NERDDDY APPETITES

As many of you already know, I'm a pesco-ovo-lacto vegetarian (never eat something you can potentially befriend, I say...and, yes, I'm still trying to figure out how realistic a friendship with marine life or a vegan lifestyle is). Because of these dietary restrictions, when I go out to eat, I prefer going to vegetarian/macrobiotic/vegan restaurants because, hey, there's nothing like pork medallions made from the chewy goodness that is seitan (and when would a good Muslim girl like me ever get to "taste pork" anyway?).

Thankfully, MP is a pretty adventurous eater and doesn't mind vegetarian/macrobiotic/vegan fare (plus, he went to college in Vancouver, which, according to him, is, like, the capital of vegetarian/macrobiotic/vegan restaurants and a crunchy lifestyle). We almost always eat at vegetarian/macrobiotic/vegan resturants. Our current favorite, Pure Food & Wine, is raw as well as vegan, which makes it even better!

Suffice it to say, I've been spoiled, so, these days, I expect everyone to share in my enthusiasm for vegetarian/macrobiotic/vegan food. Is there anyone in Manhattan who doesn't like raw vegan? Recently, my very incorrect answer to this question, especially when scheduling business lunches, has been, OF COURSE NOT! The consequence is, of course, a distinctly disappointed business associate poking at his or her spelt noodles, while I, drowning in a sea of guilt, ask over and over again whether or not he or she is enjoying the delicious and (oh so very) nutritious food.

One would assume that I'd learn my lesson after the first or second time this happened. I assure you, reader, this is not true. It's almost as if I can't help myself from strong-arming my business dates, my friends, my parents (anyone who's willing to join me at a meal, really) into eating at vegetarian/macrobiotic/vegan restuarants. So, beware the next time you agree to eat with me.

HMMMMM...BEEF JERKY

I've been craving beef jerky all morning.
I haven't craved beef in the 2.5 years I've been a vegetarian.
For the love of Ingrid Newkirk, what kind of a vegetarian am I!!!???

My posts have been few and far between of late and while I'd love to ascribe my negligence to an overwhelming amount of fabulousness in my life, the truth of the matter is that I'm currently experiencing a spell of complete and utter (and--let's be honest here--somewhat self-inflicted) B-O-R-E-D-O-M. Since watching Spring Awakening, the most excitement I've experienced is a near-slip on spilled fava beans at ShopRite and the resultant stiffness (plus a feeling hovering uncomfortably close to pain) in the almost-healed bum right hip. Not to worry--the hip hasn't been re-strained and I should be up and running again in another couple of weeks barring additional close encounters with beans.

If we're going to count the fava beans incident as a not-so-boring moment in my current state of ennui, we shouldn't leave out the Mexican food I had for dinner last weekend. Given the contentious relationship my digestive system has with the cuisine from south of the border, the fiesta in my stomach that followed the meal was no surprise. That's what I call a change of pace.

And while we're on the subject of food, I recently discovered two heretofore never before sampled LightLife vegetarian deli meats. I've been eating the company's vegetarian bologna for years but I had the roast turkey and baked ham for the first time last week and, oh my goodness, both flavors are delectable. The latter was a revelation since I've never had pork in my life. It was a nice break from routine.

Still, my current state of existence is not unlike that of the amber-encased prehistoric mosquito fossil in Jurassic Park. Actually, it was because of that mosquito that scientists in the novel/film were able to genetically engineer dinosaurs (and goddamn it, am I jealous of that insect's legs? really?), so I guess I lose. Bloody hell.

Super. Back to watching the Yankees blow another lead. Sigh.

UPDATE: I'd like to add tonight's final game in the Yankees-Red Sox series as a greatly satisfying moment for me.

