What Ramadan Is Good For...

Most people know that Ramadan is the Muslim Holy Month, but there is a whole culture around Ramadan that makes the holiday feel unique if you are Muslim. And if you are not Muslim, it's a sigh of relief.

Being here during Ramadan has been a little bit sad since we are not really invited to participate in the celebrations going on around us. Frankly, it's a bit like the next-door-neighbor's birthday party you didn't get invited to.

But in spite of feeling all woe-is-me, there are some ways that Ramadan can be enjoyed if you aren't in on the good times but are bearing witness to the good times.

What is Ramadan good for if you are not Muslim but living in a Muslim country?

1.) Ramadan is a good time to go to the dentist.

What with the fast on, no one wants to go to the dentist and have work done, only to swallow a bit of water during the procedure and have to make up that day's fast later.

Two days ago I went to the dentist to have my teeth cleaned before we return to The Land of the Free, The Home of the Brave, The Place of the Ridiculously Expensive Medical and Dental Procedure. I waited a grand total of 38 seconds to be seen.

Incidentally, the political enemies of the USA, the Russians and Cubans who man the dental clinic, were lovely, patient, and kind, and charged me $12 for my cleaning, Tian's extraction,  a round of painkillers and Tony's filling.

God bless the Communists.

2.) Ramadan is a good time to learn to drive.

Ramadan = no traffic = no one to plow into = best time to learn to drive.

When we non-Muslims are commuting to work, our Muslim neighbors and co-workers are still sleeping off the morning's suhoor (see my earlier post about exactly how this eating thing works at Ramadan).

For those doing the math, that means zero traffic.

On the flip side of the day, 7 p.m. is the other best time to practice driving because Oman is experiencing a collective fast breaking.

Frankly, driving between 5 a.m. and 9 a.m. or between 7 p.m. and 9 p.m. is like driving through the zombie apocalypse as the roads are so deserted, and who doesn't love zombies?

3.) Ramadan is a good time to save money.
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That coffee and snack that Tony usually buys in the mornings, thus draining the monthly slush fund of, well, slush, is fat and happy right now because there is no coffee available in the mornings unless it comes from our home supply of coffee. And those snacks? They will once again be available after 28 July. There are no restaurants open for lunch (except the American Club but shhhhhhh...that's a secret), no Starbucks selling tasty, overpriced beverages, no little cafes with little cafe treats. We are living in a diurnal food wasteland and that, my friends, is like getting a little bit of free money each and every day.

4.) Ramadan is a good time to master the art of eating on the sly while in the car.
I didn't realize how many breakfasts on the road we were doing until Ramadan hit and we suddenly were being discouraged from overtly carrying food outside our house--getting up earlier and eating breakfast at home was out of the question.  The only realistic solution to this problem, then, was to learn how to eat in the car without looking like you are eating. I recommend moving to a Muslim country so that you, too, can learn how to eat in the car without appearing to eat.

5.) Ramadan is a good time to be a lazy bum at work.
Nobody is working too hard during Ramadan because everyone is conserving energy. This is contagious. If you have ever fantasized about a three-hour workday punctuated by long stretches of putting your feet up or chatting with the person at the next desk, then working during Ramadan is for you.

6.) Ramadan is a good time to get free chocolates.
I had a big fat box of nice chocolates waiting for me on my desk yesterday. The Ramadan Fairy left them. They were better than Russell Stover. Can you imagine? Ow, I think my tongue just impaled my cheek.

And that is what rocks when it comes to Ramadan.

Date me, Baby...It's Fast Breaking Time

The weirdest potluck that I have ever been to started like this:

We all gathered in a gigantic circle of the grassy lawn in front of the host’s home, cradling our dishes that we had brought. Then the introductions began, innocently enough at first:

“Hi, my name is Raven.”

“Hi, Raven.” (Yes, it felt a bit AA, but in fact it was just New England hippy).

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“To share with all of you tonight, I have brought a potato salad.”

Oh, that’s nice, I thought. I’d never been to a potluck where we identified our food before people started to eat it but it was New England. Here’s where it gets weird. “My salad contains potatoes, so if you’re allergic, don’t eat it. Oh, and it has mayonnaise which is soy-based, so if you have an intolerance, don’t eat it. And I put onions in it. And salt.”

My thought: people have potato allergies? And who DOESN'T know that potato salad has potatoes in it?

At Southern pot lucks we always just plunk our dishes on the long table with the crepe-papery covering in the social hall and maintain a quiet vigilance over whatever we’ve brought. It’s a matter of church lady pride to see your mac-n-burger casserole go first and then hear the Preacher call out, “Now who brought that mac-n-burger? That was delicious!” The anonymity is a sacred Southern ritual within the potluck itself.

