What does that question really mean?

It can mean a lot of things. “What’s your hometown?” or “Where’d you go to high school?” or “Sweet tea or ‘iced tea with sugar?’”

But coming from some people, it certainly feels like “Oh, you’re brown. What kind?”

There’s a duality to that question that is inescapably strange – at once both uncomfortable and amusing. The duality is something you have to experience to understand, to hear in the tone of voice and the manner of speaking (forced polite interest, instead of rabid eagerness), the look in the eyes (polite but subtly wandering from your hijab back to your eyes). There’s just….something else there, something behind the query.

Am I being racist? Or just paranoid? A little of both, I think. I definitely give a straight answer to brown people more often than I do to white people, because my first instinct is to assume that the latter don’t really want to know what American city I’m from. And I’ve noticed that the older or younger the questioner is, the more likely I am to give a straight answer – it’s middle aged questioners that really bother me (again, only those with the duality in their voice).

But really, I think there is something to it. Some people mean more than just “Where are you from?”

For those “duality” questioners, especially those with a not-so-masked desire to really know what kind of brown I am, the interrogation usually goes like this:

“Oh, well where are you from?”

“Raleigh. Actually, I’m in the borders of Cary, but my street address is in Raleigh. It’s weird.”

“Oh, well were you born in Raleigh?” (now I KNOW what they’re doing).

(laugh) “No.”

“Oh.” (knowing smile) “Well, where were you born?”

(smile) “New York. While my father was getting his PhD from Cornell.”

Spare me the theatrics. I took Drama in 8th grade. I know what you’re doing.

It’s really hilarious when the conversation takes this turn.

“Well, your English is great.”

“Thanks. I’m in law school. They teach us pretty well there.”

Sometimes the convo ends this way:

“No, I mean where are you from?”

“You mean, what’s my heritage?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, my parents are from Pakistan.”

“Oh. Is that next to Palestine?” (seriously. not making this up).

Let it be known – I have no problem at all telling people my ethnicity or cultural background. I always have been, always will be, proud of who I am and where I come from. I wear it on my sleeve….and my skin. (and head, too, but more on that later). But if you really want to know, just ask me straight up. Don’t beat around the bush; it’s patronizing. Stop pretending to be interested in my street address, and just ask me what my heritage is. I’ll tell you, and I’ll be nice about it. I promise.

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!

Today is the third anniversary of the October 8th earthquake which started in Kashmir, Pakistan and killed more than 70,000 people. I wrote this on October 10, 2005 and I’m republishing it now in memory of those people, among them an uncle who left behind three young sons. May we never forget our brothers and sisters.

There’s something so different in watching a disaster on the news, reading about it, seeing pictures of the devastation, saying “SubhanAllah” as you watch the death toll rising – and actually experiencing the tragedy on a personal level. Why is that? What has extinguished our humanity such that the only time we feel true emotion about a calamity is if it affects us.

In the early days of Islam, the Prophet (S) did not yet have a pulpit, so he used to preach standing next to a palm tree. When a masjid was built and the Prophet was about to leave the palm tree for the last time, there came a sudden heart-shattering groaning, moaning sound. The sound was coming from the tree, and water actually started to leak from the tree’s trunk. Out of love for the Prophet (S), the tree had started to weep as if it were a human, so hard that the Companions could hear it groaning. The Prophet gently stroked the tree, and it stopped weeping.

Hearing the tree’s moaning, one of the companions said to the people – What is wrong with your hearts that you do not weep when you heard this sound?

At least 20,000 are dead. What is wrong with our hearts that we do not weep when we hear this number?

I am one of those for whom 20,000 was just a number, until I found out that an uncle was among them.

He was my father’s first cousin and was a colonel stationed in Kashmir. He had volunteered for a task and was driving a jeep when the earthquake shattered the mountain he was passing. A huge boulder smashed on top of his jeep. My uncle was thrown from the car and tumbled down a ravine. When they found him, his body was crushed. They airlifted him and he died in the helicopter. His wife became a 30-year old widow with three sons, aged 7 years to 8 months.

My uncle’s regiment lifted the rock which crushed him and placed it in their headquarters, where it stands now as a memorial to him and all those who died in the earthquake.