RAMADAN, IT'S PLAYING WITH MY MIND

I'm suddenly craving Pakistani food, readers, and I don't mean the few and (well, somewhat) uninspired vegetarian dishes, with which I have to resign myself at Pakistani gatherings. Oh, no, no. I would like nothing more than to stuff my face with kababs wrapped in steaming, fluffy, straight-out-of-the-tandoor naan. I want to eat a spicy chicken korma with parhatas . I want to lose myself in a delicious chicken pulao and delicious tandoori chicken.

Of course this is problematic, given that I'm a vegetarian and, yes, I've occasionally craved meat, but, goodness, the crave is strong today. Hopefully, my weekend trip to Pittsburgh where I'm attending a wedding where only the most delicious veggie cuisine will be on the menu will combat this sudden onslaught of meaty love.

DEAR PEOPLE WHO ROLL THEIR EYES AT ME UPON FINDING OUT I'M A VEGETARIAN: An Open Letter

Dear People Who Roll Their Eyes at Me Upon Finding Out I'm a Vegetarian:

I hate you.

You don't see me rolling my eyes upon discovering that you're insensitive, small-minded prigs who can't keep your opinions to yourselves. And, please, refrain from trying to convince me that my reasons for going veggie--mainly, a concern for animals and the environment--are not important or significant. Now, go gorge on a steak while I enjoy my wheat gluten. No, I don't want to argue about your mother's right to cloak herself in dead animals or your dad's penchant for hunting deer while we dine because that's just rude. I may think your folks are crazy but I'm polite enough to keep my opinion to myself.

You are obnoxious. Please try to work on that.

Best of luck.

Yours,
The Nerddd

THE PESCO-OVO-LACTO VEGETARIAN NERD PONDERS KICKING THE PESCO HABIT

As many of you know, I'm a pesco-ovo-lacto vegetarian--while I don't eat meat and fowl, I do eat dairy products, eggs and fish. The thought of going vegan and omitting all animal products from my diet is, frankly, frightening at the moment. However, reading this on CNN recently and watching America's Funniest Home Videos last night (one of the clips up for $100,000 showed a group in a Japanese restaurant laughing and ewww'ing upon noticing that the (supposedly cooked?) whole fish on one of their plates was actually twitching and gasping desperately for air. I didn't think it was funny at all.) is making me reconsider the "pesco" in my diet. As much as I love to eat fish, I don't know how I can do it with a clear conscience now. Any words of wisdoms from vegetarians/vegans would be much appreciated...

RESCUE ME?: The True Story of Yet Another (Failed) Animal Rescue Attempt

Back in March, I posted a blog entry entitled “Rescue Me?” in which I described my exhaustive, day long efforts to rescue a duck that appeared to be injured as it sat, stone still, in my building’s parking lot. After having called my cat’s veterinarian, a couple of animal shelters, the Office of Fish & Wildlife, the police department and the fire department, I finally paged a PETA volunteer in DC, who encouraged me to trap the duck in a large box and transplant it to the nearest park. Emboldened, I emerged from my building with a giant, empty computer box in hand, determined to take care of the situation once and for all…only to find that the duck had flown away. At the same time, the PETA volunteer was calling a duck expert in South Jersey—who, unlike Fish & Wildlife, didn’t close shop for the weekend (I’m still bitter about that)—to figure out what was wrong with our duck…the short answer to the question: nothing, apparently. Ahem.

Well, dear reader, that wasn’t the only time I went to absurd measures to rescue an animal. I do it all the time. I find it impossible to walk away from an animal that I think is in trouble. What's more, my eyes are always on the ground, peeled for animals in distress. Seeing that these animals are rescued becomes something of an obsession. Whatever I happened to be doing is pushed aside and I, putting on my blinders to everything else, shift into rescue mode. This single-minded approach to animal rescue has been a source of great vexation for my family and friends. They often have to suffer through the hours of rescue with me and usually end up pretending they don't know me.

To illustrate what I mean, I want to share with you the story of the night I spotted a dog that was lost and/or abandoned and distressed, sitting outside the Newport Mall Path Station. My friends—who aren’t very fond of animals—and I had just finished eating dinner and together, we were walking to Starbucks.