But back to New England and on to the next person in the circle. “Hi, my name is Ocean Leaf Lovesalot.”

“Hi, Ocean Leaf Lovesalot.”

“I brought a roast chicken that I raised myself on organic, vegetarian feed, but if you are vegetarian, you should not eat it. I seasoned it with salt and pepper and garlic.”

From the crowd comes, “Now, Ocean Leaf, did you use ethically raised garlic this time?”

“Oh…oh…I’m sorry. The co-op was out. It's conventionally raised...”

"Oh darn. No chicken for me tonight."

And on we went around the circle with each person warning us of gluten, dairy, soy, sugar, seeds, garlic, spice, gelatin, honey, nuts, and non-vegetarian-compliant foods. I was half starved by the time we were allowed to eat, so I ate a bit of everything, but not before others went through the line, discussing their limitations as they went.

“I’m not eating gluten now. I really feel like I have so much more energy these days.”

“Oh, yes, I also am gluten free. And I have read about soy and its hormone level link so I have cut out soy. My moods feel so much more stable.”

It was something akin to miraculous that this gathering had gotten off the ground at all because how do you throw a New England hippy party for a largely vegetarian crowd with a high incidence of Celiac’s disease that will not eat anything processed or containing sugar or dairy? Or that is unethically raised?

This all comes to mind because it is Ramadan. As I write this, we have just finished up the second week and are into the third. While I thought in the first week about getting arrested, in the second week I have thought a lot about food because, in spite of Ramadan being a fasting period, this month is still very much about food. But it is about what we eat, but it is also about when we eat and how.

Ramadan’s fast exists in part to encourage patience, purity and modesty. It also serves to heighten people’s awareness of the plight of the poor. By forgoing food and water from sun up to sun down, the feeling of desperate wondering about the timing of one’s next meal should trigger a feeling of empathy for those who go without every day. In that way, people will give more freely to charity in order to support those less fortunate while developing patience, purity, modesty, and a closer connection to God.

At least that’s what Nasser told me.

And yes, I have seen people giving to the poor in the streets, as well as free meals distributed in the evenings by mosques throughout Muscat, so it does work. But more interesting to me has been to watch how people eat at Ramadan.

Iftar, the evening meal that breaks your day’s fast, begins at 7:03 p.m. but in actuality, even if you are eating your iftar at a restaurant, it starts earlier. We attended iftar recently and found that it involved a lot of staring at plates of food between 6:40 and 7:03 p.m. Everyone arrived at the restaurant a good 30 minutes before the maghrib prayer call sounded in order to secure a table. A miniature table off to the side was loaded with dates, yoghurt drinks, juices, water, and fried tidbits like eggrolls and samosa.

Everyone took a small plate of these things and placed it at their seats. Then they all went back and loaded up plates of dinnery foods so as to be ready when the maghrib went—chicken, rice, mutton, dal and salads all featured heavily at all three iftars we attended. And nobody said anything about allergies or ethics. Imagine.

 After all drinks were arranged neatly and the dates were in the optimal position, everyone commenced with the sitting and staring portion of the evening, except for Tehva and the other under 10s. They all quietly snitched little pinches of food and sipped from the tops of their cups while asking frequently about the time.

And then the moment of release—the prayer call. With the first Allah akbar, everyone silently picked up a date and broke their fast. After a slug of yoghurt drink and an egg roll or two, many men got up to go pray, and then returned to the table to join their families in seriously breaking the fast, shoveling in the chow as quickly as possible in order to go back for more. And, for some, this was followed by more. And more. And more. And all the while, the eating was accompanied by happy chitchat and some serious gustatory appreciation.

The iftar lasts as long as people care to eat and then the good times begin, lasting until the pre-dawn meal, the suhoor, which is hearty and meant to carry you through the day until your next iftar.   

In this context, the dietary restrictions of that potluck of yore seem vapid and superficial. At Ramadan, everyone is so happy to break the fast and so prayerful as they proceed through the process of fast breaking that you can’t help but pick up a date and joyfully join in. To speak up at the serving table and question whether something has garlic or gluten or dairy would be to break the spirit of iftar. The whole idea, I think, is to have an enlarged sense of God’s bounty and the patience to wait to enjoy it.

And that is something to take to your next hippy potluck--a big dish of potato salad, a part of God's bounty, made with immense patience, and sprinkled with gratefulness and happiness just to be eating.

