Searching for Zaatar

Even the Zaatar that I sent to my sister Hourig was made in Aleppo.  It never arrived.  Well it has not arrived yet.  They found the packaging without the contents and sent me a letter requesting a description of the article, its made, model, design, color and everything else I can think of to help them search for it.  Including, but not limited to taking or drawing pictures.

I ate some of this by now famous Zaatar at my sister's and loved it so much that I wanted to buy some and bring it with me to Arizona, My sister gave me his bag of Zaatar which I brought back.  She said she will buy some and send it to me.  She called me a week later saying there is no more at the market that she used to buy it from. I told him I saw some at the middle eastern market here, did not buy it because I still had some, so I can go buy some and send it to her.  She told me to wait another week so that she can check again if they have.  They didn't have.

I went to the store in Phoenix and bought three bags.  Two for my sister Hourig and one for me.  Found a sturdy box, packed the Zaatar in it, went to the post office, addressed it, the clerk helped me tape it and we sent it off to New Jersey.

A month later the Zaatar has not reached my sister.  She checked with her local post office, they did not have it either.

I got the letter from the post office yesterday and while taking pictures of the bag of Zaatar I have, I finally had time to notice that it was made in Aleppo.  I was very surprised.  I had thought it was made in Lebanon, that's how good it was.  Me and my prejudices.

Aleppo?  Couldn't it have been from Lebanon?  I might not be able to taste this Zaatar again considering what is happening now in Aleppo. My senses were in uproar. 

From time to time, as breakfast or snack, I find myself eating some Zaatar mixed with olive oil which is one way of eating it, the other being without olive oil.  This particular brand has an incredible amount of sesame seeds in it that bring a good balance to the taste.

There is a civil war in Aleppo and our attention is drawn to it whether by choice or by accident.  I will not die if I don't eat from this magical Zaatar, but this is how cultures, traditions and good things disappear.

All Dressed up for Salad

If you are on a budget and life gives you lemons, you still have to go buy a pitcher to make lemonade.

I live in Arizona. In winter, it is oranges, lemons, limes, grapefruits, pomegranates. People give them to each other in bags or put them on the curb outside for others to pick them up.

While taking a walk one night, with my dear friends, we found one such bag on the curb. They gave it to me to take home and explained how I can freeze their juice for future use.  A whole bag of lemons I got. A week later, other friends came over and brought even a bigger bag of lemons from their garden trees.

It took an hour, maybe more, to squeeze by hand the juices out of all those lemons, but the amount of money I saved was worth the effort. Two lemons are one dollar if you buy it here. Eight lemons are one dollar if you buy it there... think gas money. I got plenty of lemons for nothing.

Lemons, I had lemons, I had two huge bags of lemons.

I then put the lemon juice in empty ice trays and into the freezer, took them out of the ice trays and into little plastic bags by counts of 5 or 6, and back into the freezer. Now I have enough lemon juice to make salads all winter and into spring. And I did. I have one bag left in the freezer now. Let it stay there. The fat lady has sung.

As if on cue, three days ago, the man who is renting a room and a bathroom in this apartment and is here only in that capacity, brought me a gift. Outrageous (that's the brand name) bottles of extra virgin olive oils, one with garlic, the other with Alsace herbs and a bottle of balsamic vinegar. A day before, he had told me that he was broke. In a matter of ten months, he lost the two jobs that he had.  One because of downsizing, the other because of various physical pains he is experiencing which are not clear to me because he keeps changing the explanation.  He is in his early 50s. He is quiet, mostly stays in his room, says "hon" after "thank you" and basically a decent person.

“Everything I have is yours” he said to me once. “No, it is not!” I retorted. I am not used to that. It makes me very uncomfortable. So now, with the gift, he has also bought a huge lettuce, cucumbers (also huge), celery and tomatoes.  There were gifts at Christmas too, through his girlfriend, and flowers and Tupperware replacements on one occasion.

That is very nice. I am not saying anything. He always contributes, i.e. he buys the same ingredients I used in the last salad we shared. But what I want you to notice is the timing. As soon as I decide not to spend so much time in the kitchen preparing food, partly because my kitchen is the hottest place in the apartment specially now that we have 110 degree weather here, and partly to have more time to write.  In that respect, I am doing good.

For the longest time I have wanted to make a totally different salad. Not even Tabbouleh. One that might not have so much chopping involved, but because of lack of open communication, or you can't clap with one hand, I had fallen into the vicious cycle of reproducing the same thing over and over again but each time adding new tastes like dried mint leaves or sumac or oregano, replacing lemon juice with balsamic vinegar, adding beans or croutons, red onions instead of green, etc. Basically the same kind of chop chop though with the help of my roommate's commendable sense of fair play as far as replacing what one consumes is concerned.

