Tag Archives: Memories

“Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again” C.S. Lewis

Where I went to school

I felt oh so grown up on the first day of every school year but the real change took place when I started seventh grade.

My school, which loosely and arbitrarily followed the British education model, put great emphasis on the jump from elementary (first to sixth year) to secondary school. A small graduation ceremony was held in our honor at the end of our sixth year. My classmates and I proudly walked the stage and shook hands with the Head of Elementary. It was a modern-day coming of age ritual where we literally and enthusiastically waved goodbye to that chapter of our lives. As I crossed that stage, in front of emotional parents, relieved teachers and very young elementary students, I sensed that I was growing up. I shook hands with Mr. Brian – that, in itself was a privilege for he was a tall, serious man who ran his section of the school like a colonel commanding a mid-sized regiment. He had a full beard, kind eyes and was known to be unforgiving with tardy students. He was well-respected (or feared, to be honest). He told me he was very proud of me (I was quite the honor-roll nerd) and that I would do well in secondary school. I realized that I was leaving the safety of the classrooms and corridors that I knew, heading to a different world. The idea left me excited but also a little sad and apprehensive.

That different world happened to be in the same building.

The elementary and secondary schools were separated by a mere floor, but for years I was only used to walking up the first two flights of stairs to reach my classes. Now I had to take two more flights to get to the right floor! At the time, the steps leading up to the second floor seemed unfamiliar, unbelievably wide and steep. There were many recognizable faces, too – kids that I grew up with, my friends’ siblings, neighbors, girls from my swim team – but I was terrified. They were all grown ups whereas my classmates and I were fresh out of elementary. We were going to be at the bottom of that chain, an inconceivable thought after ruling the school for a year as the biggest, tallest, loudest kids around.

All my nervousness, however, did not dampen my spirits as I picked up my backpack on the first day of school and headed to the car. My mother fussed, trying to fix my hair and push a lunch box in my hand. I vehemently refused, stuffing my sandwich and juice into my book bag instead. I had no time to explain the concept of social suicide to her but I knew I had to fit in. I was a grown up and I had conform.

For Tinkerbell

What’s crispy, crunchy, sweet, tangy and creamy?

Or: Seven Hours in Houston.

On my way to Costa Rica, I had a layover in Houston, Texas. I made sure it was long enough for me to get out of the airport and get some sun, fresh air and a decent meal. With less than ten hours in a city that’s quickly gaining points with gastronomes, I faced the typical foodie dilemma. Where and what do I eat?

The quintessential response for someone stopping in Texas is to click one’s cowboy boots and exclaim, “get some barbecue!” But I wasn’t feeling particularly carnivorous. So what else do you have, Houston? Tex-Mex, of course. Alas, that wasn’t an option either as I was about to spend a couple of weeks in the land of rice, beans and avocados. After some serious research I managed to narrow it down to three places that I wanted to eat at. I shared my list with my cousin, who currently lives in Houston. He quickly picked his favorite: Backstreet Café.

Hello Tracy and Jack. Thank you.

Situated in the quiet River Oaks neighborhood (doesn’t that name ~~just ooze money~~ sound posh?) Backstreet Café is a popular destination for rich housewives, lawyers, young professionals who are earning a little more than they can spend, and fellow foodies. I got into my cousin’s fiery orange Camaro and we cruised past mansions and groomed gardens. Nothing works the appetite like a dose of yearning to marry a millionaire. Eventually, we made it to the restaurant and were escorted to the popular backyard, where a party of ten white women lunched (read: guzzled bottles of wine and ran perfectly manicured nails through perfectly cut-dyed-and-blow-dried blonde manes). Every once in a while I’d be blinded by the dazzling light bouncing off their diamonds.

A little less about the folks and a little more about the food, please. Before I get to that part, let me tell you about the words. The words, the words, the words. Have you ever read a menu and sighed? And then ran your fingers across the words as you licked your lips and imagined that sundried tomato pesto spread on warm, just-toasted ciabatta? No? Just me then? Huh. The menu, you see, was beautifully written with each ingredient listed. (Side note: I don’t understand why some restaurants feel like it’s funny to surprise me with hidden eggplant or covered bacon or unlisted olives? Are those ingredients spies? Are they undercover? Are you trying to get rid of them? STOP IT. Tell me exactly what’s in my food, oi!)