Ramadan Week One

I received this message via email a week ago:

“Beware those of you who will stay in Oman for Ramadan. If you are a woman, you must cover everything, from your ankles to your wrists, or risk flogging. DO NOT eat or drink in public at any time or you will be arrested.”

Yikes.

So naturally, with this type of fear mongering crowding my inbox, I was very eager to see what Ramadan would be like here. Based on the above message, my neurotic side, developed carefully and over many years through such venerable news outlets as CNN and FoxNews, was expecting a month of surreptitious sustenance seeking and sweatiness. The rest of me couldn't wait to see what would happen next. So here is what did happen.

In the expat community, the days leading up to Ramadan felt like an enormous hurricane churning off of the American East Coast. The dread amongst some was nearly palatable. Would we lose power? Would groceries be available? Would restaurants ever be open? OMG…would the windows break? What if I were to have my car break down? Or have a medical emergency? How earth shaking would this all be?

In fact, the days leading up to Ramadan in the local community were matter of fact. The landlord finally harvested the dates that have been ripening on the palm trees out front. Paper suddenly appeared over the windows and doors of food outlets that would stay open during the month. People started buying enormous quantities of yogurt drink. Pretty mundane stuff. None of it suggested impending imprisonment.

The night before day 1, we went out to do a bit of grocery shopping since rumors abounded as to when food and grocery outlets would not be open during the holy month. Imagine Black Friday bundled with the crowds that come out for the returns and sales of Boxing Day/December 26. Then infuse the situation with the panic of the approach of a major blizzard and mix in some uppers for good measure. 

That was pre-Ramadan shopping. To say the shops bustled would be an understatement. They nearly burst with the pre-Ramadan shopping.

So you're probably thinking that this was in the busy part of the store?
No, it was just the store. The whole store. Wall to wall people.

And everyone was buying like crazy. Of course there were dates (you need dates to break the fast at sundown), but there were also piles and piles of frozen chickens. People were walking off with two and three 25-kilo bags of rice. Fruit and veggies galore. I was endlessly impressed. 

But the the next day the unthinkable happened. I realized that I was out of vinegar and would have to go back to the store during Ramadan. I feared for my liberty. After all, that email had said! Remember? No ankles, no wrists, no food. Whatever would I do? 

I grabbed my camera of course! And here is what met me at 1:00 p.m.

It was like the zombie apocalypse had hit the mall and left me behind as the sole survivor. Of course the utter lack of people allowed me to see all sorts of decorations that were up for Ramadan all over the mall. 

The toy store had this promotion going on. 

Marks and Spencer had beautiful Arabic script painted across their windows, wishing me a "Generous Ramadan". 

Without three bazillion people at the mall with me, I could see all of this. And I could also see that no one was out to arrest me. In fact, during the first week of Ramadan I have been most impressed with how calm and quiet everything is. People are keeping their energy levels very low and are making extra efforts to avoid anything that requires putting out any extra effort beyond praying, fasting, and breathing. Perfect serenity.

I like it. But I still have all of my joints covered all of the time, even if the mannequins don't. More to report next week, at the end of week two of Ramadan.

Dear Alex, Homeowner and Philanthropist

On the road to "the place"

Dear Alex,

We have arrived!

I am standing on your third floor (that is the third floor only for Americans. It is the second floor for my British friends...I know y'all have a hard time counting floors in a building) of your home. You know, it is the house that we are borrowing while we are staying spitting distance from Spain--not one of the other homes that you own. 

I figure that the likelihood of anyone else being this high this early in the morning is pretty slim, since this seems to be a town whose population is mostly too old to climb too high this early in the day. You guys are excluded from this qualification, of course, but your neighbors by and large seem to fit this generalization. This actually works out well for the fam and me because the older generation is incredibly patient with our lame French and always takes the time to listen hard, finish our sentences, and then respond very slowly and clearly. I am in love. 

The balcony...a good place to
stand and watch the world go by
sans clothes.

Because of the town's predominant demographic, and because I can do it, I am starkers on the black iron-wrought balcony that juts off of the home, which also happens to hang over the town’s main road. As an added bonus for someone who is lacking clothing, this home also looks down a side street that sports a now-abandoned hotel, ensuring that there will be no one looking back at me.

We have all of the windows open and the shutters pulled back so that we can take advantage of the breezes that roll down the foothills of the Pyrenees and curl over the valley’s grape vines on their way into this house. The breezes are so intense that, just like you requested, Alex, we have posted heavy objects in front of all of the propped-open, glass-plated doors so that the breezes don’t force the doors shut and shatter the glass.

Please note, Alex, that we have placed the required heavy things in front of the doors.

I figure that should earn us a few good house guest points--propping the doors, I mean--not strolling buff.