Me (squinting): Is that a dog?
Friend #1: Yep, that's a dog.
Me (still squinting): What's it doing out here alone? It doesn't look like a stray.
Friend #2: Looks like it's waiting for someone
Me: I think it's lost. Oh no!
#1: I'm thirsty. I want coffee.
Me: I can't just leave the poor dog here. Gosh, look at its doggy-brows. They're knitted together with concern. And those eyes are so heavy with sadness.
#1: ...here we go again...
Me: You guys want to go to Starbucks now? Seriously?
#2: Yah (walking away).
Me (still looking at the dog): Hey doggie, doggie, doggie. Come here boy, come here, come to SabilaK (yes, at this point, I'm naive enough to think that the dog, sensing that I'm a vegetarian animal activist looking out for its best interest, will trot right over to me. This, I quickly learn, is a pipe dream. The dog ends up looking at me suspiciously out of the corner of its eye. I've, very quickly, become the enemy. Crap.)!

I talk to the vendors who've been in the area all day; I ask them questions to help me determine from where the dog came. They can't tell me much beyond the fact that the dog has been in the same spot, its sight frozen in the direction of the PATH station as long as they've been there. Figuring that this is all I'm going to get from these vendors who don't seem to give a rat's ass about the dog, I try approaching the animal slowly and manage to go in close enough to see that its wearing a collar with a tag. However, I'm forced to retreat when it starts to growl at me.

Next, I decide to call my friend, colleague, fellow vegetarian and dog lover, ES. I'm happy to hear someone just as concerned as I am. She suggests that I try to lure the dog with dog food, whild she Googles the numbers of local animal shelters that might be able to assist me. I run to a nearby deli--after first asking the few remaining vendors to keep an eye on the sweet dog--and buy a small bag of Purina Dog Chow as well as a package of styrofoam bowls. Back by the station, pedestrian traffic is heavy on this lovely evening and I wonder about the peculiar picture I must paint for them: all done up in a Friday night getup, I kneel on the sidewalk, filling a bowl with dog food, all the while cooing to a dog that is very clearly frightened of me. Thankfully, ES calls me back right then and I'm relieved to talk on the phone and appear preoccupied, even normal. As we've suspected, all of the animal shelters are closed for the evening so, once again, I am on my own. I make a few desperate phone calls to my family, begging them for advice. Each person I speak to wonders out loud how it is that I ALWAYS find myself in these situations. Each person I speak to recommends that I give up, bloody leave the poor dog alone and join my friends at Starbucks. I hang up on each person.

The stupid dog still isnt' coming anywhere near me. The vendors are laughing at me. The pedestrians are giving me funny looks. Frustrated and near tears, I ask for divine inspiriation. I even channel St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals, for guidance, dog treats, the ability to talk to the dog, ANYTHING!

What do I get? Friends #1 and #2 step out from Starbucks, wearing matching sheepish grins and swearing that they are ready to help me in anyway possible. I'm still a bit pissed at them for abandoning me but I take their help, which doesn't involve much more than #1 shaking the bowl of Dog Chow a bit and #2 stading next to me with her arms crossed and nodding as I tell her what they've missed so far. For what it's worth, I appreciate their show of support. They also genuinely awww over the poor dog, who's still the image of sadness and anxiety. It's also still growling at me as I approach him.

Friend #2: Is it growling at you? Doesn't it know that you want to help it?
Me: No, I'm the enemy apparently.
Friend #1 (as I get closer to the dog, dog food in hand): Be careful. It might be rabid.
Me (pausing): Great, thanks. The thought of this dog going all Cujo on me is...inspiring.

Suddenly, the dog leaps up as if it's decided that it does want to go all Cujo on me. I shriek. However, instead of taking a bite out of my neck, the dog runs past me and down the long stretches of sidewalk in the Newport area of the city.