I spent 30 minutes shooing away the waiter and begging for more time. Finally and sadly, the indecisiveness came to an end. We placed our orders. At this point, all previous claims of not feeling carnivorous melted under the warm Texan sun and my will power dissolved under an incantation of “crispy lobster…pan roasted oysters…lamb shoulder”. Unfortunately, we were only two people and could not order all that our hearts and stomachs desired.

We settled (ha!) for a starter each and a main course. My cousin got the Saint Arnold braised rabbit with wild mushrooms and sour dough and the coffee crusted tenderloin with garlic mashed potatoes, spinach and spicy maple chipotle sauce. The rabbit, once cute and fluffy, was succulent, warm and buttery. The tenderloin, however, stole the show. I believe that every steak, hereafter, should be coffee crusted and grilled medium. I am getting teary-eyed just remember the contrast of the seared crust against the juicy meat.

Did someone say rabbit?

So, what’s crispy, crunchy, sweet, tangy and creamy? Why it’s Backstreet Café’s fried green tomato salad – also known as The Best Salad I’ve Ever Had Or Maybe Not But it was So Darn Good. The bleu cheese, smokey portabella (psht, never again am I using the common spelling: portabello) on a bed of arugula with a couple of deep-fried green tomato slices were like a happy family in my mouth. I’m sure that sounded creepy but you’ll have to excuse my limited vocabulary. I haven’t even told you about the sweet cherry tomatoes and the candied pecans. I’m getting emotional again! My main course was an overwhelming pan seared duck on butternut squash purée tossed with some spinach and figs. Verdict? A little too much going on and insanely rich; I couldn’t put a dent in it.

Will ya look at that duck?

The food left me glowing happily all the way back to the airport and even as I boarded another plane on my insanely long journey. All in all, it was a very satisfying meal and I think we picked the right restaurant. I desperately want to go back to Houston just to brunch at Backstreet Café. I may have to find me a rich husband in the interim and insist that he showers me with diamonds. You know, just so I can dine in style.

: Fried Green Tomato Salad (aka Yum)

: Topview: This is THE salad.

: The backyard

: The Menu of All Menus

“I am so busy doing nothing… that the idea of doing anything – which as you know, always leads to something – cuts into the nothing and then forces me to have to drop everything.” – Jerry Seinfeld

It’s not like I’ve been literally doing nothing; I just don’t enjoy anything I do. I’ve been stuck in a rut lately with my days starting and ending with “late”. I’m late to work, I eat a late lunch, it’s too late for dinner, I try to work out if it’s not too late, and I always get to bed really late. Rewind and repeat, day in and day out. If you are currently in my situation, squeezing more commitments (that you could not care less about) into your already crammed schedule then you know how exhausting it can get. I can’t think straight.

In between work and a multitude of social obligations, I find myself wondering if I ever really went to Costa Rica. When was the last time I watched a movie, picked up a book, wrote in my journal or even looked at this blog? I logged in now and had to familiarize myself with the WordPress layout because it’s been that long! And in trying to pinpoint the culprit of this infinite state of busyness, I always come to one answer: Kuwait.

Life in Kuwait is a gigantic tornado that sneaks up on you and holds you victim as it whirls and spins your world, while you stand shakily at its centre. It’s hard to escape. It’s destructive and violent. But once you break away from this tornado (and I can only do so by getting on a plane), you’ll be amazed at the tranquility of the world outside. The last time I adhered to a healthy routine was in Costa Rica: long walks, simpler food, fresh air, early nights and earlier mornings. Pura vida.

The difference between being in Kuwait and abroad, for myself and many others, is not just about taking public transportation or in escaping a third cousin’s wedding. Breaking away from the fast-paced life in Kuwait is certainly refreshing but it’s the sense of freedom that puts a genuine smile on my face. When we are away from Kuwait, many of us are able to shed several masks – no social duties, no euphemisms, no tongue-biting in fear of offending someone.

These false pretenses are perpetuated by each and every person in society regardless of their age or gender: parents, siblings, educators, professionals, locals and expats. Don’t shrug your shoulders, we’re all responsible. Even when one of us wants to break free, we’re silenced by the crowd and told to sit back down. I don’t know what it will take for people to change in Kuwait and stop sacrificing individuality for the sake of culture and tradition. I know there are Kuwaitis out there who have retaliated. They spoke up regardless of the social stigma but they are outnumbered. Most people were stifled into silence. Some Kuwaitis have simply left, seeking refuge in more forgiving societies where they can blend with the crowds in places where they won’t be judged for speaking their minds.

