowl through the studio, then starts laughing, too, and now we're both laughing, but at two different jokes--which must happen quite a bit on children's programming. He nods approvingly; they love me and my exotic entourage--later we'll be flooded with candy, passes, and invitations to return to the show. But at the moment, as the Baron stands to leave, I realize I'm not quite done with him yet. I grab him by the back of his black rayon cape and announce on national television, "I'm hungry!"



I'm six and I'm in charge; the sisters are just getting around to being born. Bud, my father, carries me slung over one shoulder when he cooks; he calls me his sack of potatoes. Mom protests, pointing out safety issues, but Bud says it's good for me, that it'll help me acclimate to onion fumes. I love the way his shoulder jumps and his whole back shakes as he tosses a panful of chopped tomatoes over the flames while the teeth rattle in my head.

My father is a sweet, clueless immigrant--practically still a boy. He keeps getting fooled. He saw TV for the first time when his boat stopped in Italy en route to Ellis Island. It was flickering in a hotel lobby. On the screen he saw a lady in a pretty blue dress singing to a cat dressed in a tuxedo. "Look at that," he marveled to his brother. "They've got a whole theater inside that box!" After he'd been in America a couple of months, a door-to-door salesman convinced him to spend three weeks of pay on a TV that didn't have any working parts. He told Bud it needed some time to "warm up." Bud hopefully switched it on and off for weeks before an American friend visited and explained that this TV would never be warm.

Bud learns English not from books, but from soaking in the language of work, of the shops and restaurants after he arrives in this country. I don't know where he learns how to hail strangers, but whenever my father needs directions--which is frequently--he flags down men and women alike with the same greeting: "Hey, bud!" I grow up thinking of all Americans as Bud--and even though my father's name is Ghassan Saleh Abu-Jaber, he becomes the original Bud.

I learn early: We are Arab at home and American in the streets. The streets are where Bud speaks English in a loud voice, swaggers, wears hard-soled shoes. Sometimes he slips and haggles with the clerk at Sears over the price of ties. He'll ask me in Arabic if I think the man is a big moron or just a little idiot. After considering my assessment, he'll formulate the appropriate bid--perhaps grudgingly offer to pay the price on the tag--minus two dollars! Plus an extra tie! Usually the clerk looks befuddled or calls for a manager, but every now and then, Bud'll find one who turns sharp-eyed and pleased, who throws out an unauthorized counteroffer--extra tie, but full price! Their voices flash in the flat mall light.

On Saturdays Bud is in the kitchen. The old houses along our elm-lined streets seem to sigh, screen doors ease open, the air sweetens, and the sky leans back on one elbow. First my father will make breakfast. After that, any one of a number of miraculous things can happen:

Go to Diplomat-Uncle Jack's house and have stuffed grape leaves.

Go to Professor-Uncle Hal's house and have kibbeh.

Go to Businessman-Uncle Danny's house and have stuffed squash.

Go to Crazy-Uncle Frankie's house and have roasted leg of lamb.

Go to Fair Haven Beach with everyone and have shish kabob.

Those aren't their real names: Uncle Hal is really Uncle Hilal, Jack is actually named Jaffer, Danny is Hamdan, and Frankie is short for Qadir. They are the uncles who, along with my father, came to America. Somehow, after they bought their new winter coats at Robert Hall in downtown Syracuse and changed the part in their hair, they all seemed to have new American names as well. Almost everyone I know has two names--one from Before and one from After. Even I have two names--for some reason, Bud calls me Ya Ba, which means "Little Daddy," but this name seems to belong between the two of us.

I love to be in the kitchen and watch my strong father at work in his undershirt, baggy shorts, and sandals. He's singing along with the radio and not getting a single word right. But what he lacks in accuracy he makes up for in gusto and verve. He slides a whole side of lamb out of the refrigerator, hoists it up for me and my friend Merilee to admire, and says, "Here he is! Here's Marvin." Bud likes to name all big cuts of meat--usually Tom, Dick, Harry, or Marvin. I stand close beside him, four feet high in flip-flops, bony shoulders poking through the crossed straps of my sundress, plastic heart-shaped sunglasses propped on my head, and watch as he centers the meat on his chopping block and whomps his cleaver down. My friend Merilee, with her freckles and straw yellow pigtails, shrieks and clatters out the back door. I happily tote the bloody kabobs from the block to the marinade of garlic, rosemary, vinegar, and olive oil. Bud tells me that someday I will make a fantastic butcher.

Next, Bud pushes the big, glistening chunks of beef and onion and tomato onto skewers. The skewers are iron, with round hoops at one end and cruel, three-sided points on the other, so heavy that once they're threaded with meat, I can carry only one at a time to the refrigerator.

Shish kabob means that there will be coolers and ice chests, blankets and salads, pita bread, iced tea, salty braided cheese, hummus, maybe a visit to Rudy's stand, where they dip the scoops of ice cream into a kind of chocolate that hardens into a shell. Maybe our mother will bring frozen pound cake, because who wants to bake anything in this heat?

There will also be sisters and cousins and aunties and uncles and even more cousins, because there's no telling who's just "comeover," meaning come over from the old country. You never know when suddenly a second cousin you haven't seen in years will be standing in the living room, asking for a little cup of coffee. They'll be hungry because everyone who "comesover" is hungry: for home, for family, for the old smells and touches and tastes. If we're not at the park, sometimes these cousins and noncousins and friends and strangers will drop by the house. Coincidentally, they always come at dinner-time. Always at the moment we turn on the stove.

