Orientalism

I am not an Orientalist. This, according to Bernard Lewis, is a person who fantizes about the Middle East, the exotic Orient, the desert, the Sheik.

Well, then I am an Orientalist. I shimmy when I hear the oud, I writhe and do a subtle shake when I hear the saz and the music of the Mideast.

I would rather have olives, tomatoes, cheese and yogurt than eggs and stupid pastries for breakfast. I would rather hear melodies from a campfire and Bedouin tents than rock music, I would rather have raki than bourbon. I would rather have a sheik in my bed than some pasty faced northerner with freckles.

So there.

I loved Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia, I remember the 50's movie The Egyptian more than other movies of the time, I remember walking the souk of Izmir with my Mom buying shisk kebab over a bbq in the suburbs. My life growing up centered around the dancing bears on the street five floors below, hearing the minaret calls at sunset, knowing that my neighbors were Turks and were lovely, exotic, and life friends. I grew up with trips to Ephesus, pocketing mosaic fragments, learning archaeology, and coming home to foods which 50's kids did not know in middle America military base.

And, I am a proud American at the same time. Proud in the base commissary way, with imported Spam, fishsticks, Russian dressing, cheeze whiz, all the foods of the maligned 50's. I don't think of these foods this way as we lurched into a modern, world view of foods long before Chez Panisse and California rocketed onto the food scene in the eitghties.These foods were home in a world of kofte, domades and izgara. I was a hybrid: cheeze triangles and kofte with fishsticks and chicken pot pies. Imported celery from Italy for my parent's cockatil parties, and pistachioes staining our fingers red as we cracked the seeds and dropped them on the gypsy's bears five stories below.

It this Orientialism, the romantizing of the " other; the "sheik" with kohl-rimmed eyes and the swooning blonde, so be it. This is how I grew up. I grew up with fishsticks and handfulls of nuts on the street. I grew up with a maid from a village who after pulling us on towels to polish the marble would make us pistachio sweets with honey. After the Spam for dinner we would have lokum the sticky delight clinging our fingers. I credit my parents for not making it 'the other' but makinig it our oppoortunity, our chance to try other foods and culture. I ate goat cheese, stuffed mussles, cheese triangles, coconut on the slice, juice and tea on the street and through the gift of my parents' indulgence and openness, an appreciation of the culture.

To the point that I don't feel here. I don't feel anywhere. I feel a tug, a drumbeat of the Orient, and sitting here I am playing Sahara Lounge music. I would rather hear an oud than a drumset. (Except Cowboy music but that is another event. )II wiggle, I think of pistachoes, I want some raki, I remember Turkish delight. And I am thankful that my parents encouraged me to be an Orientalist before it became a non-political apporporiate word.

Put on the Turkish coffee, put out the blue beads for guests. Cook the chicken with yogurt and mint, prepare the lamb with cinnamon and couscous. Play the music, scent the air with cardamon. Use henna on your hands, on your feet, wiggle your hips and be full figured. Toast the almonds and pour the anise liqueur. Think desert tents, indulgence, survival, and yes, seduction. I am thankful for the past, a part which is now part of my being.

shoe shopping

Cinderella has the glass slipper, and in these days it is probably recycled. Made from a melted Smirnoff bottle, or a 7-up, good for her. Or, it is made from recycled plastic water bottles, with a sustainable cork lining, and a top of ecologically raised, non-poluting, and naturally dyed cotton woven by a women's cooperative in the dark side of the moon. It is stamped in European sizes, ( 30) and U.S. ( 6) and sold in a high end store which reduces its carbon footprint by recycling the boxes printed in soy ink, and planting a tree each time they sell non-leather. Made in China.

I digress, but that was fun. There sre sooo many choices these days when shopping. I considered once having each student read the countries on the labels of their clothing and put up push pins on a world map where things are made. In military exchanges, the signs used to say Buy American but I don't think that would be possible anymore.

I am fascinated with where things are made. And the designs, and potential. I have shoe lust but my feet say, " Be practical, you are all beat up after years on concrete on your feet, and stilettos don't go through the security anymore."

I would love high shoes, red patent and a slinky dress. And,I want more, the thin Italian sandals with jewels on them that scream Firenza. And high boots, cowboy ones tooled and glistening in rich cinnamon leather, just the ones to go with black jeans. And flats with t-straps for the sundress. And lots and lots of clogs to look cheffy in my new chef coat. And topsiders, saying we are so darn rich we don't need socks as we jump onto our yacht. And converse, maybe in tourquoise just because one time I was a studio art major. And spectators, with tan and white when I feel retro. And hurraches, and espadrilles, and Indian slip ons, and velveteen embroidered slides from Venice.

What is it about shoes? I think it is the desire to do something about feet, when other parts of our body just don't cooperate. Too high, too much bust, a thin waist, freckles, sometimes our clothing just has to fit, to be practical etc, etc. I am contradicting myself, but shoes can work. Even with high arches, impossible toes, and
foot gear that makes it look like medieval torture in my shower, I find shoes that are fun.

