Cultural Preservation and Shared Meals

*Originally published on October 22, 2023

As delicious as food can be, it is more often than not a form of communication as much as it is a source of sustenance. Preparing and sharing the dishes most important to us can serve as gateways into the deepest parts of our identities and reflect our most guarded emotions. Enjoying these dishes then brings us comfort; a sense of calm amidst a rolling storm. 

"Right now, the most important thing to me is my culture," says my friend as she seasons the rice for the Maqlooba we're making this evening. She pulls out a nondescript bag of spices, "now I'm adding the Seven Spices. I always get them from Palestine. From home." She adds three heaping spoonfuls before hand-mixing them into the rice. I watch in fascination while keeping an eye on my task for the night: the vegetables. I carefully watch the potatoes, eggplant, and cauliflower I've sliced turn golden as I fry them in hot oil; the irresistible beat of Buena Vista Social club playing in the background. 

Maqlooba, as described by my friend, originates from Palestine. When I ask her if that point is up for contention, however, she smirks. The dish is made up of rice, fried vegetables, and meat, all cooked together in the same pot. When the dish has finished cooking, the entire pot then is flipped upside down, giving it its iconic name, which literally translates to "upside-down." 

I continue to fry the vegetables while my friend begins to boil the chicken. To the water, she adds whole chicken thighs, chicken bullion cubes, black pepper, and garlic powder. While we work, she tells me more about the traditional Arabic dishes she grew up with. "Arab dishes, for the most part, are very simple and easy to make. They just have a lot of moving parts, so it takes more time." With regards to the Maqlooba, she is referring to the process of washing and seasoning the rice along with fragmented pieces of vermicelli noodles, frying the potatoes, eggplant slices, and cauliflower in hot oil, boiling and straining the chicken, and finally assembling all the ingredients back into the pot and having it cook together. Simple indeed. 

When it's time to assemble the Maqlooba, she begins by straining the boiled chicken and saving the broth. We then arrange the chicken skin-side-down at the bottom of the pan and let it crisp up a bit. Once the chicken skin is browned, we take turns placing the vegetables in a pattern that covers the chicken. On top, we add the rice and noodle mixture. My friend then pours the broth back over the rice. We let it cook for about 20 minutes before serving. 

At this point in the cooking process, she calls her mother to tell her that not only have I learned to make Maqlooba, but that I will also be the one flipping it. I can feel the excitement through the phone as symphonies of her mother's Levantine Arabic reach my ears. Her mother then tells me, "You can do it! I can't wait to see the video!"  Oh boy. Now I have to perform well. 

My heart rate is through the roof when the time to flip the Maqlooba arrives. I follow my friend's instructions: Put the sheet pan over the pot and use the oven mitts to flip it. Take advantage of my momentum. Slowly remove the pot.

The camera is rolling when I finally rip off the band aid. My performance is by no means perfect, but as I remove the pot and the beautiful arrangement of chicken, vegetables, and rice peeks out from underneath, I feel a rush of pride. The video is sent soon after and I am met with an overwhelmingly positive response from her family group chat. 

I could go on and on about the heaven that is the flavors and textures of Maqlooba. The eggplant quite literally melts in my mouth as I continue to inhale bites of rice and vegetables. The chicken is so tender I eat it with a spoon. I feel like I'm floating while I serve myself seconds and thirds. 

As we finish our meal, I turn to my friend and thank her for trusting me in preparing and sharing the dish that is so close to her heart and her culture. She responds, "Right now I'm really not okay. Trying to balance my schoolwork, jobs, and extracurriculars while coping with the violence happening at home is so hard. I can't make Maqlooba with just anyone right now. There has to be trust. My culture is the biggest part of me right now."  

While not surprising, her response made me think back on the relationships we have with the dishes we grow up with. These dishes can quite literally communicate who we are while simultaneously serving as an outlet to process life's most difficult emotions. For my friend, sitting down to a plate of Maqlooba is forever tied to her identity as a Palestinian woman and its history of diaspora and violence. While preparing the dish with her, I was able to listen attentively as she wove together stories of her childhood with how she is processing her anger and grief today. Consequently, as a stranger to this identity, I felt an inexplicable tug towards her while sitting down for dinner that I can only reasonably attribute to the food we were sharing.