Most people think of grilling when they think of Father’s Day. But when I think of Dad, I see him in the kitchen.
You see, meals at our house were always better when my father was in charge. My mother, who is Irish, meant well. She did okay with vegetables and pasta and rolls. But when it came to meat, her people believe it's not done until it's grey, dry and dense enough to break a window.
Dad, on the other hand, was Lebanese. These are a people who love food. These are people who eat with their hands, who tear their bread and eat raw meat. Yes, that’s right. Raw meat. Not sushi. We’re talking beef and lamb. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Give me a small mound of beautiful raw kibbe, shiny pink with white specks of wheat and onion mixed in and a little melted butter poured over it, add some soft pita bread to pick it up, and Hello, Heaven.
You have to eat it right away… there’s no Gladware for kibbe. Whatever doesn’t get eaten has to be cooked immediately… which is fine for the Irish. But at that point it’s all over for me. I guess I am my father’s daughter.
And when it came to kibbe, nobody could make it like my Dad. Got the meat fresh from the butcher – who he trained to do it the right way. Top round, ground, 3 times. Always 3 times. Why? I haven’t a clue. But you had to ask for it that way, and somehow it was magic. Add some bulgur wheat. Even the name is fun to say. Emphatic and to the point. Bulgur.
“You’ve got to soak it first” he’d say. Then came the fun part: mixing it WITH YOUR HANDS. You would grab a little fistful of wheat and squeeze the water out. Then add it to the meat.
“A little meat, a little wheat” he’d say.
He would show me. Big burly man with his big brown hands in the big metal bowl. We would knead the mixture together, taking turns. I would look at him for approval, and he would nod gruffly.
“Ya, like that. Good Einou.”
Nobody knew what Einou meant, but we assumed it was a term of endearment. (Unlike “Dizey,” which our grandmother used to sing to us when we were babies. “Dizey, Dizey, I love you”. Years later we heard that Dizey meant “rocker”.)
Now Dad would pretend to talk like Grandma. “Here Einou. Put some Ka-moooon in.”
We would laugh, remembering how she would send me to the store for that spice I was little. How I stood there saying “Kamooon. Kamooon” to the puzzled clerks until the owner appeared from the back and grabbed the Cumin off the shelf.
“Here Einou, knead it with your hands. Knead it Einou. Good. Work it in. Good.” He would nod like Grandma and smack his lips as she did when her teeth weren’t in.
“Add some narne’ ’” he’d say, and I’d look around trying not to show uncertainty. Then he’d glance in the direction of the mint to give me a hint, and smile when I picked it up.
Finally, it was time for the best part:
“Try it, Einou. Does it need more salt?” We would always agree that it needed more salt.
Standing in the kitchen with Dad, I could always feel his pride that someone in his house wanted to know the Lebanese ways. I could feel his delight in teaching me the way Grandma taught him. And I could feel my own pride in being Lebanese, something we didn’t talk about much during those days when it was not cool to be Arab, much like now. But when we were making kibbe, we knew how very cool it was.
We are a people with big hearts, who knead our food and eat with our hands. We love the juiceyness and spiciness of life. And in our own kitchens, we don’t have to hide it.
It was rare when we ate kibbe at our house. Rare when Dad and I were in the kitchen together. Rare when anyone took the time to teach me to cook. So isn’t it funny that this cooking lesson involved no heat at all. Just the warmth of a father and daughter sharing a tradition, delighting in the love and the laughter that went into it.
I wish we had made kibbe together more often. I wish I had known then to write the recipe down.
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