vous etes invites!

We went to dinner chez amis the other night. My belle famille is visiting, and as they have friends all over the world, they have friends in Dubai who quick quick! organized a dinner party in their honour. Mme. P is a delightful, beautiful, charming woman whose poise, style and grace has me a bit in awe. She is a woman who includes you in her beauty, taste, and generous spirit, rather than putting you in awe of her talents. This, in itself, is a rare gift.

Mme. P's guests are always lively and intelligent, worldly and well-read. Last dinner we enjoyed there spiralled off into the conversational stratosphere of Iranian culture and pre-history, with interwoven threads of Sumeria and Ur, Innana and the complicated political tapestry that is UAE history...

As is usually the case at these gatherings, ladies outnumbered men. So many husbands are always travelling, we often have to abandon the traditional man/woman seating expected at European dinner parties. I found myself seated between a woman acquaintance from my home town and an extraordinary lady whose company I have quite enjoyed at these gatherings on other occasions. She had just come from London and was on her way to Iran, visiting a son in Dubai on the way through. She was so still, so ponderous was her manner of speaking... in direct, thrilling contradiction to the passion with which she spoke of Iran, the beauty of the country, the richness of its culture. I alternated between listening and looking, at her deep brown eyes, at her skin that glowed and danced and offered itself as an ornament of finest nacre while the rest of us wander around in our ordinary flesh...

and interestingly enough, she was hoping to begin a study of an archeological project in Iran, but reluctant, considering the country's uncertain future. She wondered aloud whether it was worth beginning something she might not be permitted to finish...

so much of our rich past is being destroyed in the name of what... Progress? Superiority? We live in shifting times, the world's boundaries unstable beneath our feet. When there is so much to occupy us, so much to capture our imaginations and fire our passions, why must we waste so much time fighting over a difference of opinion? Why do we need greater weapons of mass destruction when we do so well with hammer and gun and hateful words? I really would like the chance to grow up and become one of these women I so admire: my mother, my mother in law, Mme. P, this delightful dinner partner. I want to be that woman for some younger mother to enjoy.

Handremi

 

My friend came towards me with an extra sparkle in her eye. "Today we will teach you something new," she said with a smile, and procured two new playing decks from the plastic bag around her wrist. "It is called handremi, you know this game?" I confessed that I didn't, and idly shuffled one of the decks of cards. It had been a long time since I'd played a card game. She mixed the second deck into the first. I definitely have not played handremi.

Fourteen cards, dealt carefully two by two to each of us. No Las Vegas slide for this lady, no. A fifteenth card was turned upwards and left on the top of my pile. The remaining cards were left face down on the table, and the top card turned over, the King of Clubs, and poked, protruding, into the middle of the deck.

Double decker poker without the bids, really. And a twist, because there is always a twist. The object of the game is to build suit runs and matches in your hand, at least three in a series. That random card sticking face up in the deck? That tells you which Ace is wild, and only the ace with the same suit as the up card is wild. Aces high, face cards are counted as ten points each.

As I was given the fifteenth card, I discarded first. Everyone picks from the deck, never the discards. I watched the cards I wanted pour out of her hand and considered dismay, before I remembered we were playing with two decks.

There are two ways to win. In the lesser bid, a player can lay down all matches and suits in her hand if the total points add up to sixty. If she chooses to do this, other players can add to her combinations when the game is over, so don't forget to play that hand when you discard.

Handremi is the big winner, and this is when all your cards are suited and matched. You must have every card in your hand matched, unlike gin where you can lay one down.

The double decker card fan is a must, by the way. Practical and infinitely chouette. 

siren song

 


I didn't realize it was a mimosa tree until I looked into its branches and saw the Dr. Seuss flowers popping up everywhere. The fragrance was entirely different, you see.

My mother taught me what mimosa was. She would tickle my nose with the baffling blooms: like fairie broomsticks, each bristle white to begin, then moving pink to the bamboo green dot on the tip. But beyond its appearance, its bouquet was what was truly extraordinary.

The afternoon I auditioned for Peace Child, I was walking home, my head full of dreams, when this scent, this compelling aroma wafted across my path, and it hit me full on like a single, impossibly high note going on, and on, and on. I scanned the usual places, tree boxes and front yards, for the source of such ambrosia. My mother had showed me a mimosa blossom once before and I'd never found such a tree again, but here, unmistakably, and blocks away from where I'd first scented it, was the object of my heart's desire. I followed that bell-clear note down two city blocks before I spotted it: a lone, white pink blossom fifteen feet up in a mimosa tree. I stood beneath its canopy for a good ten minutes, breathing the air. 

