The Sweetness of Eid
Eid Mubarak, missives from caregiving and a lot of food related links
In our midtown apartment, it is difficult for my husband and I to be in the kitchen at the same time. There is limited counter space, trays and chopping boards end up balancing precariously on sinks, on the oven, on the dining room table. Clearing up together involves peering over each other as we empty the dishwasher, stretch for glass containers, climb up a stepstool to store our mugs. I live with a fear that things are not securely fastened and will come tumbling down in the process. Cooking and clearing up in other words, are not leisurely experiences.
It is Eid weekend though and for the first time, I am preparing Eid lunch. I wake at 4 am on Eid day and in the quiet of the morning and our tiny kitchen, I begin the biryani that will be our celebration meal. Hours later, after we have prayed Eid alongside thousands of others at a downtown Eid prayer, have greeted friends, packed ingredients and driven to my parents’ home, we finish off the final steps in my mother’s oven before serving the biryani and side dishes in time for a mid morning lunch.
A day or so later, I make a pilau for another family Eid gathering, waking early at my parents’ house before the rest of the family has roused, chopping onions slowly, making a broth that will be the base of the dish. This kitchen is my favourite place in the world to cook. My mother has all the needed appliances, serving trays, pretty dishes, space to think, a blender of my dreams.
It has been over ten years since I last lived with my parents, but my dad is ill and I am here to help. I have spent a childhood and the decades thereafter yawning in grocery stores, impatient for something different than domestic life, and now food feels like the most joyous part of my life. I research grocery stores with unexpected ingredients, search for cheaper prices, replace novels with cookbooks in my daily reading, watch videos about knife work in my spare time. One day I am not fast enough for my father’s mid-morning meal and so my mother cooks lunch as I work my way through dinner prep, mixing marinades, chopping carrots into matchsticks, frying golden raisins for an Afghani style beef pulao. I wait for the meat to get soft and in the meantime there are dishes to wash and put away, a dishwasher to load and unload, fruit to cut and distribute, cups of tea to make and drink, floors to sweep, counters to wipe. When I need to sit, I open forgotten cupboards and explore, finding serving platters from my childhood, spacious skillets, dishes for sugar and milk, delicate teacups that I have forgotten about. We each have a worry that hums in the background that the other person has done too much, but the care flows in all directions. We all have health needs and doctors appointments; nobody is alone or solely responsible, and in absence of solitude and loneliness, housework, logistics, care, feels easier. There is no need for podcasts or other audio distractions, the background noise that comes with living with other people keeps loneliness at bay.
Another Sunday I arrive with six mangos and lunch already prepared, leftovers from a weekend get-together with a friend. We have bought a box too big for two people to consume on their own and I use some for our party, keep six for our apartment and bring the remainder with me. These economies of scale reduce the cost of everything and prevent food waste. I think of years in our previous apartment buying a single mango for double, triple the price and I wince in remembrance.