I finally managed to tell him that I prefer Lebanese cucumbers, the ones that are called Persian in Arizona and Israeli in Brooklyn. Since no one asked me what I needed to make a different salad, and no one heard my preferences, in desperation, without thinking about boundaries, I started making two salads with two different kinds of cucumbers. More work. This is getting nowhere very fast.

They say in order for anything to change, you have to change first.

The last lettuce is still unused, so is the cucumber. The celery looked better three days ago, and the tomatoes have wrinkles on them. I am writing.

Finally, I had a totally different kind of salad today. Artichoke hearts, avocados and mushrooms in lieu of hearts of palms. It took five minutes to prepare and it was so delicious, easy to eat and quite filling. 

Gifts do not replace consideration, thoughtfulness and cooperation.  Neither do they replace communication. They also are not meant to guarantee friendships. At best, gifts either say "put up with me a little more" or "I am sorry" or "thank you for being who you are."  

I suppose it can only take a salad for change to start occurring.

Make Your Own Jokes

In case you don't know why Armenia did not participate in the Eurovision contest this year, let me tell you.  For security reasons.  


That said, at the prompting of a friend, I watched (almost: I was making Tabbouleh in the kitchen) country after European country flaunt their "I want to sound like an American" songs in front of millions of spectators around the world except for Russia who, this year, had opted for a truly organic song, interpreted by six real grandmothers in their folkloric costumes.  They came in second.

Yes, I wanted the Russians to win too but they didn't.  Sweden won.  Their singer was Moroccan, that's probably why.

To make matters more absurd and to extend the amount of publicity Azerbaijan enjoyed, we learned that their capital's name is Baku. People from up to 44 countries not only voted by calling or SMSing, but later, by satellite feed, we went to each one of these countries and counted some kind of voting for the three countries that got most of that country's votes.  Eight votes, ten votes and twelve votes each that the country gave.  

One of the rules was that you cannot vote for your own country.

Thus, Azerbaijan gave the twelve votes to Turkey and vice versa, Greece gave the twelve votes to Cyprus and vice versa, etc.  You get the picture.

Every time we went to the representative spokesperson of a country, for example France, they all started their greetings thus:

"GOOD EVENING BAKUUUU!  GREETINGS FROM BELGRADE!  IT WAS AN AMAZING SHOW", and variations of same.

Add the accent of each European country, among them Slovenia, FRY (Former Republic of Yugoslavia), Albania, France, Israel, etc. and you get another picture.

"GOOD EVENING BAKUUUUU."  That's where the contest was taking place.  In the capital of the oil rich country of Azerbaijan.  So you can imagine the reverence, the "let us make this look like love" attitude of each country.  


I came to the conclusion that this kind of love stems from politics which in turn stems from economics, i.e. money. 


I'll take any kind of love over hate.  It was pleasant to see the love-fest.


The next day I extended the love-fest to the Sunday BBQ I was invited to, and we all repeated the phrase "GOOD EVENING BAKUUUU" with various accents and intonations as if someone had given us the opportunity to flaunt our talents. 


Le lendemain matin, as I was heading to the parking lot, I crossed the new neighbor moving into the apartment next to mine.  She was carrying the "welcome" mat and rolling a suitcase behind her.  It was easy to guess.  


The parking space reserved for my neighbor is next to mine. I noticed that she had taken more than her share to park her compact car. I wondered what would happen if the person that space was reserved for returned.   There was also a U-haul truck parked further from which three guys were unloading what looked like furniture.


I went to my errands and returned.  After parking my car I couldn't help but notice the license plate of my new neighbor.


You have to sit down now.  Yes, you, now.  Sit down.


The license plate read "BAKU75."



 



 

Balancing Between Elements

  

I am fishing from the raft I made myself and attached to the lifeboat the sailors threw me in just before our ship sank.  I lost my whole family.  I am fishing to feed the Bengal tiger under the tarpaulin of the lifeboat who has already eaten the rest of the zebra that the hyena had started on, the hyena, the orangutan, a rat (probably a resident of the sunken ship) and some flying fish escaping from other predators.  I know I am on the Pacific but I don't know where I am headed.  Water, a vast ocean surrounds me.  I cried when I had to kill my first flying fish to use as bait.  I am a vegetarian and now I am killing turtles to survive.  I made this raft from the life jackets in the survival locker that I can only reach by pulling on the rope I attached to the lifeboat, hop on it and very quickly collect what I need.  Returning on the raft to live there most of the time, day and night, rain or shine and the ocean's salt water has destroyed my blankets and my clothes, so much so that I am using the turtle shells for protection from the elements.*

I raise my head to take a look at the horizon and I find myself seated on a patio overlooking the red rock mountains of Sedona.  Dry country yet so beautiful.  The trees between the patio and the mountains are green and birds chirp constantly.  There are small lizards that pass by from time to time.  Here in Sedona, one can be transported to another country one has known in a matter of a few steps here and there.  Thus, I was on a Lebanese mountain village a few times.  Bhamdoon, Shtaura and Bickfaya paraded daily.  The way the shades fall under a tree or the steepness of a climb where pine trees are a certain size will send me back to where I have been.