Why the region's eBay copy-cat might not make it in the Middle East

I love buying things online, even though I rarely ever do it. I did buy a lovely, brushed stainless steel teapot from Souq.com, the region's answer to eBay. But, unlike on eBay, Souq.com users don't seem to understand the concept behind auction buying.

Case in point. While poking around on the souq site today, I stumbled upon this exchange:

Question by kevcapoz(new):
What a geat table- what is the diameter of the glass? March 12, 2006 - 11:45

Answer :
It is 3ft Dia.. March 13, 2006 - 06:47

Question by expatmom(new):
Can you please indicate the price you are looking at (privately to my email if you wihs) and if it suits me I will take it. March 23, 2006 - 12:19

Question by renie(2):
UR PRICE IS BIT HIGH.. CAN U COME DOWN TO TWO HUNDRED FIFTY?? March 29, 2006 - 07:30

Question by renie(2):
i wanna check out the item, can u pls call me on landline (deleted) - dubai. if it is ok i wanna pick up the same today itself. April 13, 2006 - 04:53

Question by veerapinto(1):
can these legs be seperated or are they joined together April 17, 2006 - 08:55

Answer :
Yes u can April 17, 2006 - 09:08

Question by veerapinto(1):
can i just have those 3 men. I dont require the glass. what will be the cost of these 3 men April 19, 2006 - 05:26

Question by stylokaron(new):
Can you please indicate the best price. I am really intrested in it. May 11, 2006 - 12:17

Answer :
it will be higher then the 750.00 if ur intrested then u msg me back for the price May 11, 2006 - 15:13

Question by shoppin_queen(180):
nice table - but can i be cheeky & ask where did you buy the chair in the background as its exactly like what i'm looking for ! thnx May 14, 2006 - 17:25

Answer :
it is not a chair but a part of a 7 seater sofa are u intrested? May 15, 2006 - 18:08

Question by shubha_bhatiya(2):
i can pay 800. final price if condition is good. I am not able to bid more ( limit of 3 bid).

send me an e-mail if you want May 15, 2006 - 18:09

Question by shoppin_queen(180):
hi, possibily interested - i take it that it is for sale then ? can you send me a private answer with details of the set then & the price you would be looking for.
thnx May 15, 2006 - 20:02

Answer :
my final price will be 900 May 16, 2006 - 18:00

Question by shubha_bhatiya(2):
ok 900. but will like to see first. May 16, 2006 - 18:42

This is just wrong on so many levels. It's not an auction, it's a glorified rummage sale. Can you imagine, someone asking an eBay seller to come down on the price? And the buyer offering a final price? And what happens to souq.com's revenue stream if the users start haggling like they were standing in the... well, the local souq?

Not to mention, I've seen countless pieces on souq.com concurrently listed on other, local sites as for sale. What would happen if someone won an auction, only to find the seller had unloaded the piece on someone who found it through another channel?

And everyone is missing the point of an auction. It's the opposite of haggling, really. You want it, so does she. You bid. She counterbids. You raise the stakes. She wibbles, but come in with a higher bid. Can you match it? Do you want the piece that badly? And so it goes, til the auction ends, and someone is declared the winner.

 
But here in the Middle East, the stated price is never the final price, not outside the shopping malls. You walk into a shop, or down to the quaint souq (Arabic marketplace), and you browse. You spot the perfect, genuine pashmina, but you play it cool, fingering five other items, making mildly disapproving faces, little moues that say, "I'm just slumming it, I'm dying of ennui at The Avenue, dahlink, and had to see how the other half lives." You ask how much, and act shocked at the price. You make a counter offer, half the price the merchant quoted, and see what he says. You make a great pretense of leaving the shop and walking towards the next one, hoping the merchant will follow you and shout another, lower price, closer to what you'd secretly hope to pay... and so the dance continues, until you either agree or walk away. But once you agree, do not reopen negotiations. Bad form. Accept a cup of mint tea or a coffee, if offered. Smile. He's made more money than you'd guess at the sale, and you feel you've walked off with a great bargain.

