Chez les arabes (original) (raw)

2003, Meridians: feminism, race, transnationalism

It is a bright Saturday afternoon, crisp fall weather outside, and I am in my small New Orleans kitchen, preparing stuffed grape leaves for the annual English Department party. My task began late last night, when I rinsed a cup of chickpeas and placed them in a bowl, covering them with fresh spring water. This morning, I peeled the chickpeas one by one, rubbing each swollen kernel between my palms until the dull skin slipped off to reveal the bright yellow core, plumply wrinkled, like an ancient stone goddess. Now, while the beans simmer, I mince four yellow onions, a head of garlic, two bunches of parsley, six tomatoes. My worn wooden cutting board is soaked in red juice, stained a deep green. In a large glass bowl, I combine the onions, garlic, tomatoes, and parsley with raw white rice, freshly-squeezed lemon juice, olive oil, allspice, and the warm, just-cooked chickpeas. The filling for my grape leaves is ready at last; time now to "stuff." With deliberation, I spread a vine leaf-veined side upon a plate, snip off its stem with my thumbnail, and place a spoonful of the filling at its base. With both hands, I fold in the leaf 's sides; then, keeping the folds in place with my right hand, I roll with my left, working to create a tight, narrow cylinder. I have two pounds of grape leaves to prepare in this mannerperhaps a hundred, two hundred leaves, I always lose track. As I complete each little packet, pressing firmly to seal it, I place it in the cast iron pot where it will simmer for an hour, fitted snugly in even rows beneath a plate weighted with stones. "Never again," I say to myself, "never again." The skin on my fingers is puckered and raw; my back hurts, my eyes burn, and the music I put on earlier has begun to cloy. I am tired, bored