Breakfast in Syria is an event in itself. There’s no concept of a “quick bite” – that is a horrid Western innovation. Blasphemy, really. Breakfast is meant to be enjoyed, eaten slowly, in the company of family and friends, and then extended for at least two hours with cup after cup of hot, sweet tea.

I had my first experience with a full Syrian breakfast when my family and I went to Syria in May 2006, when Ameir and I had our Nikah.

There’s an art to it. The whole family sits together, most often on the floor with a medda (spread) laid out before them. There are no plates. Breakfast is eaten communally – everyone has a piece of bread and dips it into the various items. Thus, each dish must be laid out in a pattern, such that each person can reach each plate with their little chunks of bread. If there are a lot of people, there are two or three or four iterations of each dish, and the pattern is spread symmetrically all the way down the medda.

The symmetry is not to be taken lightly, as I learned. As a new bride at my in-laws for the first time, I naturally tried to make myself useful around the house. So, as Fatimah plated all the dishes, I helped Ameir and Maryam’s cousins carry them to the medda. Once I got there, I just set them down sporadically. They’d smile and say “Shukran.” I’d say “Afwan” and walk away for another plate, happy that I helped. When I came back with another, I noticed that the plate I had put down earlier had been moved. I thought nothing of it, and put down the new plates. “Shukran!” “Afwan!” Third sets of plates in hand, I noticed that the second set had been rearranged. Finally, I got it. I just laughed, and then just started handing the plates to the cousins to let them arrange them symmetrically. They laughed too – because of the language barrier, they couldn’t really explain what I was doing wrong, but they politely let me keep doing it without making me feel bad.

Every morning, Fatimah would lead the production of a kingly spread of cooked and fresh plates. Served hot or warm were baid – scrambled eggs; fool – warm, cumin-spiced fava beans topped with fresh tomato, onions, and parsley; tis’iyyah – yesterday’s hummus and bread cooked together with a tangy tahini sauce; mana’eesh, flatbreads topped with zaatar, ground beef, or feta and cheese; and falafel, fresh from the shop on the street corner. Everything got a healthy drizzle of fruity extra virgin olive oil, maybe even from Jiddo’s (Ameir’s grandfather) farm.

The morning after Ameir and I got married, Ammo (my father in law) made fried liver as a special hot plate. I am not a big red meat eater, and I especially have trouble with organs. My father in law is extremely hospitable and generous, and he naturally offered me the plate. I declined, and he thought I was just being shy. “Ameir!” he said, “Give her a bite!” Ameir knew I didn’t like liver, but out of respect for his father, he couldn’t say no. I gave Ameir the “please, no” look, but he had to do it – he tore a piece of bread, picked up a piece of liver, and put it in my mouth. “How is it?” asked Ammo eagerly. Without chewing, I smiled and nodded. “Wonderful!” he said, and turned back to talk to my father.

Meanwhile, I jabbed Ameir in the leg, motioning him to give me a napkin. I carefully released the liver into said receptacle. A few minutes later, Ammo turned back to me and Ameir. “Ameir, give her another bite!” But instead of watching this time, he turned back to laugh with my dad. Spared! It really was a hilarious scene, even at that time. Now, don’t get me wrong – he’s an expert at fried liver. But I just couldn’t do it. Thanks anyway, Ammo!

Cold plates include all kinds of fresh vegetables, sliced and served separately – radishes, cucumbers, tomatoes, bell peppers, whole green and black oil-cured olives, scallions, flai-flai (a peppery green similar to alfalfa), and an interesting little thing called ajoor. Ajoor are kind of dwarf watermelons; they’re light green with ridges. Inside, they’re about the color and taste of a cucumber, but are crispier than cucumbers.

Alongside all the vegetables are laban - thick yogurt sprinkled with dried mint and drizzled with olive oil; hummus drizzled with olive oil and topped with olives and chickpeas; slices of a mild-flavored Syrian cheese similar to mozarella, and a creamier cheese topped with tangy apricot or peach jam or sweet honey.

Next to each person sits a small, never-empty glass of shai, hot sweet tea. It’s a lighter brew, a golden amber color, so that the flavor of any fresh herbs – usually miramiyya (sage), na’na (mint) – comes through (and so you can drink as many cups as desired). The host will keep fill your cup the second it’s empty, needlessly asking “Soobik shai kaman?” – Should I pour you more tea? – as the cup is automatically refilled.