So what will it be, folks? Bid it up, or talk it down? Cause you can't ask folks to bid up and then let them bid you down.

Lemon Blueberry pancakes with Strawberry sauce

 

In case you hadn't guessed, I live in the Middle East. It's not easy to get all the ingredients I need for the recipes I create. Cottage cheese, for example, costs about US $2 for four, perhaps six ounces. SIlly. I could make my own, but... who has time? Some of the ingredients I use here are not quite one or the other. Labaneh is somewhere between sour cream and cream cheese; I have to drain it to use it for cheese cake. I've even used paneer, an Indian version of cottage cheese, that is much harder than the stuff Europeans and Americans are accustomed to.

The pancake recipe I've developed is infinitely forgiving vis a vis its contents. At best, you will have a fluffy, tasty pancake that leaves no wishing for what you can't have; at worst, a delightful, spongy, dense pancake that is fully filling, and great with jam for a snack the next day.

4 eggs
1 cup whole milk cottage cheese (you can use cream cheese, yoghurt, or ricotta if you don't have cottage, or your favorite non-dairy equivalent)
4 Tbs. melted butter (substitute coconut oil if you wish)
2 Tbs. lemon juice
2 tsp. lemon zest
1 Tbs. brown sugar or honey (optional)
1 tsp. vanilla extract (gluten free)
1 c. cooked millet, quinoa, amaranth or a combination thereof
1/2 c. millet flour
1 c. Doves Farm Gluten Free Plain White Flour Blend

OR

1/2 cup chickpea flour and
1/2 cup rice flour

1 c. (more or less, to taste) frozen blueberries, preferably the small, wild blueberries


In blender or cuisinart, combine eggs, cottage cheese and butter. Blend well. Add lemon juice, lemon zest, and cooked grains. Blend until cooked grains are broken and blended. Add sugar/honey and vanill, pulse until well mixed. Slowly add flours. Mix well. Pour batter into bowl, stir in blueberries.

On hot, buttered griddle, pour 1/4 cup batter for individual pancakes, and cook like wheat pancakes. You're going to have to clean your pan in between, and rebutter, because the blueberries will stick.

These are delicious with syrup, or fresh fruit, or frozen berries heated until warm. I chose to use frozen strawberries this time. Delish.

These pancakes are great for everyone, not just those with celiac or wheat sensitivities. They are high in protein, use complex carbs, not simple carbs like white flour, and are tasty. 

who am i kidding?

Dubai is a no-man's land. Local population stands at just 26% of the total number of bodies crowded up against the Persian Gulf. If Dubai stands as an example of how Islam and the West can get along, we're in deep trouble, with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for

Prostitution
Public indecency
Perilous roads
Peonage

Is opening up this sliver of paradise worth the degredation of what is beautiful and right about Islam? Speaking as one who is no scholar... just as a woman who hears the rumours...

I am curious to read the Vanity Fair article from this month's issue.

150 | DUBAI'S THE LIMIT In little more than two decades, a mind-boggling metropolis has risen from the sands of Arabia—the ever expanding, hyperkinetic swirl of towers, theme parks, mega-malls, luxury hotels, and enterprise zones that is Dubai. In the swankiest restaurants and darkest corners of the tiny emirate, Nick Tosches discovers what has fueled the unparalleled growth of this Las Vegas on steroids: the royal house of Maktoum's version of the American Dream. Photographs by Robert Polidori.

A friend who pointed me to the article was quite taken aback by what it has to say -- apparently, it's a salacious little rip on our Las Vegas meets Disneyland home away from home. "You live there?" Sure, I know which Spinney's has the Russian prostitutes and which, the Asian ones. I know the hole in the wall in Ajman where you can get illegal booze at your own peril -- illegal beer and wine is just a bad idea. who knows how long it's sat in this springtime in Hell heat? I know Dubai is a key spot in illegal drug trafficking ports and strategic location offer it up as a key trafficking hub for all sorts of seamy underbelly type things, including drugs and terrorists... But look at it another way, and Dubai is a place where I can walk away from a stroller full of shopping bags, baby gear and a purse, and it won't get stolen. Where people give my child a big friendly smile and a toussle on the head. Where I am safe walking the streets at night. Where I can sleep without fear that a bullet will come crashing through the window. Yeah. Those are fears for Washington, DC, home of the brave, land of the free to remain prisoners of their own society.