But my uncle is only one of those 20,000. A family friend of mine lost 20 people all at once. Another friend lost an uncle and cousin as they were trapped underneath the rubble of a collapsed apartment building in Islamabad. They could be heard calling for help, but then it rained. The 8-year old girl’s body was lifted out later.

May Allah soften our hearts such that 20,000 is not a number – such that 20,000 becomes 20,000 fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, daughters, husbands, wives, and children.

May Allah forgive all the dead their sins and enter them easily into Jannah. May Allah give their families patience and composure. May Allah help the areas hit repair and restart their lives.

May Allah turn our hearts towards the truth. May Allah soften our hearts and grant us awareness, compassion, wisdom, and love for the fellow man. May Allah forgive our sins and keep us away from sin and may Allah protect us from the trials of the end of time and save us from the punishment of the grave. May Allah grant us all Jannah, InshAllah.

Inna lil-Allahi wa inna ilayhi raji3oon Truly, we are from Allah, and to him we return.

I. Love. This. Dessert. I love it. I asked my mom to show me how to make it this weekend – and here it is! This is a Pakistani version of bread pudding made with sandwich bread instead of chunks of a more airy loaf. There are two keys to this dish: golden brown, crispy toast that soak up the sweet saffron-cardamom cream. The toasts are then served in a little pool of saffron cream, sprinkled with bright green pistachios.

Shahi Tukray literally translated, means “Royal pieces.” Shahi comes from the Persian word Shah, king. When it’s used to describe something – food, a monument, some land – it designates that this is something of the Mughal era (or at least something hoping to be associated as such!) As it relates to food, Shahi foods are rich, made with a lot of sugar, cream, meat, and butter to evoke the wealth of the kings. Examples: Shahi Haleem, a rich meat and lentil stew; Shahi Nehari, another rich and luscious meat stew, Shahi Pilau, a sweet-savory rice dish where rice is cooked in broth, then mixed with shredded carrots and plump raisins – sometimes a quarter to a half of it is removed and sweetened with sugar before being mixed back into the savory rice.

Shahi Tukray are no exception to the norm of richness. I crispen the toasts under the broiler, but the old way was to fry each one in butter on both sides. There’s a lot of cream, butter, and zaafran (saffron – which isn’t as rare in Pakistan as it is here, because it’s farmed in Kashmir, but it’s not cheap, either). You can use more or less milk, depending on how much saffron cream you want with each serving. I like quite a bit, so I usually use more milk or cream than other people. Toast, in urdu, is called “Double Roti” – Double Bread. Thus, this dish is also known, colloquially, as “Double ka Meetha” – Toast dessert.

Side note – Do you know why saffron is so expensive? Because saffron threads are actually the dried stigma of a very specific kind of crocus flower which is native to Southeast Asia. The stigmas have to be handpicked out, and each flower produces only three. If I was doing that, I’d make it the most expensive spice in the world too.

Click for the recipe and lots more pretty pictures!

Shahi Tukray

1 quart half and half + 1 or 2 cups whole milk
2 cup sugar to start + more to taste
A few saffron threads
1 tsp ground cardamom
1 loaf white sandwich bread (recommend: Pepperidge Farm. You want something drier than normal white bread.)
Slivered almonds
Ground pistachios

1. In a saucepan, heat the half and half, milk, and sugar, stirring constantly. When it starts to simmer, add the ground cardamom and keep stirring for a few minutes.

2. Let the mixture simmer well for a good 10 minutes, stirring as often as you can to prevent scorching. As my mom says, you need let the sugar cook and dissolve completely. Taste and add more sugar if you want – the cream mixture has to be pretty sweet, because it needs to be sweet enough for the toast as well.

3. Between 5 and 7 minutes into the simmer, add the saffron to the cream mixture and watch it turn that beautiful golden color. If you would like to put almonds into the dish instead of sprinkling them on top, put them into the milk here so they get a little softer.

4. Cut the crusts off of one whole loaf of sandwich bread. Cut the squares in half once to make two triangles. Put them on a cookie sheet in a single layer. Spray/brush with oil, butter or cooking spray and place under a low broiler until golden brown. Turn them over, spray, and toast again until golden brown. Let them cool for a few minutes to crispen up.

