FAMILY IS WHERE THE FOOD IS

When we’re far away from the ones we love, the foods of our youth have the power to connect us, says Palestinian writer Reem Kassis

Writer Reem Kassis shares the love with a simple recipe from her Palestinian childhood

Twelve years ago, as I sat on my bedroom floor packing the cases I would take with me when I left Jerusalem for university in the US, my mother walked into my room carrying bags of food. In spite of reassuring her I would not starve in America, she insisted I take some things with me. I reluctantly packed two items: a bottle of olive oil and a jar of za’atar.

Soon after I arrived in the US, I felt homesick. I missed my family. I missed our food. I missed the Palestinian way of life. One morning, I opened up that jar of za’atar and, as soon as I smelled it, I felt like I was back in my mother’s kitchen, amid the warmth and love I so longed for.

In that moment, I felt so grateful for my mother’s instincts and, for the first time, I began to grasp the power of food. Not only its ability to transport us across space and time, but its power to show love, build connections, and keep us united with our histories and families.

Since moving to the US, I’ve lived in France, Germany, London and now the US again. When you move around multiple times throughout your life – for education, work or love – it becomes easy to feel like an outsider. Planting roots in another country is difficult. Food becomes the one constant: the strongest tie to culture, identity and home.

In my first year in the US, I took a two-hour drive to shop at a grocery store that sold goods from the Middle East. The thrill I felt at seeing the same brands of cheese, the pickled aubergines, the baby courgettes, was palpable. Suddenly, I saw my childhood in a new light and recognised the fleeting preciousness of that time: days spent in the kitchen with my mother and grandmothers, olive picking with my father, family gatherings, and values instilled in me through these experiences.

I’ve continued to cook and write about the food of my ancestors in order to capture these traditions and values and pass them on to my daughters. I want to give them the stories of our family alongside the recipes that had such emotional significance for me, like maqlubeh, a one-pot meat, rice and vegetable dish, which still takes me back to my Teta (grandmother) Fatima’s kitchen, or the warming flavours of my Teta Asma’s aniseed, fig and walnut winter preserve. Eating these foods just as they were lovingly prepared for me as a child, allows me to feel the love of the people who made those occasions and food so special.

Today, when I look at my daughters growing up without the bevy of aunts, grandmothers, and family cooks coming together around a Palestinian family table, I find food and storytelling to be the best way to capture and share this rich history with them.

Ajeen, or dough, was one of the first words my daughters learned. It’s the first thing my mother makes when she comes to visit and a staple at home when we go back. Today, the smell of taboon bread wafting from our oven, its flavour when dipped into Palestinian olive oil, blankets us in a sense of warmth, it surrounds us with the flavours of our homeland. So even when we’re thousands of miles away, through our stories and the pleasure of cooking, we can all carry our families and our histories in our hearts, wherever we are in the world.