I'm sure whatever Vanity Fair said, it's part of the reason why we moved from Dubai to Sharjah. There's an emptiness to Dubai that wears on you after a while. I mean, how many shopping malls do we really need? My husband and I finally had to go into an African and Eastern to find out what it was -- a liquor store. And there is little that is human to the scale of Dubai: the buildings are too 'too', the roads are terrifying, the sidewalks aren't meant for walking.

We are all of us expats; some are here as political refugees, some fled their home countries because the fighting is fierce and opportunity few. Some are vague pioneers in the capitalist Wild Wild Middle East, trading covered wagons for airplane tickets, prairie for sand. Some just woke up one morning, finally listening to a little voice inside that had been whispering, "I wonder what it's like to do something different?" Some pay for the priviledge of sweating to death to make the dream come true.

I wonder how shaky Dubai's foundation really is: if the spark of revolt jumped from work camp to work camp, we'd be engulfed in angry, abused men in a matter of hours. If the rest of the world becomes disenchanted with the oddity that is Dubai, will they stop coming? If the expats give up on skyrocketing housing costs, shrinking packages, huge school and living increases... if they give up and go home, what will be left? Can Dubai cross this dune, or will it have to recede back into the sands?

Apples and oranges and Dragonfruit, o my!

 
One of the things i love about living in this part of the world: the fruit and veg section of the local grocers. Thank goodness Carrefour finally posted pictures of various Indian fruit and veg, with the thing's name, or i'd still be wondering what most of it is.

I still don't know what most of it is for.

When we first arrived, my husband had a bowl full of mangosteens waiting for us to try. Lovely brown round bellies full of fruit pods that were sweet, white, voluptuous on the tongue. I was in heaven, and instantly added it to the roster of fruits I can't live without. In season, of course. Lytchees, an entire stand full of the dusty crimson-coloured fruit, are an excuisite treat; this past Christmas season found us camping in the Empty Quarter somewhere past the Liwa, contentedly roasting marshmallows and passing round a bag of ripe lychee fruits. Note to self: do not throw lytchee seeds into the fire. they explode.

The melons here have me all mixed up. Rock melons are canteloupes I think, and sweet melons are like honeydew, but not... because they look just like canteloupe on the outside. imagine my surprise when I cut my first sweet melon open and discovered pale green flesh and a sweet, slightly smokey flavour. Peaches are in from Jordan, now, but they didn't make the trip: overblown, smashed, but flinging peachy goodness at our nostrils as far away as the yoghurt aisle. Watermelon from Iran is the sweetest I've eaten since Maine. Al Ain strawberries are small and intensely sweet.

But the fruit that has me stumped is the dragonfruit. Lovely to look at, it was terrifically disappointing when all was said and done. It has no flavour. the seeds are somewhat amusing, and i bet it would make a dramatic looking sorbet, but as a sit down in the kitchen and find yourself in heaven kind of fruit, it just fails.

Though I hear you can grow a lovely succulent if you plant the seeds. Seems all this dragonfruit of mine is good for. 

I am a Peace Child

In 1982, i believe it was, I had an extraordinary opportunity. I was young... I won't tell you how young, or you'll know i'm not young anymore... and a friend of my mother's was hired on to do costumes for a new musical being staged in Washington, DC. The first round of auditions had come and gone, but Lady Kate, as she was called, had spoken to the creators of the show and gotten me an impromptu audition. I stood in the middle of a borrowed living room on a small street in upper Georgetown and sang a capella, probably something from Cinderella, a children's opera my elementary school had done the year before.

My life almost changed that night. I could have been a star.

Instead, I was cast as the understudy to the lead, not the lead girl, alas. I had the voice, she had the resume - and she was cuter than I. It was *this* close. But there was an acting troupe of ten children who carried the plot and I was at of those, and happy to be there. What a thrill. What a dream come true. And on a cold day in December, we played the Kennedy Center, for One Night Only, the American premiere of a show called Peace Child brought the house down.

In a darkened theater, a lone voice sang out, "Come into my joy, come into my pain/Come you'll be a friend of mine, I'll be the same..." and into the house streamed hundreds of children from regional singing groups and schools, waving bright kerchiefs and streamers of colour, singing the refrain of Peace Child. From the balconies and the back of the hall we danced towards the stage and surrounded Suzanna York, the narrator of the show.