5. Arrange the crisped toasts in a 13×9 (or about that big) pan, layering them on top of each other. Pour the hot saffron cream on top and (this is important) use a spatula to push the toast down into the cream, holding it down for a few seconds in each area to make sure the toast absorbs the cream. (see the picture above)

6. (This is also important) Lay a piece of plastic wrap on the toast so that the wrap is touching the surface of the cream/toast all over (this prevents a skin from forming). Let it cool on the counter for a little while, then refridgerate. This is delicious served warm or cold, but the latter is more traditional.

7. To serve: in a bowl or slightly deep plate, place a few pieces of the now deliciously creamy and saffron colored toast. Pour a little of the cream on top and sprinkle with ground pistachios and slivered almonds (toasted, even better!)

Other yummy things
Coconut-Saffron Ice Cream by David Lebovitz

On a summer day in Pakistan, things move at a leisurely pace. Offices are closed from noon to four o’clock and everything has to get done early in the morning or late at night. Lunch is a few chapattis with a spicy saalan, followed by a long nap. It’s just too hot to do anything else.

This beautiful ruby red syrup, named “the nurturer of the soul,” is made from roses and kewra, a Pandanus flower extract. Rooh Afza is the star of many summer treats. It provides a beautiful pink contrast when drizzled over top of Kulfi, a creamy-white cardamom ice cream, or mixed in with the faloodah (vermicelli noodles), or tukhmalanga (basil seeds) that top the kulfi. I can imagine someone more creative and less lazy than me using this syrup in various ways at a Valentine’s Day party or something equally as cute. (Speaking of cute, look at the Rooh Afza bottlecap to the left. Aww.)

Especially during the loadshedding hours, where power is cut off in sectors of the cities to save the system from overload, everyone sits around with woven reed pankhiyaan, or “little fans” (or, as my Farat Phuppo calls them, “hand AC’s”) drinking something cold. My favorite of these cooling summer drinks is ice-cold water sweetened with Rooh Afza.

Summer Rooh Afza

I love the taste of this syrup, so I prefer a higher proportion of syrup to water than other people may. This drink is very dependent on personal taste, and this is how I like it.

1 tbs. Rooh Afza
1 cup cold water
Ice

Pour the Rooh Afza into a shaker or pyrex glass measuring cup. Pour the cold water on top of it and stir/whisk/mix very well until the syrup is completely dissolved in the water. Fill a glass with ice and pour the Rooh Afza water on top. (Some people also add fresh lemon juice.) Enjoy!

And, as befits a culture influenced by Persians, Arabs, and Mughals, an eminent poet also wrote a poem about Rooh Afza.

‘If you look at its colour, it enchants your heart. If you taste it, you find its flavour enlivening. In fragrance it excels other flowers. In efficacy it is quite an elixir. Its refreshing and invigorating effect is beyond reckoning. A sharbat like Rooh Afza has never been produced, nor ever shall be.’ — Sa’il Dehlavi

Ramadan Rooh Afza

There’s another version of Rooh Afza that is a particular treat in Ramadan. Instead of water, the syrup is mixed with cold milk and served with spicy samosas and pakoras at Iftar, after the day’s fast. It’s probably not smart to eat spicy food after you’ve had nothing in your stomach all day, but try telling a Pakistani to eat bland food. We’ve been known to carry around bottles of Tabasco in our purses. So, the sweetness and softness of the milk gives both quick energy and a bit of cushion against the savory-spicy food. I use the same proportion of milk to Rooh Afza as with the Summer Rooh Afza.

More information about Rooh Afza

Rooh Afza comes in a bottle and can be found at South Asian grocery stores. Experiment with it as an accent to desserts, drinks, or anything you can think of, and let me know how it turns out!