One must always have red shoes. I have four pair. Each year I cul, I throw away, and move on. But I always have red shoes. And, I have a pair of silly pointed pink slides with embroidery that I got in Panama and love to take out. I like the contrast with jeans, or crops. And for the sandals I can wear, red toenail polish.

Men just don't have any fun with shoes. The daring may try European sandals, and in Eugene just about every other person is schlepping around in outdoor shoes, or rafters, tevas, something that allows them at a stopwatch minute's notice, to run the 20 K.

I refuse to wear my hiking shoes around town, I look like Minnie Mouse on patrol. No big "trainers" for me, I prefer my summer ones of cross strap with white leather that looks like it was painted by Jackson Pollock's sister. And for fall, same in ochre suede with blue dots. It may be lurching to resort wear though, can the spangled sweats be far behind?

I think not, and have the true work shoes. I really do. I have the chef clogs, and the new German version. Not Doc Martins, but they do in the Kitchen. And I have the school shoes, the date shoes, and the walking the dog shoes from Land's End.

And, I try to wear shoes in the kitchen; I dropped a new tart pan on my foot about 11 pm one night trying to finish a dessert. The blood was the color of the plums, I went pale and had to sit down. Then I put on shoes and made the dessert all over again. Now I am shoeless in the kitchen if I am cooking for someone and hope I look fetchingly casual. It doesn't always work, but worth trying.

No glass slipper, no Prince Charming running after me with his hand out holding the Waterford size 6. Shoes at the door, shoe in, walk in someone's shoes, put yourself in other's shoes, shoe-fly come bother me. It is all fun, and lightly sandaled until the cold of winter and boots become the story. Another day for that.

mezzes

Mezzes, or appetizers, tappas, antipasto, all are introductory dishes. These are to whet the appetite, to build anticipation for the meal, and test creativeness of the chef. They usually accompany a light liqueur, drink, and bowls of nuts. Turkish tradition has mezzes as the raki plate, a meal to accompany the no holds barred hi proof anise liqueur.

I have been making mezze lately. I had a friend over last night and figured that food; protein would be needed after a long day and anticipation of a longer musical viewing night. A little sliced rare beef, toasted almonds, Romano, tomatoes, garden carrots; a support system for hunger with a little grazing and crunching. Work off stress at the end of the day gnashing and noshing. And my way to show hospitality, caring and 'my tent is yours' in my world. I greet, I feed, and I always meet people arriving at my home at the door, and see them to it when they leave. Appetizers are greeting food, they show I choose them now, and care.

Last week I made another platter for houseguests. It included breasola, the air cured beef of Italy. Dried, but pliable sliced parchment thin, it is not jerky. It is dark burgundy, the color of blood, lust and beef. Drizzled with olive oil, a squeeze of lemon and some crystals of Kosher salt, it is visceral on the palate. I had also: radishes with olive oil and roasted cumin, fresh dug carrots with nutmeg, thin-sliced Reggiano with its salty contrast to the bowls of cherry tomatoes, little round worlds of seeds and red flesh. We included firm Kalamata olives, not the wimpy, mushy, cheap ones from the olive bar, but from a glorious can from the Peleponnese. The next day we went back and bought three more cans, a point noted by the purchaser, a Turk. “I guess we can agree that Turks and Greeks make good olives, " he said wryly.

As mezzes go they are a way for the chef to show creativity. Not limited to some signature dish of protein with starch side such as pork chop with mashed potatoes, an appetizer or tappas is creative, free form and a place to try an idea. For Mediterranean cultures it is a culture in itself, one can troll up and down a street in Madrid or Istanbul and graze on small plates. There are specific mezze or tappas dishes.

I am relatively easy I think, although my former loves and husbands might think not. I welcome all into my home and love to feed them. But when I order out I rarely order the entree. I prefer the appetizers, order two for my meal. They are more creative; I am seduced by adjectives: caramelized, glazed, and nouns: ginger, pomegranate, roasted fig, olive....I drool. I anticipate and forget even looking at the entree. I guess then, that I am high maintenance in this respect.

I don't want to be the entree with the same starchy side night after night. I have been twice NOT someone's entree. Perhaps at this point in my life and the lives of friends and loves I have, that entree is not all it is cracked up to be. Or sautéed, or roasted...it is instead about the introduction, the chase, the anticipation, the roll on the tongue mixing of flavors and unusual combinations. Forget waiting for dessert after slogging through the mashed potatoes, have the appetizers, they are dessert with protein. Put muscle, not sugar behind your creativity. As Auntie Mame said, “Life is a banquet and some poor fools are starving to death."

Life is short, pour the Prosecco, plate the olives, slice the cheese and present. Drizzle my stories with rich oil, plate my words in arrangements that are pleasing, savor them with scent and originality, and lick your fingers, suck the olives. Make my, your, own menu and forget entrees. If entrees follow, then they will, but maybe the anticipation will fill the hunger now without pedestrianism.