Linda at Work 1

This is a picture of mom at work in Manshiet Nasser in what must have been 1988 or 1999. In the photograph, which I believe to be the work of Nadir, mom is with Hager ElHadidi and Inas (?). Mom always seemed happiest in Manshiet Nasser. As usual, click on the image for a much larger version that is large enough for at least a 6X4" print (10X15 cm).

Post-Thanksgiving Blues

Ragia's first turkey surpassed all expectations, scoring up there with some of mom's finest attempts. As we were eating some delicious leftovers from yesterday, Ragia turned to me and said: "I remember when Linda would come over to our apartment in Carrboro and make us her delicious barley soup and a huge bowl of salad with orange sections, and we would sit and eat it with some of her delicious homemade bread and tell stories for hours. I miss that very much."

So do I. Barley soup, salad, and bread with mom sounds like heaven. Sometimes I still have trouble accepting that she's gone.

Happy Thanksgiving

Despite our sadness that we can no longer have Thanksgiving dinner with my mother, and that we are doomed to settle for inferior turkey (no matter how valiantly others will try, mom's will only get sweeter and juicier in our memories), there are many things we have to be thankful for. Some are private, some are not entirely relevant to this space, and some do not easily come to mind, but here are a few that I can list that relate directly to my mother, in no particular order:

1. That we had as many joyous times with mom as we did. Mom found great joy in having us around her at this time;
2. That no matter how sad we are that she is gone, mom had a wonderful life that was by no means short when measured with the yardsticks of experience, knowledge, accomplishments, and value to others;
3. That mom declined rapidly and died rather easily, all things considered. This could have been much worse;
4. That mom died where she wanted to;
5. That mom got to say the many goodbyes she did;
6. That mom loved her children and her grandchildren (biological or otherwise) very, very much; and, last but not least,
7. That she was our mother, sister, grandmother, friend, mentor, and/or combinations of the above.

Ok. I have shed enough tears writing this. Ragia is cooking up a storm, and she paid close attention to mom's turkey-cooking instructions, so I think I will be having the world's second-best turkey. Unless you are having dinner with us, you might just have to settle for third-best.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

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P.S: Sarah responded to this post minutes after it was posted:

You know, it's days like this that my heart just fills with sadness in an unbelievable way. Reading this message also sent me into tears and I wish nothing more than to be with you all, mostly mom of course. Holidays are always hard on me when I am away from family but this year is incredibly painful. I hope the turkey is amazing and... all I can do is dream about mom's.

I know what you mean, Sarah. We all love you here.

Fire in the Chicken Coop!

One of my earliest coherent memories of Cairo was when Mom and I were living in Bab-el-Louq in 1977. We lived on the third floor of a beautiful building built in the 1930s. The stairs were all marble and forged iron latticework, but I digress.

One day, my mother bought some sparklers, which we lit on the balcony. As the first sparkler neared its end (and my hand), I, frightened, threw it away from me out into the street. The sparkler landed on the roof of a live poultry shop where the butcher would prepare live chickens, turkeys, ducks, pigeons, and rabbits for customers. As with most roofs in Cairo, the roof was used as a storage area, and this one was used to store some very flammable palm-branch chicken cages that, of course, immediately burst into flames.

My mother, in panic, immediately ran into the kitchen and filled our largest pot with water and dumped it onto the low roof of the shop. The first pot landed squarely on the head of the shop's owner; not a drop hit the fire. The man was so tickled by the whole situation that he burst into gales of laughter and breathlessly asked her to continue. She did, and her efforts successfully quenched the fire. We and that butcher became close friends for the duration we lived there.

My mother loved to tell this story, and now I have told it to you.

Sarah's Promise

In response to yesterday's post, Sarah wrote:

This was in 1999 more than likely, if my memory serves me well. This is in Khiva, an ancient city right next to Urgench (about 20 minutes). Khiva is a stop on the silk road.

Mom got me a huge collection of fur hats on that trip, ranging from sheep and fox all the way to mink. Each hat was no more than $20! The one in the picture was sheep.

This trip was really amazing and I promised mom that as soon as I could save up enough money for us to go, I would take her immediately. Now, I will keep my promise and go to the places we wanted to go to and didn't get the chance. One place mom dreamed to go to was Samarkand and we somehow missed it. Next time, I am certainly going.

I miss you mom.

I miss you too, mom.

Big Fur Hat

Mom was not only an international traveler, but an international shopper. Here is Linda with a huge fur hat in an Uzbekistan market in (1999? 2000?) in (Urgench? Bukhara?). Help me out, Sarah.

It is getting so cold here, I could use a hat like this.

Khubz Linda

It apppears that our hostess was holding an important dinner for important relatives or other guests. Our hostess, the Hajjah, was flustered by the work required to prepare the smorgasbord that she had planned. As is often the case when undertaking a massive task under a short deadline and great stress, the smaller details are often overlooked. In this case, the moistress of the house forgot to buy any bread, and she only realized this at a time when the corner store had closed. There were other stores, of course, but there was no car to get there.

Enter mom, who offered to make biscuits. In despair, El-Hajjah accepted. As you know, biscuits must be eaten hot, so mom waited until the guests were seated before putting the biscuits in the oven. When the round, unelegant cylinders of hot dough emerged, the Hajjah was less than impressed, and she could not help but show it. The attitude was good-naturedly picked up by the guests, who treated the biscuits with utter disdain as they ate tray after tray of them (mom had to make at least three large batches, the demand was so high).

The next day, mom returned from college to find that there were a number of calls from women who had been at the dinner, insisting on getting the recipe for.

It appears that the recipe was copied many times over. So many times, in fact, that I have heard at least once that it might have become integrated into Tunisian cuisine.

If you are ever in Tunisia, and if you are ever offered "Khubz Linda," feel free to smile, for you now know the origin of the bread, but your host or hostess may not.

P.S.: Please see amendment to yesterday's post.