When we were young, we used to make our own food, from scratch (or grains). At the beginning of the Fall, our whole extended family would go to the mountain wilderness to pick oregano (to make Zaatar). We didn't care if we saw a snake house. We would pull the oreganos from the rocks, then scream snaaaaakkkeeeee, and run as fast as we can, but only after we got our oregano. We had to win the competition that our parents had set up for us.
We also made our own olive oil. We would spend a whole week in our little land, again with the extended family, picking the olives, then later separating them into piles of olives for pressing (and that produced what I consider the true extra virgin cold pressed olive oil), and olives for brining then eating (see the post Mexican vs Lebanese Food).
We also did our own crushed wheat. We would start with the wheat grains, then have five parties. The washing party, where the seeds are cleaned and all the pebbles and dirt are washed off. Then the boiling party, which was the biggest. We would place the wheat in a huge tank, and boil it. The remarkable thing was that my family used a shovel to stir the wheat. They'd borrow a shovel, full of cement, from the construction workers, clean it, and use it to stir the boiling wheat in the barrel. I still remember the smell of the freshly boiled wheat, with brown sugar, walnuts and raisins, that warmed our cold Fall afternoons. Two smaller parties included spreading the boiled wheat on the roof to dry, then hand- picking all the pebbles before the wheat headed for crushing.
The best party was the lentils party. My family didn't do lentils, but our neighbors did. They would spread all the dried lentil plants on a vast roof (my uncle's roof), and they would bring their mule. We were ecstatic to see the mule, and sit on the flat wooden table attached to it (they used to put all the neighborhood children on the table, to make it heavy). The mule circled the roof, dragging all of us behind it, and in the process, the lentils would split from their plants. To us, it was the best game ever, just circling the roof with the mule.
Growing up, I never realized that this was rare, but I appreciated it, because I participated in all the hard work that went into it. Making our own food was never easy, but it was a beautiful, authentic, and a tasty way of life. I do miss those days.
The soup today is incredibly simple, but very tasty. It's very traditional in the Lebanese mountain villages.
We also made our own olive oil. We would spend a whole week in our little land, again with the extended family, picking the olives, then later separating them into piles of olives for pressing (and that produced what I consider the true extra virgin cold pressed olive oil), and olives for brining then eating (see the post Mexican vs Lebanese Food).
We also did our own crushed wheat. We would start with the wheat grains, then have five parties. The washing party, where the seeds are cleaned and all the pebbles and dirt are washed off. Then the boiling party, which was the biggest. We would place the wheat in a huge tank, and boil it. The remarkable thing was that my family used a shovel to stir the wheat. They'd borrow a shovel, full of cement, from the construction workers, clean it, and use it to stir the boiling wheat in the barrel. I still remember the smell of the freshly boiled wheat, with brown sugar, walnuts and raisins, that warmed our cold Fall afternoons. Two smaller parties included spreading the boiled wheat on the roof to dry, then hand- picking all the pebbles before the wheat headed for crushing.
The best party was the lentils party. My family didn't do lentils, but our neighbors did. They would spread all the dried lentil plants on a vast roof (my uncle's roof), and they would bring their mule. We were ecstatic to see the mule, and sit on the flat wooden table attached to it (they used to put all the neighborhood children on the table, to make it heavy). The mule circled the roof, dragging all of us behind it, and in the process, the lentils would split from their plants. To us, it was the best game ever, just circling the roof with the mule.
Growing up, I never realized that this was rare, but I appreciated it, because I participated in all the hard work that went into it. Making our own food was never easy, but it was a beautiful, authentic, and a tasty way of life. I do miss those days.
The soup today is incredibly simple, but very tasty. It's very traditional in the Lebanese mountain villages.