Also ever-flowing are the praises to the cook. Yaslamo eidaiki! May your hands be blessed! call out the breakfasters. Sahtain! Allah yasalmik! replies the chef – May you have two healths, and may God bless you.

An hour later, the plates are mostly empty. Leaning back against the sofa, you spend another hour nipping at the edges of the laban to pair with the four more cups of hot tea, reminiscing with your family about happy memories.

Every once in a while, a family should have a good Syrian breakfast. Leave the bowls of cereal or the pop tart. Forget the plates, spoons and forks. Spread a medda, sit on the floor and enjoy the food and family.

As a law student-going-on-lawyer, I’ve realized that so much of being a perceived as a good attorney rides on your appearance. Well-tailored suits are an absolute must for both men and women. A lawyer does not look like a lawyer unless he or she is, as we say in Pakistan, “suited booted.” Business casual is rare, especially in government jobs, and even then is expected to be respectable enough to receive a client or colleague.

In some way, I win here. I recently read an article about male judges’ reflections on what female lawyers wear in the court room, and the “old boys” (and “old girls”) lawyers I’ve met through the Susie Sharp Inn of Court seem to echo the same sentiment – “You’re in court, not at a party. I don’t need to see that much leg or that much cleavage.”

Sweet – no problem on either front for me. Indeed, I agree with the sentiment itself, too. Showing that much skin is not only disrespectful to the court and the institution of the law, but also to yourself. It gets you stared at for the wrong reasons (yes, it does, even if you don’t ask for it, it does. Eyes wander, that’s what they’re meant to do – look) and diminishes you in the credibility and respect you deserve. Fine, Lady Lawyers, I’ll give you an okay on below the knee skirts and short sleeve shirts (maybe even sleeveless if it’s tactful), but no cleavage, please. Not acceptable.

But in other ways, I lose. Buying my definition of halal suits is not an easy task. Choices are limited to (at most) mid-calf skirts (more usually knee length or shorter). Jackets come up to right at or above the waist, and combined with a fitted pant or skirt, the butt is completely bare and distinguishable. Not okay for me. Blouses and shirts are either spandexy (too tight) or low cut or too short (again, see the butt problem). You can get suit jackets that are longer (mid thigh or knee), but they’re expensive and hard to come by (and often cut for an older fashion sense).

Alhamdulillah, I’m lucky that when I find one of these longer, well cut suits, my mom or dad will get me multiples stitched in different colors from Pakistan. That helps very immensely, so I’ve got a whole set of well cut, well covered suits. I shake it up with a pretty colored shirt and hijab (and apparently people notice), so there is an element of fun to it – but moreso once I’m comfortable with who I’m with and where I am. I stick to blues, grays, whites for first days and big meetings.

Here’s where the real issue is for me: my headcover.

I’ve worn hijab for 11 years now, Alhamdulillah. In that time, I’ve gone from tentative uncertainty to gradual comfort to unabashed self-confidence.

I believe that wearing hijab is good for me on many levels: it fulfills a religious requirement and provides spiritual and moral benefit, it allows me to express a carefully tailored Islamic identity, it makes me a walking (and hopefully, counter-stereotypical) symbol of Islam and gives me the opportunity to teach others the truth about my faith, and it earns me the respect of my Muslim and non-Muslim friends and colleagues.

I’m very proud of my hijab and my choice to wear it, and Alhamdulillah, I’ve never doubted my decision.

But in the past year, I’ve come to be uncomfortable and nervous in situations that would never have affected me before law school. It’s always been nerve wracking to be a muhajjibah when you’re going to a small Southern town, where the stereotypes in your head are activated and you find yourself thinking, “That man looks like he might shoot me if I make one wrong move.” But as long as you smile, stay polite, things usually turn out okay in those situations. (Note that sometimes, part of the art of wearing hijab also means gracefully ignoring prejudicial comments from the peanut gallery).

Wearing hijab as a law student, soon to be lawyer is nervewracking on a different level. For the first time ever, when I attended my first professional/social event, I found myself nervous when I walked into the hall full of attorneys and judges – butterflies-in-my-stomach, a stomach-twinging kind of nervous.