On the history and cultural effects of Rooh Afza, from Hamdard Laboratories
RoohAfza.com, featuring I *heart* Rooh Afza tshirts and mugs
100th Anniversary of Rooh Afza (created in 1907 by Hakeem Abdul Majeed)

This is one of my favorite Desi dishes to make and eat. It’s all about freshness. Fresh okra is fried and then sautéed with fresh onions and tomatoes and sprinkled with bright green cilantro at the end. The tomatoes and onions make the dish slightly sweet and frying the okra keeps the whole thing from becoming slimy and gooey. My usual shortcut of frozen, pureed onions and tomatoes will not work – the fresh onion/tomato mixture is what gives the whole thing the spicy, tangy flavor that makes this dish so delicious.

It’s really not that difficult and completely worth the effort – try it!

Click link below for recipe

Bhindi
Okra with tomatoes and onions

Preparing the okra
- Wash and cut the okra into pieces – about a 1/4 inch dice. With each piece of okra, cut off the stem and a tiny little bit from the pointy part, just to get the black tip off. Then, cut each piece into three or four pieces.
- Heat a layer of oil in a deep sauté pan – not enough to deep fry, but enough to pan fry. Fry the okra pieces on both cut sides so that they get golden brown. Don’t just throw it in there – make sure the cut ends are frying in the hot oil, then turn it over and do the other side. Take them out and drain on paper towels.
- This is an important step – it seals the gooeyness inside so that the entire dish isn’t a big bowl of goop. People (read: My husband) don’t like eating okra because it’s slimy – but because of the frying, there’s no sliminess here!
- For this recipe, I had already fried the okra and frozen it. All I had to do was pull it out of the freezer. Thus – I don’t know how much fresh okra I used – but already fried, it was about a cereal bowl full (so 2 cups?)

Preparing the masala
- 1 large onion or 1 1/2 medium onions, sliced very thinly
- 1 1/2 or 2 medium tomatoes, small dice
- Fresh cilantro, chopped
- 1 tsp. Tomato paste
- 1/2 tsp. powdered cumin [or more to taste]
- 1/2 tsp. cayenne pepper [or more to taste]
- Half a jalapeno, quartered
- Salt to taste

- Clean out the oil from the sauté pan. Add a liiiiiitle bit more if necessary. Sweat the onions slowly so they get translucent but not brown and crispy.
- Add in a heaping teaspoon of tomato paste [this isn't really necessary; it adds a nice color]
- Once the onions are soft, add in the tomatoes, let them cook and get soft a little
- Add in the powdered spices, let it stew together for a few minutes
- Add in the fried okra, let it stew together for a few minutes
- Add in the chopped cilantro [stems and leaves, always] and just let the whole thing come together and get yummy.

Bhindi doesn’t really go well with rice, so serve with naan, roti, or paratha.

Seasoned chicken cooked with chickpeas and potatoes. Delish. My mom cooks it with whole chicken pieces, which I think tastes better, but I didn’t have any so I shortcutted it with boneless chicken breast.

Click below for the recipe

- 1/2 boneless chicken breast, cubed
- 2 cans chickpeas
- 1 medium potato, sliced (about equal parts chickpeas-potatoes)
- 1 medium onion, diced (or pureed, easier)
- 1 heaping tsp minced or pureed garlic
- 2 heaping tsp tomato paste
- 2 tomatoes, chopped
- 1/2 tsp cumin seeds
- 1/2 tsp black cumin seeds (not nigella seeds – they’re long and thin like normal “white” cumin, just black and a little drier)
- 1 heaping tsp powdered cumin
- 1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
- 1/4 to 1/2 tsp garam masala (this can be strong, so start with a little, taste, and add more of any of the spices if you want)
- Coriander [a.k.a. Cilantro], stalks and leaves
- Chicken broth, about 2 cups
- salt to taste

Making the Masala
1. Put oil in a deep saute pan. When it’s warm, add in the whole spices and let them toast a little. Add in the onions. (if using whole onions, sweat/soften them). Add garlic. Add tomato paste.
2. Add powdered spices and salt. Mix it together, let it cook until it looks past-y and darkens a little.
3. Add in one of the tomatoes. Mix, cook a little till some juice comes out.

Adding the chicken
4. Add in the chicken cubes. Mix well to cover in the masala and cook for just a few minutes until they’re just cooked/seared on the outside. Usually you “bhoon” (cook with whole spices) meat before adding in the vegetables. Don’t cook the chicken all the way.

