Last semester (yes, that is my turnaround time), I went to DC with my Constitutional Adjudication class. The highlight of the visit was sitting in on a Supreme Court oral argument. The Nine sat on the bench, regally robed, in the perfect stereotype of what I imagined them to be. Ruth B. Ginsberg focused the whole time, asking pointed questions. Scalia asked weird hypotheticals and kept beating the dead horse. Thomas sat back the whole time and looked like he was asleep. Stephens was just old – but you could tell his mind was as sharp as any of the rest. The clerk of court wore tails (tails!!!), and so did the lawyer from the Solicitors General – who was by far the most incredibly skilled appellate attorney I’ve ever seen. It was an incredible experience for a young law student to have.

Professor Muller, whose research focuses on Japanese American draft resisters and the internment of Japanese Americans during WWII, took us on a little walk to an unknown memorial, The National Japanese Memorial to Patriotism, rather hidden between downtown office buildings. In fact, I almost kept walking, thinking it was just a little courtyard. It is built with dark grays and blacks, highlighted by a large waterfall in the center. All around, etched into the marble, are verses from Japanese American poets reflecting on what was a terrible time for their people. The verse by Ehrlich above touched me the most.

Professor Muller told us that this memorial caused quite a bit of controversy in the Japanese American community. There were two main opinions on the struggles of internment, curfews, and other racial persecution. As reflected in the memorial, a large group of Japanese Americans felt that, terrible as this burden was, it was their duty to patiently succumb to the American government’s rulings. America was their home now, and they had to make this ultimate sacrifice so that, one day, their children might be able to live a more comfortable life here. This was the honorable and patriotic thing to do.

The other group, who took issue with this perspective, felt that it was instead the Japanese American’s duty to fight back against the American government’s oppression. The oppression should not be allowed to continue, and as Japanese and Americans, they should not allow themselves to be subjected to such. This was the honorable and patriotic thing to do.

Now, I don’t presume to know much about Japanese culture, but from what I understand, it involves intense honor and respect towards elders and leaders, even if they are in error. Maybe the perspective of sacrifice is one that came from the Japanese immigrants, the parents who grew up in that culture – while the “fight back” perspective is from the American-Japanese children. I can understand both perspectives, because there is a similar concept in Islam about the respect towards a ruler, even if he or she makes a mistaken ruling. The Quraan constantly encourages Muslims to be patient through adversity and to have faith in God’s ultimate reckoning. But, there are also verses that one should aid a brother who is an oppressor by helping him to stop oppressing.

But, if I put myself in their shoes (which, I accept that I never truly can) – or, indeed, in the shoes of any people who are being oppressed by their so-called leaders – what would I do? Would I keep quiet, such that my children might be saved? Or would I fight back against the cage, risking my life and perhaps damning my children to a life of reproach for their parent’s actions?

I can’t honestly say. I begin as a pacifist, in all things. I dislike war and conflict, even to the point of avoiding confrontation with people I disagree with. I have a notorious weak spot for upholding rules and deferring to authority. My first impulse is always to defend the decisions and decrees of leaders, and only speak out against them after much deliberation. But I think I would agree with the younger group – the ones who would say “No, this is not America, and my honor is in refusing to go quietly.”

But that is hypothetical. The reality is that these people went through intense turmoil, and they should be honored for it. Their patience was of Quranic proportions. Their sacrifice was presented with pure hearts, with a desire to protect their families and their culture, and with an intense honor to which American youth of all ethnicities should aspire. Their stories are a lesson to every child of immigrants that grew up so blessed in America. May they be rewarded.

Resources for more info about and pictures of the internment:
War Relocation Authority Camps in Arizona
Exploring Japanese American Internment
Effects of the camps – life after internment
Children of the camps
Ansel Adams’ Photography of the camps
Large list of relevant sources

Also see Professor Muller’s Essay: Arab American Internment?

Slow Cooker Chili with Sweet Corn Rice and Cheddar Jalapeno Cornbread

I’ve got papers to write, exams to study for. On hiatus.

Koshari is Egyptian street food – and, really, isn’t street food always the best part of any cuisine? It’s based on kitchery – a very simple rice and lentil mixture served in Pakistan and India. When Desi workers came to Egypt, they brought kitchery with them, and I really have to say that the Egyptians perfected it.