What was Peace Child? It was hope. It was a story about a Russian girl and an American boy who save the world by meeting and realizing, our differences aren't so great, if you get to know one another. Based upon the ancient tradition of sending a Peace Child to warring villages, one who can negotiate for peace in the event of discord, a child who lives among the other peoples and protects the peace.

There will be a reunion next year. The boy who played the lead, Marco Clarke, died of AIDS at a very young age. I think he was in his early 20's. Such a brilliant, bright eyed child when I knew him. Sweet boy. I wonder what the rest of us have done? I'm casting about in my study for my program of that night. It's here somewhere.

I'm wondering if the Peace Child initiatives might be something to do here in Sharjah? As the Cultural Capital of the Middle East, shouldn't we? I wonder if Peace Child can return to its original message of citizen diplomacy -- it focusses mainly on human rights and sustainability, now. Will have to talk to David about this, i suppose.

I was reminded of this night in my life because of an article in the Christian Science Monitor. Peace Child has profoundly shaped the way I think about people and the world. I am a product of the 80's, of nuclear proliferation, Cold War, AIDS and the threat of total annihilation. Lenny Bruce would have loved the 80's, he could have brought back his, "We're all gonna DIE!" routine. But Peace Child gave me hope. I do think there is a common ground. I do think people of wildly different backgrounds can learn to tolerate each other, even love each other. I think of the women I know, here, who wear abayia and laugh and share coffee and stories and card games with me while our children run happily amok. I am blessed by the gentleness of their questions, of their desire to understand. I am sweetened by their kindness. I wonder why we cannot do this the world over? if we spend half the energy we use for hating on positive change, instead, what could this exhausted world become?

The Christian Science Monitor has an article about Yemenis using poetry to combat terrorism

O men of arms, why do you love injustice?
You must live in law and order
Get up, wake up, or be forever regretful,
Don't be infamous among the nations

now, that's my kind of fighting.


  

It's too hot to go to the beach

 

Friends called. Picnic on the beach at Mushrif Park, 4PM, be there. So we grabbed our handy-dandy, prepacked beach bag and wandered off on our usual Friday meanderings: sale at Marina (separate gripe about how they operate), Mall of the Emirates for a little play for the little one, lunch and relaxation for the husband creature, and groceries for our bbq on the beach.

Neither of us had planned to swim. The Petit Pitame, on the other hand, had woken up that morning, heard the news that the beach was on our adgenda, and prompty whipped out his swim trunks to wear under his blue jeans. Cause he's that kind of kid. I don't like wearing a bathing suit on the public beaches here. Too many lonely men veering towards me in the open sea. Very disconcerting to look around and realize you're in a ring of men who have loosely congregated around you. And i'm no blonde beauty, neither. My husband didn't feel like swimming for whatever reason husbands don't swim. I'd worn a skirt; I could wade in the shoals with the kid. No problem.

It's becoming beastly hot out. Too hot to go to the beach, not that anyone in cooler climes could possibly imagine that. Too hot to swim?

But there we were, on the beach at the end of the day, sweating bullets, lugging picnic supplies through the sand to our friendly encampment. The husband complained that he hadn't brought his suit: "Didn't you save me from myself?"

No. But the beach bag did. Lo and behold, a plethora of bathing suits were to be found. Even one for my mother. And an extra one for the kid. And one each for silly mothers and fathers who think they can go to the beach and not swim.

So there we were, sneaking one last dip while the light lasted: a vague pinkness smeared across the sky above the Gulf told us where the sun had gone. I turned back towards the beach and smiled in gratitude... there was the full moon rising above the beach, cresting the palm trees, bringing waves and sweet nightfall and a refreshing breeze. 

what goes around, comes around.

 

The King of Everything is channeling his great grandfather. Its the dark socks. 

the inlaws are coming! the inlaws are coming!

ma belle famille will be here at the end of May. I hope I have better luck feeding them than I did when my wonderful funny drink of water for a parched soul mother was here.

You see, when the weather turns, when the winds blow in from the desert and the heat and humidity compete for gold medals in the Hellish category, any thoughts of food fly out the window. We'd eat a light breakfast of some fruit, perhaps one of the Nicopotame's special wheat-free pancakes, the recipe for which is endlessly changing (last version had paneer in it, yum!), and some Easiyo. So much easier to make your own yoghurt when you have the right equipment. I'm about to experiment with making camel's milk yoghurt!