Adding the vegetables.
5. Add in the other tomato, the chickpeas, and the potatoes. Stir well, covering with the masala, let it cook for a few minutes.
6. Pour in the chicken stock. You might want to start with less and add more if you need it to finish cooking the potatoes and chickpeas. Put it on medium-high, cover, let it bubble and cook.

7. Finely dice the stalks of coriander – about 7 or 8 of them, and put into the mix. As the liquid simmers, it’ll draw a fresh, tangy flavor from the stems.
8. Let it bubble until the vegetables are soft or almost soft. Add in some fresh jalapeno (Unseeded, baby. Seeding a jalapeno for a desi is like cutting off your own hand.) Uncover to let the rest of the liquid evaporate, to your desired soup-iness.
9. Add in some fresh chopped cilantro. Let it wilt into the mix.

Serve with rice and/or naan.

Kat-a-kat is a…..delicacy, I guess. It’s a Pakistani curry that is a mixture of various organs, usually some spiced mixture of liver, brain, kidney….all the stuff that I think is meant for bodily functions and not for eating.

Despite what you think about eating kat-a-kat, it is definitely fun to see it made. It’s made on a large griddle, kind of like a teppenyaki. The name “kat-a-kat” comes from the sound the two knives makes as they hit the griddle, chopping up the meat. This one is from Food Street in Melody Market, Islamabad. Enjoy! In the beginning, you see my dad (in a white starchy kurta shalwar) asking the cook to “play the music” as he cooks the kat-a-kat.

mmmm….simmering organs.

As soon as I arrive in Islamabad, Pakistan to visit my darling grandmother, I grab my youngest uncle and demand he take me across the street to Melody Market. Other women head to buy cloth or visit the tailor, but my uncle always takes me in the opposite direction.

Through the main market, down a little alley is a wonderful little dessert shop, my favorite place to get my favorite Pakistani dessert – jalaibi. As I enter the alley, the smell of sweetness perfumes the air. We’re close. We’re headed to a shop called Bengali Rasgulla and Jalaibi.

The owner of the shop and artist of countless sweet delicacies is a Bengali man whose family stayed in Pakistan after its separation with Bangladesh in 1971. As we arrive, the Jalaibi Vaala (The Jalaibi Maker) is piping the thin, creamy jalaibi batter into a vat of hot oil in long whirling strips. He fries it until crisp and immediately submerges it into a pot of sugar syrup. The final result is a light, ooey-gooey, severely sweet spiral of bright orange.

He gives me a pound of jalaibi wrapped in several bags made out of newspaper. The sunny, bright sweetmeat is calling me….I can’t resist! I grab one, hot and crisp, and bite into it, not noticing the sugar syrup rapidly drenching my chin and fingers. I have to capture this moment; I wipe enough syrup from my fingers to snap this shot. A master at his craft, the Jalaibi Vaala stares into my lens as the next batch of fresh jalaibi waits to delight another addict.

In Islamabad, in the heart of the Punjab province, two artists from Karachi have opened up shop in a busy market. Their art is paan – a dark green betel leaf filled with a spicy-sweet concoction of herbs and spices. To understand how unusually situated this shop is, one must understand that Karachi and Islamabad are on two different ends of the country and speak two different languages. The shopkeepers are obvious black sheep, but are hailed and welcomed in Islamabad because of the rich history and culture of Pakistan’s Urdu-speaking world that they represent. And of course, because they make the best (and slightly addictive) paan for hundreds of miles.

The shop itself is piece of art, never mind the skill it takes to create the perfect blend of spices to fold neatly into the paan leaf. Its presence is inescapably inviting. Smells of saffron and rose water emanate from the glowing shop, which is filled with with Mughal-style pitchers and paintings, flowers, and vibrant, rich colors. One almost expects King Shah Jehan to walk around the corner with his entourage and order a piece of paan.

The man pictured here is the apprentice paan maker. His job is to hand the customers packets of sweet or savory paan wrapped in cones of white and then wish them good day with showers of rose petals as they walk away. He’s dressed in a particular version of traditional men’s clothing that now is usually limited to the regions around Karachi but is reminiscent of the traditional court dress of Mughal kings and princes.