It’s really very simple. Lentils are cooked in a savory tomato sauce, and then the dish is served in layers: rice, tomato-y lentils, then caramelized or fried onions on top. It’s eaten spicy, so hot sauce is served alongside. Fancier versions have chickpeas and other legumes too. I added extra veggies by putting eggplant in the rice.

I made this over at Amy Aziza’s house at a mini housewarming party to break in her new kitchen. Angela made empanadas, because she’s Puerto Rican and awesome like that. Natasha brought Charlie Chaplain. Emilie was beautiful and smiling. It was great!

Koshari

2 cups lentils (I like brown lentils Koshari, the same as for this Eggplant and Lentil Stew)
1 large can tomato sauce (28 oz I think?)
2 cups rice + 4 cups broth or water to cook it in
1 eggplant
A lot of garlic (a lot)
A lot of onions (a lot)
Salt, pepper, hot sauce
Paprika or cayenne, depending on your heat tolerance
Cinnamon
Olive oil
Hot sauce to serve

1. (before you do anything else, start this, because onion caramelization is best if it is done over a long period of time. If you forget, cheat and add sugar). Dice or slice a lot of onions and put it on a medium low heat with a bit of olive oil. Let it go. Keep coming back and stirring it. Add some sugar if you want to help the onions along. At the end, before you serve, turn up the heat so the onions get crispy on the edges.

2. Chop one or two onions and a bunch of garlic and saute in some olive oil until soft-ish. Add the lentils and an equal part of water and boil until the lentils are almost soft. Drain any excess water, and then add more garlic and the tomato sauce. Simmer until lentils are soft. Salt and pepper it.

2. Cut the eggplant into chunks and put it in a colander. Salt it and let it drain for 15 min at least (this gets the bitterness out). Pat dry, sprinkle with cayenne, black pepper, and cinnamon, and fry in batches.

3. Sautee an onion and garlic until soft. Add the eggplant, stir. Add the rice and stir. Add some cinnamon (this is a Magrebi – Moroccan – touch that I really like, but the cinnamon is entirely optional) and black pepper. Add the liquid (water or broth) and cook the rice normally.

To serve: Put down a layer of rice, then a layer of tomato lentils, then top with caramelized onions. Add hot sauce to taste!

Let it be known – pineapple upside down cake does not have a monopoly on overturned baked goods. You can do it with any fruit! I had some fresh pears and strawberries and blueberries, so I used the Pear-Cranberry upside down cake recipe from my Martha Stewart cookbook (don’t worry, I only have one). The berries got really soft and turned gooey at the edges, but it still tasted great and looked beautiful.

Pear berry upside down cake
Adapted from Martha Stewart Living 2002 Annual Recipes

12 tbs (1 1/2 sticks) butter
1 3/4 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed
3 firm but ripe pears
1 cup berries
Juice of 1 lemon
Zest of 2 lemons
2 1/2 cup all purpose flour
2 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp table salt
1 tsp cinnamon
3 large eggs
1 cup milk, room temp.

1. Preheat oven to 350F. Prepare pan: I used a 10-inch springform pan, lined with wax paper. You want to do this for three reasons: (1) easy cleanup, (2) can flip without messing up the top of the cake, and (3) creates a seal so the melted brown sugar and butter doesn’t leak out the bottom of the springform pan.

It’s really easy to line the bottom of a springform. Step 1: Put down the removable bottom on the counter. Step 2: lay down a large sheet of wax paper on top of the bottom with some serious overlap. Step 3: put the sides/shell on top of the bottom and lock it – this will tear/shape the wax paper perfectly onto the bottom. Trim off any spare edges.

Spray the sides of the pan with cooking spray. Melt 6 tbs butter + 3/4 cup brown sugar over medium heat and cook for about 6 minutes until it all comes together. Pour it into the 10-inch springform pan.

2. Arrange the thinly sliced pears and 1/2 cup of berries on top of the brown sugar and butter mixture. Martha said to coat with lemon juice, but I think I just put the juice into the batter. I don’t remember – but I know I definitely did not coat.