Bud says that today we children need to be extra pleasant, polite, and cute. Today Cousin Sami (Samir) will be with us. He is newly arrived, twenty years old, sensitive, and willowy as a deer. He walks tentatively in this new country, looking around himself as if about to break into flight; his eyes glisten, eternally on the verge of tears. I overhear Bud telling Mom that he doesn't know if Sami will "make it." Mom blows a filament of hair out of her face; she's twenty-six years old and tall, but she doesn't have much more meat on her than I do. Her reading glasses are smart and serious. I can tell that she's thinking, What is it with these sensitive, crazy men?

We pack up the family and drive the road to the north, over tiny wooden bridges, past taverns with names like Three Rivers Inn and gurgling minute creeks, up to Fair Haven Beach on Lake Ontario, thirty miles from Syracuse. After we arrive and roll along behind people walking to their car in order to secure the best parking spot, it will take an even longer time to unpack the trunk and find the exact picnic tables and get out the bags and coolers and cousins and sisters. We cover several tables with red-checked tablecloths, paper plates, plastic containers full of everything. Bud piles briquettes into three different grills, and Uncle Hal adds more and more lighter fluid--usually while it's burning--so the flame roars right up at him in a fabulous arc. I draw in the rich chemical aroma: Barbecues are the smell of lighter fluid, dark and delicious as the aroma of gasoline.

Another car pulls up and there is Cousin Sami unfolding from Uncle Danny's Volkswagen. Sami holds out his ...

Revue de presse

"A culinary memoir that's as delectable for its stories as for its accompanying recipes. . . . Rich, dense, and flavorful" —Entertainment Weekly

"Wonderful, touching and funny. . . . Honest and precise. . . . Abu-Jaber explores [her cultural] duality with a generous spirit and clear-eyed vision. . . . A lush and lyrical memoir." —The Miami Herald

"Incredibly powerful. . . . The world described is so strange and sumptuous, the characters so large and comedic, and the descriptions of the food so enveloping and mouthwatering that you want to climb into this world and make it your own." —The Oregonian

"Exquisite. . . . With humor and grace, the author explores timeless topics of love, cultural adjustments and what being rootless means. . . . [Abu-Jaber] takes us on an insightful journey. . .we ought not to miss."
The Seattle Times

"Truly charming. . . . A fascinating memoir of confused exile, great food, and home truths."
O, The Oprah Magazine

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 1500 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 354 pages
  • Pagination - ISBN de l'édition imprimée de référence : 1400077761
  • Editeur : Anchor (18 décembre 2007)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B000XUDGTO
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°167.391 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
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Commentaires en ligne 

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Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)
Amazon.com: 4.6 étoiles sur 5  22 commentaires
17 internautes sur 17 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 So Moving 13 juin 2006
Par MFAstudent - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
Reading The Language of Baklava, I felt like I'd stepped into a 'lost world'-- the rich memories and sensations and stories were outstanding. This is my favorite kind of book, the kind that I have trouble finding any more, where I feel like you enter the heart and mind of a life and a place. I will never forget this book.
16 internautes sur 16 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Moving and Delicious 13 juin 2006
Par JoAnna - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
A lovely book, reminding me somewhat of my own childhood and my over-the-top overprotective father. The descriptions of her family's meals are incredible. I found myself rushing to make the recipes, looking forward to enjoying devouring them as I read, like I was sitting at the table with the author.

One of those books that you think, "Ok, it's late... I'll just read until the end of this chapter," then you don't put it down.

Well, if you're a foodie daughter of an immigrant like me, anyway.
20 internautes sur 21 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Wonderful 15 janvier 2007
Par Erin Brooks - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
This is a great story - Abu-Jaber shares beautiful stories of growing up with a Jordanian father and an American mother. As someone close to Middle-Eastern expats, I recognised a lot of the feelings, emotions and social situations she describes: the longing for a long lost country that is one embellished from childhood memories, the importance of food as a source of comfort and a way to bring continuation to a new lifestyle in a foreign country, the importance of family, the unity between a family that is scattered around the world but whose heritage keeps them together. I thought it was very enjoyable and entertaining. It should be especially interesting to people interested in Middle-Eastern culture and those who are or know any expats/immigrants like Abu-Jaber's father. For a deeper and less light-toned stories, I also recommend Crescent, or West of the Jordan.
11 internautes sur 11 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Moving and memorable 5 août 2006
Par Camille - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
Terrific memoir, funny and moving. Pretty good recipes too! Highly recommend.
6 internautes sur 6 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 A delicious read 18 février 2008
Par Daboomer - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
In the book's foreword, Abu-Jaber states that the facts should never get in the way of a story, that the essence of experience is in the heart. She then tells her life story, each chapter an independent vignette, strung together by her father's love of family and food. I have little in common with Abu-Jaber, the oldest daughter of a protective, over-the-top father, who never truly left his native Jordan; and a US mother, obscure in the background, a stoical cypher. But Abu-Jaber is right, the essence of a story is in the heart, and her book connects.
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Passages les plus surlignés

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Do we have to know who we are once and for all? How many lives are we allowed? &quote;
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&quote;
Making shish kabob always reminds the brothers of who they used to bethe heat, the spices, the preparation for cooking, and the rituals for eating were all the same as when they were children, eating at their parents big table. But trying to kill the lamb showed them: They were no longer who they thought they were. &quote;
Marqué par 8 utilisateurs Kindle
&quote;
To my mind, this is the best way to show love to offer food from your own hand. &quote;
Marqué par 7 utilisateurs Kindle

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