Friends #1 and #2 (in unison): Oh no! It's getting away!

I don't have time to comment. I've already started running down the sidewalk and into the darkness after the dog. Yes, I'm trying to run in my heels. Yes, my hair at this point is a frizzy mess. Yes, my makeup is melting and streaked. And, yes, the dog is running as if its life depends on it.

I can't catch the dog, especially not in my heels. I walk back to Friends #1 and #2, a little out of breath but not entirely dejected. We run to Friend #2's car in the lot and proceed to crawl through the streets, looking for the sweet dog.

But it's too late. The dog has run off into the darkness and I've failed, yet again, to rescue an animal.

Sigh.

DO YOU FALOODA?: A Gastronomically Challenged Blogger's Very Brief Views on the South Asian Refreshment Drink

Some people would call me gastronomically challenged, simply because my preferences in food are rather unusual.

Sure, I preferred imitation meat to the real stuff well before officially becoming a pesco-ovo-lacto vegetarian and have never been a fan of ice cream (although I will occasionally indulge in orange sorbet). A finicky eater as a young girl, I practically lived on olives, canned mandarins and beets. As a baby, I refused to drink milk that hadn't been chilled in the refrigerator for at least a half an hour.
For these and many other reasons, no one really trusts my opinions about food. They think my taste buds are delirious and irrational due to years of abuse and neglect.

Of course, I doth protest.

My taste buds happen to be very heightened, in my opinion. For instance, I can tell how chai is prepared from a single sip and vegetables that aren't fresh immediately offend my vegetarian sensibilities. Forget being gastronimically challenged; as far as I'm concerned, I'm an epicure (I can already hear the outcries from family and friends who believe otherwise).

In any case, I thought it would be fair to preface my first post about Pakistani food with this disclaimer: my taste buds may indeed be delirious and irrational from years of abuse and neglect so you may want to take what I say about foods with a grain of salt. FYI.

Now, onto the falooda.

Falooda, according to Wikipedia.com is "a South Asian refreshment drink made by using milk, vermicelli, sabja (basil seeds), tutti frutti and sugar along with huge amounts of ice cream. The popular flavours in which falooda is available include rose, mango, chocolate, fig, and many others."

I ate the tall cup of falooda pictured above in about thirty seconds, not because I enjoyed it but because the cool drink worked wonders battling the heat of Karachi. Honestly, the drink left a strange aftertaste in my mouth and was crusty towards the bottom. Plus it was too damned sweet.

I have a feeling that I've just opened the door to hate mail from falooda lovers across the universe.

Oh well. Bring it, I suppose.

FOOD FIND OF THE DAY

MORNINGSTAR FARMS: Thai Burger!
I haven't been this excited about a vegetarian food product since I first became a vegetarian and discovered seitan, the-better-than-meat-fake-meat-product. Morningstar Farms' Thai Burger is a revelation, a symphony of flavors and textures in my mouth. And at 100 calories a pop, it's way healthier than it tastes! Hmm, hmm, good. This veggie gives it two thumbs up! By the way, in the pic, it's the burger box behind the okra burger (which I'm so going to try next week!)...I couldn't find a pic of it on its own.

JUST A REMINDER:

I'm still here. My wireless router and--resultingly--my laptop may not be, but I am. I understand that it would take only a couple of minutes to order that bloody Airport online, so yes, I'm in a blogger prison that I've built for myself. And, seriously, yah, when did I become such a slacker?