3. Sift together all dry ingredients except sugar (flower, baking powder, salt, cinnamon) in a bowl.

4. Beat together the rest of the butter (6 tbs) and 1 cup brown sugar until well combined. Add eggs one at a time, beating after each addition. It might look a little curdled. Don’t panic, just add some of the flour mixture.

5. Alternate adding milk and flour mixture. Stir in 1/2 cup berries and lemon zest into the batter. Gently pour the batter over the fruit.

6. Bake for 40-50 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

7. To invert: let it sit for a few minutes, and then run a knife around the sides. Flip it over onto a plate, unclasp and remove the edges of the springform pan. Take off the metal bottom and gently peel away the wax paper. If anything stuck onto the pan, the sugar should still be hot enough that you can just spoon it back onto the surface of the cake.

This flatbread have become kind of a staple snack or party food for me. I was inspired by a cheese-and-olive pie that Neomonde bakery makes (and theirs is much better than mine will ever be).

The green olives really make the dish – they’re just salty enough. Black olives may be a little too bitter for a delicate flatbread like this. I usually use Roma tomatoes, but today I had one of the big fat ones – just take care to cut it thinly so you don’t have juice making it soggy. If you slice the onions very thinly, they caramelize a bit, which makes a nice sweet contrast to the salty olives.

Tomato Olive Flatbread

1 Pillsbury Thin Crust pizza dough
1 Tomato, sliced thinly
handful of green olives, pitted and chopped
1 small onion, sliced very thinly
Shredded mixed Italian cheese
Handful of parsley, chopped
Garlic powder

1. Spread the pizza crust on a baking sheet. Cut in half lengthwise and stretch a little. You don’t need to roll it out, just stretch it a tad bit evenly around the sides.

2. Sprinkle with garlic powder and bake in a 400F oven for about 5 minutes (following the directions on the package for a crisper crust).

3. After it is lightly cooked, spread on the cheese, then the onion slices, tomato, green olives. Sprinkle parsley on the top.

4. Bake for 10-12 minutes until the crust is crispy and until cheese is melted (or browned, if you want).

Mustard Mayo potato salad – it’s…well….it’s kind of ickish. It’s only something you can have a little bit of at a time, or go through phases of it (you eat a big tub, then you’re off it for a year). Also, it kind of only edible at picnics, isn’t it?

I saw something like this on Barefoot Contessa. After boiling the potatoes, she puts in chicken broth and white wine. Well, I didn’t have any of the former, and I’ll never have any of the latter (the Muslim thing, and all). And I didn’t have mustard to make a vinaigrette, but the garlic and rosemary flavored olive oil in this was just perfect. This is a really light, fresh potato salad that I served with chicken sandwiches. Hot, warm, or room temp, I think, would be best.

Warm Garlic and Rosemary Potato Salad

10 small new red potatoes
1 – 2 tbs fresh rosemary sprigs
2 big cloves garlic, chopped
1/4 to 1/2 cup olive oil
4 scallions, chopped
Handful of flat leaf parsley, chopped
Salt and black pepper

1. Pour olive oil into a pan over low or medium low flame. Add the garlic and just let it simmer lightly until it gets golden brown. This will take only about three minutes – think of it as steeping. At the very last second, put in the fresh rosemary sprigs and let them sizzle for a few seconds.

2. Clean and quarter the potatoes, then put them into cold water. Add salt. Boil the water and potatoes until potatoes are soft. Drain.

3. Pour the hot olive oil onto the hot potatoes. Mix well.

4. Mix in the fresh chopped parsley and scallions. Salt, pepper, and eat!

The rich, fertile soil of Pakistan and the thunderous rains that nourish it make for delicious tropical fruits. Many of these fruits are luxuries for people relatively well-off, but no matter what the fruit, it’s eaten with appreciation and with its own particular ritual.

It’s impossible to try to remember them all, but I’ll try to remember some of the most famous ones. Sweet, soft leechi pervade your senses with a light perfume as you peel off the knobbly red, paper thin skin. The fruits are translucent white, reminiscent of little rounds of mother-of-pearl wrapped wrapped around a hard central stone.