When I was in high school I entered a public speaking contest where I was given the following prompt: “you can please some of the people all of the time, you can please all of the people some of the time, but you can’t please all of the people all of the time”. I don’t know how I interpreted that saying when I was sixteen years old but I do comprehend those words now. I repeat them to myself when I’m alone, hoping the mantra works its way into my being and stays with me.

I want to whisper those words to everyone I meet in Kuwait who happens to be bending over backwards for the sake of society: losing weight, stuck in the wrong major, wearing something that makes them uncomfortable, or worse, unable to escape an abusive relationship or receive treatment for a taboo illness. Breaking away from society’s restrictions doesn’t have to result in blind rage and hatred. It doesn’t even have to be drastic. Change is a gradual process. Repeat after me: I cannot please all of the people all of the time; I will focus on myself instead and do something for me every single day.

Try it. It should not be this hard.

August, 2011. Martha’s vineyard: watching a gull.

What I want to go back for?

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Muddy Waters allegedly said, “I wanted to get out of Mississippi in the worst way. Go back? What I want to go back for?”

I moved to Mississippi in August, 2008 to teach Arabic at Jackson State University (as a Fulbright TA). By Thanksgiving I knew what Muddy Waters was talking about. I wanted to get out of Mississippi and never go back. Before leaving Kuwait, I had prepared myself for an adventure. This was going to be my first experience living away from home, and for a whole year! I decided that I was going to make the most of it: meet new people, explore new places, read Southern literature, try new food and basically live my life to the fullest.

A random photo I took during my first week.

Maybe I had high expectations but in a few weeks I started writing to my friends saying that I was not prepared for life in the Deep South. Without a car, I was completely cut off. I was stranded in the ghetto. The people I met were not friendly, the classes I took were mediocre and the activities arranged by the international program were too outdoorsy for me. My living arrangement (read: psychotic flatmate) probably aggravated my sense of despair.

Cooped up in my apartment, this was my view all day, every day.

Fate dealt me several blows during the first part of my Fulbright program. Office politics and the animosity between employees demotivated me. I became withdrawn and instead of making the most of my experience, I spent all my days online, chatting with friends back home and composing silly e-mails. I was a 21st century hermit. I’d go to campus, teach my classes, head back home and get online. Later in the evening, when everyone in Kuwait was fast asleep, I’d venture out of my apartment and walk to the gym where I’d work out for an hour then get back to the safety of my room. I had met a few international students and I we hung out almost on a daily basis, but they lived on campus and I didn’t and I knew better than to get too attached to them (they were all heading back to their own countries in December). And just when I was getting comfortable in my pitiful routine, Red Lobster changed my life! Wait, that’s pretty pathetic too.

Early in September, one of the employees coerced me into attending a luncheon at the Red Lobster – even though it was Ramadan and I was fasting. I can’t remember the details but she needed to parade the international teachers to a group of benevolent citizens who funded and supported exchange programs (hmm). I contemplated not going but I pushed myself because Ramadan is not just about fasting from food and drink but all about increasing one’s good deeds and being a better person. It was there that I met my friend S. (who I often refer to as my savior). I must have been so tired and hungry that I still can’t remember what I said to her that day. But apparently we exchanged e-mails! And I am so grateful we did.

A month later, S. got in touch with me and I think we met for the first time in November. S. plucked me out of my apartment where I was wallowing in self-pity and showed me Mississippi. She showed me the southern hospitality one reads and hears about. She talked to me about the rich literary tradition in her soft drawl, introduced me to her family and friends and by January all but adopted me!

This is just down the street from where I lived.

It was only after I saw Mississippi through her eyes that I grew to love it and tried to understand it. It was on our adventures that I finally lived up to the promises I made myself. I was meeting new people, having the most unexpected adventures, reading Eudora Welty and enjoying cup after cup of sweet tea. Although I wanted to get out of Mississippi in the worst way, I now yearn to go back. There are stories I want to hear and places I want to explore. As William Faulkner pointed out, “to understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi.”

The only constant is change

F. scribbles

turning thoughts into words

Tag Archives: Memories

For Tinkerbell

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The only constant is change

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