 

So I'm thinking what to feed my other family when they come to visit us. Definitely this heavenly lamb with apricots I fell in love with last year, though it's far too sweet, and needs to be reworked a bit. It's too hot for my favorite Indonesian version of stone soup, with the season's best vegetables, a viande or poultry of some sort, and a rich, thick coconut curry to hold it all together. Frozen mango shells brimming with a yoghurt/mango/honey puree for a cool snack or dessert. What else can I feed them?

I'm going to look at my favorite recipes and see if they can be reworked for the crock pot. That way, I can cook this week and the next, then just defrost something exquisite.

And of course, roast beef with a mushroom/thyme sauce, pan-seared haricots verts with garlic and olive oil, and a deceptively simple potato galette is always a winner.

Shopping list calls. Here's the unmodified version of Lamb with Apricots for your culinary pleasure:

Lamb and Apricot Tagine

3 Tb olive oil
450g/1 lb lean cubed lamb (or beef)
1 cinnamon stick
2 tsp ground cumin
2 tsp ground coriander
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1 pinch cayenne pepper
1 Tb plain flour
200 g/7 oz dried apricots
600 ml/1 pint rich lamb stock
juice of 1/2 lemon
4 Tb clear honey
50g/2 oz. lightly toasted, slivered almonds
handful of coriander leaves

couscous to serve

Heat oil in large, heavy based saucepan and cook lamb over moderately high heat for 5 - 6 minutes, until golden all over. Add all spices and toss and cook for 1 minute, until aromatic. Add plain flour and toss lightly to coat. Add apricots and pour in stock and lemon juice. Bring to boil, reduce heat and simmer gently, covered, for 25 minutes.
Add honey and season with salt and pepper to taste. Cook, uncovered, another 15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until sauce has reduced and thickened slightly. Stir in almonds and coriander leaves. Serve over couscous.

 

it should be easier

My son's got a wheat sensitivity. I made this discovery by the power of deduction the last time we visited my parents in Washington, DC; it was a bit of a 'eureka!' moment, after day upon day of a child who should have been cast as Regan's long-lost brother in Exorsist: the Sequel. My sweet, funny, smart, agreeable boy turned into a possessed monster, complete with spitting, cursing (Well, in three-year-old-speak, 'Go away! I don't want you here!' is cursing... thank GOD he doesn't know the 'H' word. No, not Hell, but Hate), biting, scratching, screaming and generally trying to figure out how to make his head spin all the way around on his body. One morning, in a rush, I handed him a baggie of Cheerios and we hopped on the metro to meet my mother at her house. By the time we got there, he was cranky. I thought he was hungry, so we poured the rest of his Cheerios into a bowl, added some strawberries and milk, and had a proper, alebeit late, breakfast. Half an hour later, all hell broke loose, the lightbulb I conveniently happen to have floating half a foot above my head turned on, angels on high were heard to sing, AHhhhhhh! and i smacked myself in my proverbial third eye and shouted at my mom, "IT'S THE WHEAT!" all the while laughing and cackling and scooping my screaming spitting biting light of my life into my arms, dancing around the living room.

Well, my mother lives two blocks away from that bastion of good taste, Whole Foods, so we were set for the duration of our stay. They have gluten and wheat free down pat.

Coming back to the UAE was a bit trickier. But if I don't stop here, i'll have written my whole article about food allergies and published it here, ruining any chance I might have of getting it published in a paying forum. So, cut to the chase.

I know it's impossible to avoid all the over processed foods we have here, there and everywhere. Did you know, M&M's have wheat in them? the shame. It's true. You wouldn't believe what isn't gluten/wheat free.

But I'm living in a part of the world that has not, historically, depended upon wheat for its starchy cravings. I should be able to wander into the stores and find a wealth of alternatives. Perhaps. I've found rice flour, it's true. And glutenous rice flour. And brown rice flour. In three different stores in two differnet Emirates. I buy cornmeal at Spinney's and potato flour at Geant. I've found Quinoa at Carrefour, and Amaranth at the Organic Foods and Cafe, no luck yet on unpearled barley but I'm holding out hope. I've found Iddly frozen in the supermarket, and might tinker with a recipe to make them sweeter. But it's just so hard. I have to drive the length and breadth of Dubai, Sharjah and Ajman to keep my pantry stocked with wheat alternatives.