I refuse to validate the above conjecture with an answer but what I can do for you, my readers, my friends, is update you on the latest happenings in mi vida, as uneventful as they may be:

*static cling continues to plague my existence;

*Wonder of wonders, I'm still with that crazy Canadian commenter;

*Wonder of wonders, the crazy cute Canadian commenter still finds me charming and lovely and not crazy;

*Vegetarian's Paradise II and it's sister restaurant Red Bamboo have reclaimed their rightful shared spot as the Nerddd's fave restaurants;

*I've recently realized that the Foo Fighters might be one of my favorite bands of all time (go ahead, naysayers, judge me, for I'm willing to be judged for Dave Grohl);

*I've also recently realized my love for Siggi's skyr yogurt and it completes me;

*We are 16 days away from my 29th birthday! Let's hope it's better than my 28th birthday was!;

*We are three days away from MP's (previously identified in this post as that "crazy Canadian commenter" and the "crazy cute Canadian commenter") 32nd birthday!

NERDDDY LOVE*

Staring into each other's eyes over candlelit vegetarian Korean food

MP: I'm so lucky to have found you.
Nerddd: Are you kidding me? I'm lucky to have found you!
MP: No, no. With you by my side, it is I who has emerged victorious.
Nerddd: Well, I would've probably hurled myself out of a window if I hadn't found you.
MP: I'm luckier. Trust me.
Nerddd: Seriously...out-of-the-window. I'm the lucky one.
MP: Okay, okay. Let's just say that we're both equally lucky to have found one another.
Nerddd: Agreed.
MP: (groaning) I can't believe we've become that couple.

Staring into each other's eyes over Middle Eastern food

MP: I missed you so much since the last time I saw you.
Nerddd: I missed you more!
MP: That's just unlikely, my dear!
Nerddd: I missed you so much more--
MP: No, I missed you more.
Nerddd: I thought about you all day yesterday MP.
MP: I think about you all day, everday. Welcome to my world.
Nerddd: I suspect that anyone who'd have the (mis)fortune of witnessing this exchange would need a barf bag and several insulin shots...that being said, I missed you more.

*Please note that while this isn't an exact transcription of the more sentimental conversations that MP and I have, it certainly captures their essence and makes me sigh excessively.

THE NERD CONFESSES...

I've never had Nutella, alcohol, Taco Bell, illegal drugs or a Krispy Kreme donut. I hate picnics and barbecues (and any other form of eating out-of-doors, especially on or near grass). In spite of being a vegetarian and a Muslim, I LOVE (shudder) Jello.

THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER IS...

...I'm lonely.

Holy shit. Since when did this blog become so effin' confessional? Fuck.
To everyone out there who knows me in real life: pretend like you never read this and don't go all weird on me the next time I see you.
To everyone out there who knows me in real life: yeah, I'm a fool for not having an anonymous blog.

I had an enlightening lunch with half of the family (one brother, one parent) the other day, during which, I was informed, all in jest, of course, that:

1) I started dating way too late in life (VERY TRUE)
2) and so, I'm doing now what I should have been doing in college, ie, having mindless, directionless fun (VERY CLEARLY, THE FAMILY IS CONFUSING ME WITH SOMEONE ELSE...TO MY FRIENDS GIGGLING THEMSELVES SILLY BECAUSE THEY'RE ALL TOO AWARE OF THE SEDATE LIFE THAT I DO LEAD, SHUT UP)
3) I don't know what I'm looking for in a partner (FALSE)
4) My biological clock is ticking (WHATEVER. WOMEN ARE HAVING CHILDREN LATER AND LATER IN LIFE. AND WHO NEEDS A HUSBAND TO HAVE A BABY, ANYWAY?)
5) Guys figure out I'm a geek/loser after about five minutes of conversing with me (WHAT A LIE! I'M A WONDERFUL CONVERSATIONALIST!)
6) Publishing isn't the most lucrative industry, especially for a girl like me, who could've breezed right through med school (I'D RATHER BE HAPPY)
7) My poor future husband is going to waste away on my vegetarian diet (PEOPLE ARE FREE TO EAT WHATEVER THE HELL THEY WANT TO)
8) I have arch-nemeses getting hitched in fabulous fashion the world over (I DON'T HOLD GRUDGES, OTHER PEOPLE DO AND I'M HAPPY FOR ANYONE WHO ACTUALLY FINDS SOMEONE WITH WHOM TO EXCHANGE VOWS. THAT SHIT'S HARD, YO)
9) My arch-nemeses (plus hubbies, of course) have mapped out fabulous and financially secure lives (I DON'T HOLD GRUDGES, OTHER PEOPLE DO AND I'M HAPPY FOR ANYONE WHO IS LIVING A FABULOUS LIFE)