I couldn’t help thinking, “What will they think of me?” For some of them, especially the older men “old boys” types, maybe this would be their first encounter with a Muslimah, a brown and hijab-ed one at that. Would they doubt my abilities as a lawyer? Would they think I’m a little “too diverse” for their tastes? Would they let me fit in to their profession?

I hate feeling like that. I hate that, when I walked into my first job interview with Justice Timmons-Goodson at the NC Supreme Court, I thought “what if I won’t belong here?”

I had left those feelings behind on the first day of high school, when I started wearing hijab and emerging from my middle school chrysalis. What were those emotions doing back here, in my throat and stomach, when I was about to meet a state Supreme Court Justice?

I was nervous, shaky, and agitated – but thankfully (and this is a testament to her greatness), the Justice took me into her office, spoke to me kindly and with an obviously real interest in my opinions, and finally gave me the job. I still look to her, a beautiful African American woman (the first on the NC SC) who worked hard and proudly stands for what she believes in, as an example of who I want to be. Her clerks were also like her – Saad, a Muslim clerk of Pakistani origin whose intelligence blew me away from the start, and Jenny, a mother of four whose absolute skill in excelling in both work and family life inspired me and let me dream of having a life like that, too. And of course, there was the unforgettable Ms. Elaine – an open minded, loving woman with great hair who has deep and hilarious conversations with you no matter who you are.

I was ashamed of how nervous I was – not because I did not have confidence in my skills, but because of what I thought others would see when they saw my hijab.

Imagine my annoyance, then, when the same feelings sprang back up when I walked in for an interview with the NC Attorney General’s office for my current summer internship. Justice Timmons-Goodson had come with high praise from some of my most respected advisors, and I had a feeling that, being a minority herself, she would not be as weirded out by a muhajjibah. But I felt twice as apprehensive while waiting for my two interviewers at the AG’s office. I’d never seen these women before and had only spoken to them on the phone. They’d been attentive, engaging, and friendly on the phone – but what if they’d just been expecting a normal brown girl, not a muhajjibah?

They didn’t flinch when they both walked into the lobby, where I stood anxiously looking at pictures of former NC Attorneys General. They were everything kind, polite, engaging, and fair (and have continued to be so as I’ve started working here). I was simultaneously at ease, and exasperated and embarassed for my suspicions. Hadn’t I done just to them just what I was afraid they’d do to me?

Stereotyping is contagious.

Still, I can’t help feeling the nerves.

I still feel that when I speak in class or express an opinion (especially one having to do with war, national security, or civil rights), I’m often speaking as a symbol of Islam (this is part of what kept me relatively quiet in my National Security Law class, and if it was not for the absolute kindness and open mindedness of Professor Scott Silliman, I would never have opened my mouth. My classmates are the people I will be working with for the rest of my life, so I didn’t want to be branded as ‘That crazy liberal Muslim girl from law school.’).

I still feel that, to some degree, I will be judged by what I wear on a different level than a woman who wears a revealing shirt or skirt – because my kind of clothing marks me as distinctly different and possibly foreign (and to some, dangerous), instead of just a little too liberal in fashion sense. Maybe I’m just imagining the looks from the “old boys,” the lawyers who’ve been working for longer than I’ve been alive. Maybe not.

But really, in the end, most of them will not treat me differently, at least not in the public interest law field that I’m working towards. I’ve still got the unabashed confidence for 99% of the time. In the end, overwhelmingly, I feel respected, not rejected.

And the most important thing is that I know what I am doing is right for me (both wearing hijab and being a lawyer), and it makes me happy to do it.

But it’ll always be in the back of…or, I guess, on top of…my head.

The last day of my internship at the NC Supreme Court, Jenny took me aside and told me how proud she was of me for wearing a scarf. She told me that there would always be people who would treat me differently because I wore a scarf, but that I wouldn’t want to work for those kinds of lawyers and law firms anyway.

Thanks, Jenny. You’re right.

Glossary:
Hijab: the Muslim woman’s (Muslimah) religiously mandated style of dress and behavior that is meant to embody and encourage modesty, spirituality, and ethical goodness. The term “hijab” means more than just a particular item of clothing, but it is commonly used to refer to the scarf that covers the head and neck. A Muslimah who wears hijab is called a muhajjibah.