So today i'm going to try whipping up some crepes using glutenous rice flour. who knows. it might work. But i might have to run around the proverbial chicken to get all the ingredients i need!

whazzit?

I don't do homeopathy. Blame it on my good old industrial lifestyle, raised in the country that convinced the world that formula was best for babies... I don't do natural remedies to what ails me. Either it goes away on its own or i'm taking pharmaceuticals, can I hear an AMEN? Because I admit it... I don't know how to say Ayurveda, it sounds like some new age lounge group or something. A pan of oil poured over my forehead will do nothing but make me greasy. Really. Skeptical white girl.

Course, when you look at the calendar and see that holy green goop, Batman, it's been a month since this cold started and golly gee, nothing's moving up there, your teeth feel like they are going to fall out and your eyes are bugging out of your head... it's time to try something.

Not that i'll go to the doctor's, no! I've got Amoxycillin, 500mg bo tid (that's taken orally, three times a day. I'm reluctant to take it, just as I'm reluctant to admit I'm about to take a powerdrill to my sinuses. It's sitting in its little Pharmacy bag, nestled up against a box of Panadol Sinus, which didn't do a thing to relieve any of the might as well pound the right side of my head against the wall pain i'm going through right now.

Because you see, I'm secretly hoping the green tea and ginger I've been consuming all day will work its wonders. When I was getting mastisis while nursing my son, someone told me to make a compress of mashed ginger and apply it to the affected area. Sho nuff, the ginger drew the infection out and I was right as rain in a day. So this morning, I made myself a compress, two actually, of ginger for my sinuses, smashed fresh ginger wrapped in gauze, and pressed it down on the offending cheeks.

the left side did nothing, the right side blazed like the dickens. Oddly enough, it's the right side I'm having trouble with. Coincidence? I think not. I was careful not to get any ginger in my eyes, but my right eye stung like crazy, anyway. Because the sinus infection has moved to my eyes. That's right, folks, I'm a mess.

I drank ginger tea all morning, adding hot water and more ginger every time my little pot was empty. I lay with the compresses on my cheeks above my sinuses til the King of Everything came home from school. Wonder of wonders, it's working. For the first time in a month, something comes out when I blow my nose. I've got something like a sense of taste back.

Maybe next time I won't be so easily dismissive of natural remedies. Cause you know, there's always a next time.

the other side of the mirror

I used to be liberal. I used to go to rallies, protests, events. I waved a coathanger at the first pro-choice rally in DC, high on the shoulders of a friend of mine, high on the sheer mass of people there to be passionate about something. (and don't think you know my views on abortion because of this. you don't. Though I will give you one hint: I believe in choice)

I got older. I decided that I couldn't change the world with protest. I could only teach my child, and the children around me, to be kind, to be compassionate, to be considerate. I'm on a personal crusade for manners, now. I'm a centrist. I believe in family, and the power of humanity to strive always to be better. I don't believe the politics of left or right to be correct. I don't follow a party line.

Now I live in Dubai. There are no politics. The monarchy tells us what to do. If we choose not to do it, fine, we can go home. Now, for someone like me -- white, female, happy not to drink or experiment in a life of crime beyond taking a few extra Splenda packets from Caribou -- this just isn't a problem. I don't have a mother and father, a wife and three kids, my sister's oldest boy, all depending on me.

What Dubai doesn't want you to focus on is the fact that this city-state, like all great nations, is founded upon slave labour. And the real kicker? these slaves are paying brokers back in their native India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka and Indonesia, to be put into bondage. These workers make a pittance, pay for their own lodging and food, live 15 to a flat, and work through the summer when I get to run away to cooler climes. They make $200 - $400 a month and owe thousands of dollars to these brokers back home. They can't make ends meet. Of course they are rioting. They aren't paid much... but then again, they aren't actually paid, most of the time. The companies tie up the workers' pay for months. And if they don't like it? they can go home. Striking is illegal. These men haven't got the money for legal fees, so due process is duly denied. In the interest of 'national security', the development companies are hiring scabs to continue working. What are these displaced workers going to do? They can't go home. they can't work for another company. They are stuck.

When the Burj Dubai is finished, are we going to look at it in awe? Or are we going to think of the labourers who lost their lives due to shoddy safety standards, heat stroke, and heartbreak? Are our manicures and days on the beach really worth this? Dubai has the potential to be a miracle nation, and the wonders going up all around us are staggering. I love it here. I won't join the work strikes in solidarity. I don't want to be kicked out of the country. I toe the ine.