I decided to stay at the hotel this morning and cure my temporary cold from the hike we took yesterday.  It was a challenging climb under a hot sun.  A five mile journey up to the Bell Rock and back.  Not too steep for younger or fit people.  From time to time I had to  stop to catch my breath and gulp some water down.  It was worth the effort if for nothing else but for having done it.  I have been sneezing ever since and my body does not want to be inside in the air-conditioned suite but outside where the temperature is almost 90 degrees today.

Back to my raft I realize I have to find a way to stay on the lifeboat.  To do this, I have to train the tiger into believing that I am number one and he is numero deux.  I have a plan.  It will take a lot of courage.  Right now I am watching the city around my raft where fish of all colors, shapes and sizes are going about their daily business and being curious about the raft from time to time.  I have to feed the tiger so it doesn't eat me you see.  How did the tiger end up on the lifeboat?  And the zebra, hyena and orangutan for that matter?  All I know is that my father being a zookeeper in India had sold some of the zoo animals to different countries and the ones on the ship were coming with us to Canada.  That's all I know.*

I had to wash my shoes from all the red dust accumulated during our walk yesterday.  By noon today, I was feeling better and the air-conditioner was not making me sneeze anymore.  In the afternoon, we spent hours visiting the galleries at the Tlaquepaque Arts and Crafts Village.  Original art at very expensive prices.  Every time we came out of a store I was transported to my uncle's house in Damascus or Damascus in general.  The architecture with mosaics here and there; the fountains in the courtyards; the connecting alleyways; and...the dry weather took me there and back over and over again. 

 

Now my eyes are fixed on the huge wall of the Indian restaurant we came to have dinner at.  The beautiful Bengal tiger painted on it is life size and is surrounded by trees and vegetation.

It is dark when we leave the restaurant and I look up to see the stars above, the same stars I'd see whether I am outside an Indian restaurant with a Bengal tiger painted on their wall, on a hotel patio in Sedona or on a raft somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.

* loosely in my own words from Life of Pi by Yann Martel  

Ձեր օրհնութիւնը կը խնդրենք

14:19, 21 ապրիլի, 2012
Լուսին Գասպարեան
(Անգլերէնէ թարգմանեց՝ Արփի Տատոյեան) 
24 Ապրիլ 2012
Անմահացած էք մեր տան մառանի պատերուն վրայ:
Ձեզ հետ խօսած եմ տարիներ անվերջ:
Ձեր զաւակները, իմ ծնողները, սորվեցուցին ինձ մայրենի լեզուն որ լաւ կը խօսիմ:
Ետ ինձ կը նայիք, մտածկոտ, սիպէ եռանքով նկարներուն ընդմէջէն:
Ձեր ձեռքերով իսկ կարուած հագուստներ հագած էք այդտեղ:
Ձեր այդ ձեռքերը բրտացած են ցանելէն, շինելէն, շաղելէն եւ կարկտելէն:
Ձեր երեսները ադրդուելի, նոյնիսկ հարսնեկան հանդերձանքներով:
Ձեր աշխարհահայաց արտայայտութիւնն ցաւի անտրտունջ շուքը կ՛ընդգրկէ:
Նշաձեւ աչքերը ձեր, ունին ծանռ կոպեր, որոնք մեր նախածննդական իրաւունքն են:
Անոնք կը մատնեն անգնութիւնը ծնած չարչարանքներու յիշողութենէն եւ սպառած ուժեր ձեր կեանքը կրկին վերաշինելէն:
Երբեմն կը հարցնեմ Տիգրանակերտի մասին, երբեմն Սեփաստիոյ - յուսալով պատմէք:
Կը տենչամ գիտնալ ձեր ժողովրդական սովորութիւնները, ձեր Հին Երկիրի ապրելակերպը:
Կը խնդրեմ ձեզմէ որ պատմէք ինծի մեր ազնուական գերդաստանի մասին, գրաւումներէն, ջարդէն, քանդումէն աւելի առաջ:
Կը փորձեմ մտքով պատկերացնել. ինչպէ՞ս դիմացաք որպէս ոչխարներ գայլերուն առջեւ:
Համբերութիւնով կը լսէք ինծի երբ ես կը խօսիմ այսօրուայ հայուն կրածներուն մասին -- հոգ չէ թէ թեթեւ բաղդատած ձերին եւ երբեմն նոյնիսկ նոյնքան ծանռաբեր:
Հետոյ կը խնդրեմ որ ներէք ինծի աւելին ըրած չ՛ըլլալուս համար:
Շատ մը անգամներ ուզած եմ փոխ տաք ձեր ուժը ինծի, ձեր իմաստալից, ամէն ինչ տեսնող, հայեացքը վսեմ:
Ինչ՞ու մահացաք երբ ես դեռ ձեզի չէի ճանչցած:
Իմ մտքիս մէջը, ձեր խորաթափանց եւ սուր աչքերը, ինձ կը շռայլեն այն սէրով կարծես, որ մի ու միայն մեծ-ծնողները կրնան տալ մեզի:
Տարիէ տարի, կը խանդաղատիմ որ բացէն խօսիք եւ ըսէք մեզի.
«Մենք ձեզ շատ հստակ կը տեսնենք վերէն:
Մեր արիւնն է որ կը հոսի դեռ ձեր երակներուն մէջ:
Կ՛ըզգաք հին աշխարհն ձեր ոսկորին մէջ:
Կ՛ապրիք մեր բոլոր պատմութեանը հետ:
Մեր բարոյական կեցուածքը ունիք:
Կ՛երգէք, կը պարէք հարազատօրէն:
Աքսորի մէջ նոյնիսկ կը հարատեւէք:
Գիտէք մեր տարած չարչարանքները:
Մեր տեղ կը խօսիք:
Մեր օրհնութիւնը ունիք դուք հաւերժ:
Մեզ կ՛արդարացնէք:
Դուք Արեւմտեան Հայաստանն էք»:
Լուսանկարում` Լուսինի մեծ-ծնողները, Համբարձում Համբարեան եւ Արմաւենի Քազարեան