Halal: (an extremely simplified definition) what is allowed by Islamic law.

Alhamdulillah: “Praise be to God.” Used to express thanks.

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!

I had a really hard week. Indescribably crazy. But, it’s amazing how much people are willing to help if you’re willing to ask. Prayer has a remarkable way of calming me down. And then, my friends and family really came through for me. Even though I was stressed, I never felt alone. My gratitude and love to all of you – you know who you are.

On Tuesday, I just needed chocolate. I bought two mini Reese’s cups and a Dove bar and made a lunch of them. (yeah, it was that kind of week by Tuesday). But, to my surprise, when I got home – these beauties were waiting in the mailbox for me. Sara! I had told her about my chocolate craving earlier and she surprised me with these delicious things. They’re like huge cookies, soft like cake, with gobs of smooth frosting in the middle. Seriously. If I ever become President, these must be served at the Inaugural Ball. I call them “Sara’s cake-cookies of chocolate happiness.” I’ll let her tell you how she made them!

The athaan for Fajr went off this morning, same as any other. Ameir and I mumbled incoherently to each other, “Wake up, it’s time to pray.” Ameir got up first, swinging his legs around to sit up, and then stand.

*Squelch*

“Uh….Taiyyaba, did you spill water on my side of the bed?”
“Huh? No.”
“Did I spill water?”
“I dunno.”

Ameir stood up and took a step. Then another, then another. And then..

“Oh [step, *squelch*] my [step, *squirt*] GOD! [step, *squeegie*]. HONEY! GET UP!”

I get up on my perfectly dry side of the bed and start walking. Suddenly, I feel the carpet squelching under my feet. Now, for those of you who have not felt this, let me clarify. Ocean-wet sand squelching under your feet = pleasant. Sopping wet carpet squelching under your feet = terribly disturbing and uncomfortable.

What happened? Were we attacked by a water demon?

Should I start building an ark?

We kept walking *squelch, squelch* to figure out what was going on. Our steps left footprints behind us, embedded into the soaking wet carpet. I first opened the door to the sump pump, fearing the worst. But, Alhamdulillah, thank God a million times, the carpet was soaking only with clean, warm water and not sewage. Then, we made our way into the kitchen, where the water was standing a few inches deep on the vinyl floor.

We discovered the culprit: The water heater. It was pumping out water at an alarmingly fast rate, as if to say, “Hey sleepyheads. Finally up? I’ve been at this all night.”

Ameir and I did what any rational couple would do in this situation. We got into a tiff. “Get the towels!” “Turn off the water!” “Don’t use my nice towels!” “There’s A FLOOD! Forget about your nice towels!” “You’re going to get electrocuted! Be careful!”

The water had gone from the kitchen, down the hall to the bathroom on one side and to the living room and bedroom on the other. The living room was dry, but the water proceeded to soak almost our entire bedroom. The flood came from the door (down the hall) and through my closet. Well….at least it proceeded in an orderly fashion. The worst of it was the carpet right in front of the kitchen. As I stepped on the carpet there and the water squirted up beneath my toes, it was like the carpet was saying “I’m sorryyyy, I tried to stop it but it was just too much!”

So, Ameir turned off the water and we threw all of our towels onto the floor to dry the water. First, the kitchen, which was easier because vinyl isn’t absorbent. Then, there was the question of the sopping wet carpet.

At this point, I wished I had friends like Harry Potter. Or Spongebob.

So, we again did the thing a rational couple would do in this situation. We called our parents.

Ameir’s dad came over within half an hour and brought more towels and one of those mop+squeeze bucket contraptions. This was incredibly useful in squeezing water out of the towels, instead of having to do it by hand. He also went and borrowed us a wet vacuum, one of those carpet cleaner gigs that soaks up water (we pulled ouat at least 30 buckets of water. The unpleasant squelching sound stopped, but it was still soaking wet). My mom left Virginia immediately and got here by 1:00, by which time we were *exhausted* so it was great to have her help and comfort. My dad called the plumber from Virginia, and the guy came over and fixed the water heater. My sistafriend Maryam came over and helped us move everything out of the bedroom, which got hit pretty badly.

