Tabouli
A bitter gust rustles the burnished bronze leaves outside, their faint whispering shattering the silence. A stark contrast to the rambunctious scene occurring in our sweltering kitchen teeming with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Our kitchen table is a field of green covered with bunches of flat leaf parsley piled on top of each other. The last rays of autumnal light hit the ripe freshly washed tomatoes piled in a glistening mass on the counter. A pot of bulgar rests in the sink, patiently biding its time. (Don’t you dare suggest quinoa, you heathen!) I sit at the kitchen table, watching the world (cough* cough* my family) rush by.
The clanging sound of knives briskly chopping up tomatoes rings in the air competing fiercely with the echoing shouts of Arabic and English. My cousin is called hamar, a donkey in Arabic, and the kitchen dissolves into laughter. The sharp pungent smell of lemon and garlic clings to my hands as I grapple with the lemon juicer. My aunts’ feet scurry around the cramped kitchen. Their hands become a blur as they dice the parsley and mint. As each ingredient is chopped up, it is hurriedly tossed into a massive bowl. The parsley, mint, tomato, and bulgar mix together, a blooming medley of color contrasting with the shriveled russet flora outside the kitchen window. I pour in the lemon juice and olive oil, breathing in the potent scent of freshly cut mint and acrid lemon. My father surreptitiously attempts to add just a drop more lemon juice while his sisters glare skeptically at him. Their glares are well-worn records by now as the ratio of lemon juice, garlic, olive oil, and salt is a routine source of dissension in my family. When harmony is finally regained, the tabouli is borne to the table.
Surrounded by a mélange of fluctuating dishes, tabouli is a steadfast part of every family gathering. It bridges the chasm of language, allowing me to form relationships with my family even when words fail. As I breathe in the scent of freshly chopped tomatoes and parsley, I am transported back to a wee village high in the mountains. As I watch my aunts scurry around the kitchen, as their movements blur together, I see the unspoken scars of war. As I sit in the chaotic kitchen unable to comprend much of what is said, I feel the love that infuses the room.
Through tabouli, I have found my roots.
