from food to adoption

It doesn’t seem to matter with whom I am speaking- the topic of food always comes up. This morning, my roommate and I discussed at length the possibility of putting chocolate hazelnut milk (think mild Nutella in liquid form- mmmmm) into coffee. In Arabic class, we were doing group work and had to name our groups. They consisted of Jbna (Cheese), Falafel, Shawerma (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shawarma), Qatayef (a Ramadan sweet), Cioccolato (Chocolate), and Kibbe (a deep-fried ball of meat & burghul goodness). People couldn’t even have been that hungry- it was 9:30am and I think that very few people in my class are fasting.

My point is that food is important. Not only does it provide for endless conversation, but it is the centerpiece (in any culture) for social gathering as well. Case in point: Friday. Friday morning found me at a friend’s apartment eating a home-cooked American breakfast of hash browns, scrambled eggs with vegetables (i.e., it could have been an omelet if it had stayed intact), and pancakes. The one concession to the Middle East was that the pancakes were actually Ramadan qatayef (minus being deep-fried with honey & sweet cheese in the middle), albeit heated up with maple *flavored* syrup. We spent a couple hours with good friends, good food, good conversation- a lovely morning. On Friday evening, I went to a friend’s uncle’s house for an Iftar party with all of the extended family. When it finally came time to break the fast, there was an absolute whirlwind (tornado?) as aunts, uncles, and cousins grabbed plates of lamb, rice, salad, soup, yogurt, bread, mini-shawerma, and so on. It was all absolutely delicious. After cleaning up the kitchen with the aunts, we moved on to glasses of soda. After that came the Ramadan sweets, followed by tea. A while later, we had ice cream. There was So. Much. Food. I made the mistake of eating my initial plate of food too quickly and finishing before the people around me. I say “mistake” because as soon as I set my plate down (we were eating on our laps- there was no more table space), my friend’s cousin asked, “what, are you done? Do you want more?” These are more rhetorical questions than actual inquiries, since it will be insisted that you eat more no matter what your response is. I must remember to eat slowly so as to avoid having a second plate of food put in front of me, which I will feel obliged to eat. Anyway, it was all worth it. My friend’s family is so incredibly warm and welcoming. It’s one of those households where I felt totally comfortable wandering down to the kitchen to get more water, wash my hands, etc. They also felt perfectly comfortable calling me back to the kitchen to have me put the dishes up into the higher cabinets since I was the tallest woman by far. It’s one of those households where you could very quickly feel like part of the family.

On a side note, the “part of the family” is kind of interesting. An outsider would see that everyone seems completely comfortable; everyone is a natural part of the family. However, this changed a bit when my friend’s cousin was explaining how everyone in the living room was related. It was a series of “he is my mother’s brother, those three are my uncle’s children, she is my mother’s cousin, she is my mother’s sister, they are my cousins, etc, etc.” She got to one woman and said, “she is my uncle’s wife- she’s a stranger.” What she meant was that the woman was not related by blood to anyone else (normally, cousins marry cousins, distant or direct). No matter how many years that woman is married to the uncle, no matter how many children she has, she will technically still be a “stranger.” This didn’t even come off as a negative label- just a simple fact. Tribalism and family loyalty are HUGE here. This is not to say that people don’t marry outside of their families (many do), just that everyone knows who is in the family and who is not. It reminded of the Jordanian laws on adoption. People can adopt, but the child can never take his/her adoptive family’s name. Instead, a family name is made up for the adopted child and gets used for his/her whole life. Taking the adoptive family’s name would confuse issues of lineage (since there is not technically a common bloodline). Interesting, indeed.

That’s all for now from Amman. This evening I am going back to the same friend’s uncle’s house to help make ma’amuul, which are fig/walnut/pistachio filled cookies made only for Eid al-Fitr (the big holiday that marks the end of Ramadan). We (a few other students are going with me) were promised Iftar as well as cookies to take home if we came and helped bake. Yum.