Lucine Kasbarian's original English version can be found here:  http://hetq.am/eng/news/13322/ode-to-western-armenia---asking-for-your-blessing.html

 

Դանիէլ Վարուժան - Daniel Varoujan

 


ԳԱՐՆԱՆ ԱՆՁՐԵՒ

Դաշտերուն վրայ իր տրտմութեամբ յամառող
Անձրեւը չէ՛ ասիկայ ։
Գարնան ջաղբն է ՝ որ ցանքերուն վրայ անհուն
Լուսացընցուղ կը տեղայ ։

Աստղերն անյայտ , կարծես հալած արեւէն ,
Տեղատարափ կը թափին ,
Եւ կը լըւան իրենց լոյսին մէջ փաղփուն
Անդաստաններն ու այգին ։

Կապոյտն յանկարծ կու լայ բուռըն ծիծաղէն ,
Եւ կը տեղայ ադամանդ .
Կը լուսնան կոյր աղբերակներն ու կ'երգեն
Իրենց ծընունդն արգաւանդ ։

Անհունն ի վար կը հեղեղուին շառաչով
Մեծ կաթիլներ շափիւղայ ,
Լի արեւով , ցընծութիւնով , կապոյտով ,
Ծիծաղներով սատափեայ ։

Մարգերը թաց կ'արտաշընչեն զովութիւն…
Կը լըւացուին գառնուկներ…
Բո՜յրը հողին , հողին բո՜յրը , ծաւալուն ,
Կը լեցնէ գիւղն ու եթեր ։

Ու արտերո՜ւս , արտերո՜ւս մէջ քրտնաշատ
Իմ ցորեաններս յամեցող
Նոր ուժերով յորդահոսա՜ն կ'ընձիւղին
Կայլակներու մէջ ի լող ։

Եւ մաքրըւած անտառին մէջ , այս պահուս ,
- Ըստ իմ գիւղիս հէքեաթին -
Կը ծնի եղնիկը , գօտիին տակ ծիրանի ,
Եղնորթ մը ՝ նման լուսինին ։

Spring Shower

 

This is not the rain hanging around a domain

In unyielding melancholy.

It is the spell of spring showering its light

On endless fields of fecundity.

The hidden stars, as if dissolved by the sun,

Pour down in myriad sheets,

And wash in their scintillating radiance

Expansions of orchard and fields.

The blue bursts in tears after hearty laughter,

And showers down diamonds,

Blind rivulets see the light and start singing

Their lush and bountiful birth.

Hefty drops of sapphire precipitate screeching

Down the depths of infinity,

Full of sunshine, exuberance, cerulean azure,

Mirth of mother-of-pearl.

The dripping meadows breathe out cool air…

Lambs are washed clean…

Scent of earth, the spreading earthly scent

Permeates village and ether.

And in my fields, my sweat soaked fields,

My tardy, belated wheat

Shoot upwards with renewed, bursting ardor

Awash in gushing streams.

And in the purified woods, at this moment,

 -- As my village fable tells --

The doe gives birth, under the bow of rain,

To a fawn, fair as the moon. 

Daniel Varoujan

translated by Tatul Sonentz