All of my retorts eventually dissolved into countless huffy variations of "AMMMMMA! TELL HIM TO QUIT IT!!" or "Seriously, can we talk about something else? Seriously?"

And I suppose I would be lying if I didn't tell you that, yes, in spite of being goddamn annoying, the lunch was pretty goddamn funny and I often had to bite my lip to keep a stern face.

But, let's get back to my loneliness and all. All I really want is someone who likes me as much as I like him; everything else just falls into place when two people just like each other, doesn't it?

Oh, sigh. Someone shake some sense into me, please.
...and I'm working on that anonymous blog...because being an open book is boring, mystery is hot (another nugget of wisdom bestowed on me during lunch).

OH SIGH: ABSURDITIES ABOUND or WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO? Part II

I'm not going to say very much about RANDOM DUDE because there isn't very much to say. I spoke to him on Tuesday night. He didn't come across as the socially inept fool that my cousin painted him to be, although he did sound like he was on a job interview. He didn't laugh or crack jokes. Still he was perfectly fine: articulate, into where he lives (which is quite a few state lines away from the greater NY/NJ area) and what he does for a living (he's in the number-crunching, mostly soulless world of finance), into grass and trees (shudder), hiking and kayaking (fun); he also seemed to be pretty open-minded (for shock value, I told him I'm a vegetarian and I don't enjoy cooking almost as soon as we started talking--he didn't comment about it at all, actually but he didn't gasp in horror either, which is always a good thing).

Who knows, had we met somewhere outside of the confines of arranged marriage, perhaps we'd hit it off. Alas, there are too many directors hovering over us in this particular production and I'm a firm believer that nothing truly genuine can come of something that is, essentially, staged.

And I've upset my mother in a most major way. I'll explain in part III.

INTERVENTION

Dinner with my parents this weekend somehow morphed into a convince-Sabila-to-talk-to-some-random-dude-on-the-phone intervention. I still don't know vital information about the dude because my mother couldn't remember and everyone was too busy intervening to care, really. In all fairness, my cousins did email this guy's CV and his pic to my parents last week and I was told to take a look at both on Friday but then my mother mentioned something about him having moved to the States four years ago and I, stubbornly, refused to open the email attachments

So, the following pieces of vital information are still shrouded in mystery:

1) random dude's name (thus the "random dude" moniker is aptly appointed)
2) random dude's location (I have a feeling that he's NOT from the tri-state area)
3) random dude's age
4) random dude's occupation (although doctor or computer engineer are both safe bets)
5) random dude's culinary skills

I do have the following guidelines once I'm ready to make the call:

1) I can carry on the conversation for as long as I deem appropriate (the general consensus at the table was that I'd have this person figured out in 3 minutes...I don't think my family realizes what a lousy judge of character I can be sometimes)
2) yes, I CAN mention that I'm a vegetarian and that I don't cook
3) no, I CANNOT refer him to my blog
4) referring a rishta referred to us by our relatives to my blog would be grounds for a family feud. It would be bad new.
5) I like talking. I talk a lot. I can talk for hours. I am not to make this conversation last for longer than an hour (my response: trust me, that ain't happening)
6) it can certainly make for an entertaining story

Oh, and if random dude has googled me, found my blog and is now reading this post...er, hi...ahem.........don't take this personally or anything.........oy.

BACK ON THE MARKET: Oh Crap

What the eff am I getting myself into?