Little blue-black jaamun grow wild in huge groups on trees, which young boys climb up to spend the day eating jaamun and throwing the seeds down on passing schoolfellows (usually girls they have crushes on). Jaamun are dipped in salt, they stain blue-black anything they touch, and they’re good for diabetes, somehow. My mom really loves these.

Fresh citrus fruits – like malta and limboon – are squeezed to make fresh juice or lemon/limeade (called squash). My dad really loves my grandmother’s fresh orange juice in the winter.

Melons of every kind are also abundant, but a kind of white honeydew is the most popular. Tarbooz (or kharbooza, depends on the variety) come with a funny story. A friend of my dad complained about the lack of adventure with American melons. “Amreeki tarboozon ka bhi kya maza? (What’s the fun in American melons?)” he said, “Every one you buy is sweet. In Pakistan, you bring four melons home, and the whole family sits together to determine which one is the sweetest and most perfumed. ‘Cut me a slice!’ we all cry, and everyone in turn gets a bite of each melon. ‘No, no, that one is horrible, bilkul pheeka hai (it’s completly bland!)’ ‘That one is okay, put it aside there.’ ‘Oh! this one is perfect! Shehad jaisay metha hai! (It is as sweet as honey!)”

But there is no argument about which fruit brings Pakistanis the most pleasure and pride – Aam!. Colored with sunset hues of gold, yellow, and reddish-orange, mangos are called “The King of Fruit.”

If the Inuit have tens of words for snow, well, Pakistanis have a different word for each variety of mango that appears throughout the summer. There’s Duseri, a little fibrous fruit with thin skin that you eat by squeezing till the flesh inside is pureed, then cut a slit in the top and drink down the juicy pulp. Chaunsa, a huge mango with firm flesh that you can cut into cubes and serve with ice cream or custard (i mean huge. gets to be a pound heavy or more, even). Langra, or “crippled man” an ovalur fruit with a tiny curved bottom “leg.” Sindhri, Alphonso, and so many more!

The obsession is pervasive across the whole culture. We’ll buy anything that comes in mango flavor or scent: candy, ice cream, drinks. Upon learning, by some horrible accident, that a Pakistani (like my cousin Sameer) doesn’t like mangos, everyone around him will try to convince him that he must not have ever had a properly ripe mango, or that he should try a particular variety, desperately trying to convince him that he must be mistaken.

And there is certainly a ritual with eating mangoes. They are best eaten cold and one after another, with your sleeves rolled up, and with a big group of laughing friends and family, pulp and juice smeared over everyones faces.

Usually, a paiti (wooden crate) of mangoes is dumped into a big bowl of ice water and set in the center of the room. Children (and often old uncles) are stripped down to their undershirts or bare chests so that the yellow juice won’t irreparably stain their clothing. Younger infants are handed the huge center pit so they can teethe on the soft flesh and smooth pit beneath. With a good set of mangoes, you really don’t even need to eat a meal beforehand!

And oh, what a horror to befall an American traveller, should one be unlucky enough to get some sort of stomach bug, because the fiber in mangos isn’t the best thing for one when you’ve got the runs…..and then one has to sit there, meloncholy, while everyone else digs in (no, I’m not bitter, why would you say that?)

My favorite mango eating memory was in Kashmir, where my parents and I went to visit an old college friend of my dad’s. We had a light lunch, and then went for a walk on the banks of the Jhelum and Neelam rivers as they intersected in the valley. The mountain ice had made the rivers freezing cold, so we left a crate of mangoes in the flowing water, lodged between rocks, while we walked around. An hour later, we had an ice cold mango picnic, surrounded by the breathtaking beauty of the summer Himalayan mountains.

So strong is our obsession, that even the rule of law cannot remove us from our beloved fruit.

I remember once leaving Islamabad to come back home. We went from Islamabad to London to Raleigh, and I noticed one Pakistani family following us the whole way. When we got to Customs at RDU Airport, I noticed that the father was carrying a large shopping bag. It was tied at the top, but the unmistakable bulge of several round fruits were visible from the outside. The small room smelled resolutely of mangoes. The man and his family come to the customs desk, and the Officer eyed him suspiciously.

“Sir, are you carrying any food?” he asked.

“No.”

“Uh. Mangos.”

Needless to say, they were confiscated. But at least he tried!