People with too many children don't have libraries
that are this cool--shoot we don't even have a library.
We just have bookshelves.

While we have been at your place, we have decided that we need to continue to befriend people with fewer children and more class and money than we have, because that is the reason that I can stand here right now with all of my parts hanging out. And you can't imagine how much I appreciate taking in a view in the early morning in the state that I am in.

The new patio

According to the propaganda distributed by the wine-making cooperative of your tiny hamlet, this place only gets 45 days of rain a year, and we have been fortunate enough to be here for two of those days (or unfortunate, depending on where in the world you are coming from--but since we are coming from the Middle East, just as you will be soon, we consider ourselves fortunate that it has rained) . 

But today, on our third day, the skies are bright blue. Instead of the air feeling muggy and sluggish, it is crisp and cool and enjoyable. This is what your patio looked like early early this morning, Alex!

As I finish this up, I notice that the guy who lives across the way thinks it is a beautiful day, too. He is also naked and standing on his balcony. I wave. He waves back. Vive la France.

We have the place ready for you when you arrive, Alex (don't worry, we'll wash the sheets!). See you guys soon!

Rachel, Tony, and Offspring

How to Eat in France

How to eat in France.

First, go way back in time and agree to host Couchsurfers who are older, well-established financially, and from Toulouse. Make sure one of them is from the Flemish area of France and insure that he despises sweets, much preferring good cheeses and wine to anything that even suggests that it contains added sugar.

Make sure the other is local and a mother herself who likes to make sure that people eat well on her watch. That point is key.

Then arrive at their home having eaten little other than the odd baguette, a smear of butter, a chunk of dried pork sausage, and Chevre. Or Brie.  Or whatever else looked good in the store. Sometimes the pick-a-cheese-any-cheese method of buying worked, but sometimes we needed a splash of wine to go with that cheese to make it go down with any gastronomic appreciation.

Now sit. 

Sitting at the table in the garden is very important since the fragrance of the flowers blooming all around contribute to the enjoyment of the food. Lilacs are up at this time of year, and so are lavender. Irises have just finished and their dried husks lay wilting around the bright green fans. The cherry tree in the backyard has finished for the year as well, but that is okay since that means the melons are at their best—orange and fleshy and juicy.

Now that you are sitting, rip a chunk of bread and wonder that it is not yet another baguette. At first it is a sourdough sort of loaf. Then it is a loaf riddled with different seeds—poppy seeds and millet and sunflower. Then it is a heavy cereal loaf.

Don’t forget to smear that bread with a pâte—which literally means paste—and this one is literally a paste of duck liver and mushrooms. Make Tehva stop eating it all because without some serious parental controls she will not stop. You are also welcome to sample the blood pudding or the thinly sliced chorizo, but none of these chunks is too big and there are six other people enjoying this aperitif with you, so lentement!

Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe.

After a long linger over the aperitif, sit back and ready yourself for the local sausage that appears, grilled and seeping juices, in one small coil on a simple white plate. Have some bread. Take a section of the meat. Drink some more wine, but never too much in your glass in one go. It seems to be there just to make everything else taste nicer. 

And it works.

Now come to a casserole dish of curly buttered pasta topped with a generous layer of melted Emanthâl cheese. You will appreciate its simplicity, even after the children have tried to snake the brown, crispy cheese off of the top, and you will eat it with some more red wine from the vineyard near the city.

Now sit back and smile because you are starting to understand this style of eating that your fellow countrymen have glorified in diet magazines since you were younger. Wonder why it has never caught on in your own country, but then remember that nine days out of ten, dinner has to be a rushed affair in your home anyhow. And, realistically speaking, good bread and wine are too expensive to make it a feasible eating style.

Put this thought aside and be thankful that you are getting this experience here and now as the salad approaches. It is full of spring greens and artichoke hearts. Tehva has never seen an artichoke heart in her life, but rapidly goes from “I am not eating that” to “You can’t have any of those because they are mine”.

Think to yourself that that salad rocked your world and accept another splash of wine in your glass because that has to be the end of things…but no. 

The dates you dragged from the Middle East, along with one of those bright orange melons and a raft of cheese have just appeared on the table. There is no Brie, which makes you breathe a sigh of relief (but makes your boy child pout). There is, however, a Roquefort with a cauliflower bouquet, a small circle of Chevre, and a chunk of soft, two-toned cheese—one color on the outside ring with a lighter, creamier center.

The person from the Flemish area chooses another wine from his collection, a red something or other, and suggests having this with the Roquefort, which is like mouth fireworks.

Close your eyes and think, “Ah yes…this is how to eat in France”.