Mom: Sabila, email five or six recent pictures of yourself to your dad.
Nerd: Um, why?
Mom: Your cousin X called from Florida. He knows quite a few Pakistani families that are looking for girls.
Nerd: Um, why?
Mom: Sabila. Stop joking around.
Nerd: I thought you were going to look for boys in the tri-state area, amma. Florida isn't in the area.
Mom(talking to the ceiling): There she goes again, jinxing herself even before we've started.
Nerd: How am I jinxing myself? Florida isn't New York, New Jersey or Connecticut. It's a fact, not a jinx!
Mom: Just be grateful for the proposals you get.
Nerd: I'm not wasting time emailing strangers. I want to meet them.
Mom: And you'll meet them.
Nerd: I feel like a piece of meat...and I'm a freakin' vegetarian, which makes it even more awful.
Mom: That's something that I don't want you to mention on your first meeting with any boy!
Nerd: Ugh.

I'm thinking I'll just email the link to my profile on Friendster to my dad.
This is such bs.

I CARE FOR...

...orange rinds. I especially like eating the spongy white underside of the rind, called the pericarp or pith.
Before you judge me, please keep in mind that I'm not a freak who peels an orange, throws it out and eats only the rind.
I do, in fact, love oranges, which help me effectively absorb the iron I get from my vegetarian diet. I just keep some of the peel and nibble on it after I'm done with the orange. Sometimes I'll just eat the underside and other times I'll eat the whole peel. It's really not that bad folks. Try some before you point fingers!
You can do that after you gag on the rind.

HOW TO EAT ALONE

Since I'm still feeling a bit blocked, I thought I'd recycle an old JE about someone else's poem from Naseeb. Please keep in mind that this JE had been the last in a flurry of JEs about some of my favorite poems. The anthology to which I refer is "The Morrow Anthology of Younger American Poets." Enjoy:

Okay folks. I promise this is the last of my English Lit. nerdiness for the night. I was just flipping through the anthology I mentioned in my previous je, when I happened upon this lovely poem by Daniel Halpern; I fell in love with it when I read it for the first time in the opening of Audrey Niffenegger's THE TIME TRAVELER'S WIFE. It's simply perfect (please replace the wine with soda, if you're Muslim and the lamb can be substituted with seitan if you're a vegetarian like I am; this poem will still work like magic):

"How to Eat Alone"

While it's still light out
set the table for one:
a red linen tablecloth,
one white plate, a bowl
for the salad
and the proper silverware.
Take out a three-pound leg of lamb,
rub it with salt, pepper and cumin,
then push in two cloves
of garlic splinters.
Place it in a 325-degree oven
and set the timer for an hour.
Put freshly cut vegetables
into a pot with some herbs
and the crudest olive oil
you can fine.
Heat on a low flame.
Clean the salad.
Be sure the dressing is made
with fresh dill, mustard
and the juice of hard lemons.

Open a bottle of good late harvest zinfandel
and let it breathe on the table.
Pour yourself a glass
of cold California chardonnay
and go to your study and read.
As the story unfolds
you will smell the lamb
and the vegetables.
This is the best part of the evening:
the food cooking, the armchair,
the book and bright flavor
of the chilled wine.
When the timer goes off
toss the salad
and prepare the vegetables
and the lamb. Bring them out
to the table. Light the candles
and pour the red wine
into your glass.
Before you begin to eat,
raise your glass in honor
of yourself.
The company is the best you'll ever have.

PHOTOGRAPHS (the nerd gets serious)

For as long as I can remember, I've been trying to figure out my place in a family that I've had to piece together in my imagination.

I never knew my grandparents. I grew up looking at them through faded and yellowing photographs. There they were, forever frozen in time for me. While my other cousins, and even my brothers, have real memories of them, I have only these photos and stories to go by. I still search the maps of their faces---the gentle slope of a nose, the curve of a mouth, the depth of a gaze---for my own face. I listen to my relatives tell stories about them and wait for them to mention idiosyncrasies that I may share with them. Which one of them chewed their bottom lip when deep in thought, the way I do? Like me, did they find solace between the pages of a book? Were they animated talkers like I am?