So, right now, the carpet has been ripped up (the concrete on the bottom was wet, despite our drying attempts). But, things are under control! Alhamdulillah, it could have been much worse. The water heater could have exploded instead of just pumping out the excess water (apparently, this is a safety feature – when the pressure is too much, it leaks water out. Now we know to properly connect the pipe to a drainage system!). It could have been *sewage* *ick!* Or, (omg) Ameir’s computer could have been on the floor. Thankfully we were at home, and this didn’t happen last week when we were gone to VA. Alhamdulillah!

There’s almost always a bright side. Now I get new vinyl in my kitchen! Also, I have a nice big mud patch outside (from pouring out the vacuumed water) in case any manner of cattle should decide to drop by.

I think we’re going to have to have a serious talk with all of our appliances – get all the grievances out in the open. This is the second thing to go haywire in the past few months (the sump pump clogged on us earlier). I guess three, if you count that my coffee percolator broke and almost slit my wrist with its jagged edge. (But yay, Mama got me a new one today!)

Three exams and a few papers later, I’m ready to start blogging again. I’ve almost forgotten how it works (doesn’t help that Wordpress has a funky new system). But I’m back! Missed me? Aww. Thanks, I miss you guys too. I’ve got at least three posts to make, but let’s start chronologically, shall we?

In my family, we do things a little differently on Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is a relatively new holiday for us – we’ve only started making a turkey for the past three years or so. Before then, we’d just use it as an excuse to visit family and go shopping on Black Friday. Even now, we don’t see it as a holiday of any cultural or religious significance – it’s just an time to get family together and eat (which Desis and Arabs never need an excuse for, really). My uncle, aunt, and two cousins usually come up from Charleston, SC and my parents come down to Raleigh from Manassas, VA.

This time, my dad walked in on Wednesday evening carrying a huge turkey. “Uhh…Daddy Jaan,” I said, “It’s red.” “I know!” he exclaimed. “It’s tandoori masala!” And that’s how we came to have tandoori turkey for Thanksgiving.

Our meal was an eclectic mix of Desi, Arab, and traditional American foods. The lineup:
- Tandoori turkey served with mint chutney *and* cranberry sauce
- Kousa Mahshi – Zucchini stuffed with meat and baked in a tomato sauce
- Sundried tomato and herb roasted potatoes
- Jalapeno cornbread (as Maryam likes to say – “You know you’re at a desi’s house when there’s jalapenos on the cornbread.”
- Za’atar crescent rolls (you *have* to try these – mix za’atar and butter, spread onto crescent roll dough and roll. from oven to stomach in under 60 seconds.)
- Garlic-herb-sundried tomato bread (can you tell we like carbs? there were three kinds of bread)
- Asparagus
- Sweet potato casserole (which I always, always make too much of)

Yay for multicultural families! And Alhamdulillah – Praise be to God for all the blessings He has given us – and may we be so fortunate as to be thankful to Him with every breath and heartbeat.

The Most Gracious! It is He Who has taught the Qur’an. He has created man: He has taught him speech (and intelligence). The sun and the moon follow courses (exactly) computed; And the herbs and the trees – both (alike) bow in adoration. And the Firmament has He raised high, and He has set up the Balance (of Justice), In order that ye may not transgress (due) balance. So establish weight with justice and fall not short in the balance. It is He Who has spread out the earth for (His) creatures: Therein is fruit and date-palms, producing dates; Also corn, with (its) leaves and stalk for fodder, and sweet-smelling plants. Then which of the favours of your Lord will ye deny? – Surat Ar-Rahman

this morning i opened my box of fruity pebbles for breakfast, and suddenly i was three years old again. i used to love this cereal – it was a regular in our house because…well…i was a bit of a picky eater back then (i know, can you imagine?) so whatever i ate, i ate a lot of.

i specifically remember going on a trip with my parents to texas – my dad had a business meeting in houston, so we all went. i was used to drinking whole milk, but my parents got me a little carton of 2% and a box of fruity pebbles so i’d actually eat something.

i was perplexed and indignant. “when can we go back to america? the milk doesn’t taste good here!” after all, it had taken us three million hours to get here, just like it did when we went to pakistan, and drinking a different type of milk always tastes funny. that was enough proof for me that we were *not* in america.

ahhh memories. being three years old for a few minutes this morning was a blessed relief from the horrors of “one month left” law school. alhamdulillah