From Lebanon, with love: Mfataka

As I sent out my Mother’s Day (U.S.) well wishes to my friends (some of whom are celebrating their very first) I think about a very special extended weekend trip I took last summer to Lebanon where I spent the afternoon with a LOT of mother’s - cooking!

My pursuit of Lebanon, was not to experience the glittering nightlife, (although I did one short evening of glittering) nor the breath taking views (even though there were many) or even the delicious food (honestly I could count the meals I had during that trip on half a hand). I went to Lebanon to visit my dear sister/friend with the object of lending her some encouragement and understanding - to hold space for her somehow through my presence.

Our first day was spent talking. You know, that way you speak with a friend and immediately understand that there’s more to the things that were said over text or voice note or on the phone. The real communication was waiting for this moment.  The moment when you see each other and read eyes and interpret and laugh or… cry.

I guess I went to Lebanon in part to do my share of mothering…even though I am childless.

After we were all talked out and could move on to pool side reading, splashing about and talking of the frivolous, (for me sheltered under a huge sun hat, cabana umbrella and lathered in SPF 50) my friend invited to me to an Aunt’s home where I was told the women of the family gather every week to cook.

Up the scenic hill dotted with unfinished houses we drove, some buildings were hollowed out from the years of civil war, some full of a lot of living. We went up into the green countryside. I gazed down on the views of the city we were leaving behind from the passenger side of the car. I watched people perilously interpreting the roads up, up and further up to a quiet mountain town. Nearly there I fussed with a few small gifts of specialty dates to show my appreciation for the invitation and hoped they would aid my acceptance into this group of women.

I must say, this is my kind of travel. I don’t care much about “Instagram travel” where the lighting is perfect and everything is envy inducingly pristine. I loved my poolside time but laying about endlessly is not "travel to me. Adventure! New people! the opportunity to immerse myself in another world. I was going to quietly pay respect and observe a different way of life.

After turning from a small street up a steep drive, we stopped the car in the midst of children playing ball. The two story home, had an outdoor area outside we had to climb steps to access. The children beneath were being cheered, scolded and called to from grandmother’s, mother’s, aunts and cousins above. I struggled to get out of the car with my gifts. I wondered if I should leave them in the plastic shopping bag or bring the shiny gold tins in my bare hands as offerings. The shopping bag was decidedly gauche, so I opted for the bare handed humble approach. I paced the stairs after my friend. The children stopped a little and gazed at me with curiosity I smiled and dipped my head a bit acknowledging them and communicating that it was okay to keep going with their game.

I wore my favorite silk, sleeveless, two-piece pant suit in navy blue with accents of red and tried to let my mothers words of, “better over dressed, than under” assure me that I was presentable. I was embraced and smiled at as I struggled to discern who was the hostess so that I could present my little tokens to “the elders” in order.

My favorite thing was before me. An open flame, a large iron pot holding something fragrant and delicious being stirred up with a paddle. Immediately, I was transported to my own growing up. In the Caribbean islands there are such similar scenes.

Here in Lebanon the same collection of women were stirring, commenting on the texture of the contents of the pot, one taking up some with a large iron spoon for a taste and passing the paddle to give another to stir after being fatigued. I understood where I was, even though I didn’t speak the language. As I recall this memory now, it makes me miss my own mother and my maternal side of the family. Women who gathered, every hand occupied with some chore in the preparation. Grating coconut and rinsing it till it shown snow white, stripping sugarcane, or shelling a bottomless bag of cashew, all in preparation for a mighty stirring as we made sugarcake and tart and preserves of guava and gooseberries.

In Lebanon though, with all those memories carrying be back and forth across oceans, I did that thing I do when I’m trying to really be a part. I was silent and smiling receding into the background so I could read the body language and interpret. A couple of the women spoke Spanish. There was my point of connection. Relaxing back in my white plastic chair, I started to ask questions and the women started asking questions of me. Some I could see wanted to say more but maybe were a bit shy of their English. Eager to contribute somehow, I started to ask about the dish being prepared.

Mfataka is a deliciously sweet rice pudding. Rice pudding! Now if that isn’t familiar, and prompts you remember mother, nothing will. I know I will never visit Lebanon in quite this way ever again. I write this blog post to wish those wonderful women and all women who gather to cook and share their lives a Happy Mother’s Day!

Mfataka (or Mouffatakka) - serves 4

Ingredients:

• 1 cup rice

• 3 cups of water

• 1 cup of tahini or sesame cream

• 2 teaspoons of turmeric

• 2 cups of sugar

Method:

1. Wash the cup of rice the night before and let it soak with 3 cups of water. The next day, cook the rice and water over low heat. When the rice cooks and becomes like a porridge and all the water is evaporated.

2. Add the tahini (sesame cream) and stir well. The whole thing will sort of turn into a dough. Don’t worry, as soon as you add the sugar the mixture will become liquid again.

3. After adding the sugar you need 2 hours for it to cook. Enlist your friends and family to constantly stir.