Had an evening out with a lovely couple on Saturday. He's an urban planner, and regaled me with stories of getting repeatedly fired from the same company for encouraging the Mexican workers to unite and strike for better wages and conditions. The owner of the company kept hiring him back. Street theatre, I suppose. I wonder how this man, new to Dubai, is going to survive working with his crews. He's just balls to the walls crazy enough to try to organize them.

I do what I can. I pay my babysitter well, and always a little bit extra. I don't haggle very well in the shops. If it's a good price, and I can afford it, and it costs less than it might if i were home... I pay. I leave a small tip in the coffee shop for favorite servers. I give alms to folks on the street. Some expats tell me I shouldn't treat these people well, they will only take advantage of me and think me weak.

from this article on MSNBC:

"We're here to earn money, not for happiness," Amin said. "No one comes to this country for happiness."

Animosity on the rise
Most of the hundreds of thousands of low-skilled workers are from India and other South Asian countries, with strong union traditions. Episodes of unrest began last year over living conditions, low pay and hazardous workplaces. At Amin's site, two Indian painters had died a few days before, when ropes holding their platform aloft snapped. In the worst outburst, as many as 3,000 workers rioted in March at the site of Burj Dubai, wrecking cars, computers and construction equipment.

Amin and Miah's complaints echoed others: The company seized their passports when they entered the country, their pay comes months late, complaints can lead to deportation and they make too little to offset the $175 they pay every month for rent and food.

"The law doesn't protect us," Miah said. "The government looks after the companies, and the companies don't care about us."

love song for an artist

I've been thinking about family. I miss my grandfather more than anyone knows. They don't know how much I miss him because I'm unable to articulate it. He died May 20, 2005 after an incredible, simple, incredibly simple life. Such beauty and elegance as you never thought to find in a mobile home. See, when my grandparents retired, they bought a little land in the middle of nowhere Virginia, close enough to all the grandkids that we could come visit on the weekends, far enough away that folks weren't always tromping through their living room. They had a great Airstream trailer, though it wasn't an Airstream, it only looked like one. It might have been a Streamline; it looked like an Airstream to me. they parked it on the lane opposite the cosy mobile home they plonked down in their woods, and we kids spent summers running around pretending to be Indians, swatting mosquitos, and running free. What a blessing!

At any rate, they didn't intend to stay in the mobile home. Some day they'd build a house. The mobile home was just a place to hang their hats when they weren't off trailering around the US in the wintertime. They went all over the US, and especially loved Corpus Christi down in Texas. I'll have to go there some day. In a trailer.

 

This is what I wrote for his memorial service. My mum asked for a copy...

My grandfather's hands were amazing. There was nothing they couldn't create, not a thing he couldn't fix. When he retired, they became the hands i knew and loved best: the hands of a silversmith. Cracked from the pickling solutions, with the black from polishing paste ground deep in the fissures, scrubbed clean, but never white, by lava soap at least half a dozen times a day.
My grandfather's hands created beautiful jewelry, flipped pancakes, baited fish hooks, built watches, rebuilt bikes, crafted brand new limbs for little kids, bandaged our scraped knees. His hands were full of grace. When he talked, they mirrored his conversation with the same spare precision as the words he used. Grandpa would lean towards you, hands open, fingers just slightly apart, making a gentle point, more often than not with a sparkle in his eyes and the beginnings of a smile around his mouth. Contemplative, those same fingers would steeple; deep in thought, those hands would fold in on themselves, fingernails lightly touching back to back, the whole works tucked chest high, tapping a rythmn, comfortable.
Grandpa would walk by you and his hands would reach out to pat your leg, squeeze your shoulder -- a gentle 'i love you' is what those hands were whispering. You had to listen to Grandpa's hands to really hear him talk, because so much of what rarely fell from his lips passed easily through his fingertips.
I think about all the things that he accomplished: working for the CCC, developing the artificial limbs program in Walter Reed, then on as a prosthetician at DC General, and becoming Fredericksburg's official silversmith. I think about the children whose lives he made better when he gave them a new arm or leg, i think about the love he had for his wife, the five children he raised, the grandchildren he shared so much of his time with, the great grandchildren he adored, and I am so proud of him, of what he created and accomplished with those two hands.

***

love you