My Dhadha (paternal grandfather) was an engineer; he was a stern man who rarely smiled but loved his family fiercely. He fathered 15 children but didn’t actually hold a baby until years later, when my oldest brother was born. Moreover, he had a love for learning. Raised by a widowed mother, dhadha dreamt of being more than just a landowner like his own father, who died when dhadha was five years old. I can see him in my mind’s eye, a little boy reading by the light of an oil lamp, late into the night. In the photos I have of him, he cuts an impressive figure: he is a rock of a man, tall, dark and broad, and he stares at me from the past with small, piercing eyes. My parents, brothers and I were still in Libya when he died. I was only a few months old and he never got a chance to see me.

Mommy---my nahni (maternal grandmother)---was a wisp of a woman, known for her beauty. With her pale complexion and reddish-brown hair, she was constantly mistaken for a foreigner. A bride at 13, she had her first child a year later. She would have eleven more, four of whom would die in infancy. In my photos of mommy, she wears a sari, her long wavy hair tied away from her glowing face. In every photo I’ve seen of her, a ghost of a smile seems to have just settled on her lips. She is a woman of dignity, a woman who commands respect in spite of her slight stature. Mommy, too, passed away when I was a newborn, without having seen me.

And, finally, there is my pappa---my nahna (maternal grandfather). As tall and gangly as a teenager, pappa’s frame belied his brilliance. He was a respected physician and a poet. Of his children, only my mother shared with him his passion for poetry and, so, everyday after he returned home from the hospital and before dinner, he would call for her. He would lie in bed, his eyes closed, and ask her to read her poems to him. After she was done reciting the poems, he’d ask her to sing them for him and she would do so happily. I met him when I was a toddler and, even though I hadn’t learned to verbalize more than a few grunts of hunger or sadness at the time, I carry imagined memories of that summer with him close to my heart. My first, albeit forgotten, sights of Pakistan were taken in from the perch of his arms, from the eagle-eyed vantage point of a tall man. However, I had forgotten him by the time he died, when I was 6 years old. I cried upon his passing, not for him, but because I’d never seen my mother cry before.

I suppose, my quest to find my grandparents is a quest to find myself, to define myself in a larger context of history. Questions about them haunt me: did they ever think about me, their granddaughter who was born in a far away land and being raised in a land even farther away? Did my pappa, who had promised my cousin that he would live long enough to see her turn seven and died the day after her birthday, have the briefest thought of me when he passed? Did he love me as much as he loved her or was I just a fading memory for him, the way he was for me? Would my grandfathers, both avid hunters, recognize themselves in me, an animal rights activist and vegetarian? And what about my nahni? She was a conservative woman of her time, a wife and mother who took pride in her place in the family. What would she say of me, the first working-woman in her family? Would she approve?

I have nothing to go by when I try to determine the answers to these questions. I often thought that growing up in Pakistan might have helped me in my quest to know my grandparents. I believed that—had I walked the same paths they walked, touched the books they touched, the clothes they wore, or simply been in the spaces they occupied—I would be able to pick up residual memories and experiences, feelings and thoughts that they’d left behind. These would have been dropped along their lives like stones in a dense forest, leading me back to them.

Sometimes, especially now that the years separating us multiply in leaps and bounds, and my life seems so far away from what their lives were, my grandparents threaten to slip away into the realm of fiction and unreality for me. It is at these moments, that I savor looking at their photographs. It is at these moments that I think of my dhadha’s love for learning, my mommy’s dignity and beauty, and my pappa’s passion for poetry and I know that I don’t need to have all of the answers. I exist because they existed. I am who I am because they are in me. And no matter what happens, I’ll carry them inside me for the remainder of my life.