BREAD

“You can travel fifty thousand miles in America without once tasting a piece of good bread.”
Henry Miller, American writer (1891-1980)

Sometimes, my mind conjures memories of Kurdistan that are extremely vivid. This happens to me, most of the time, as a result of listening to Kurdish music, especially when, having lost track of my thoughts, I am suddenly reminded of particular people or places, and, in those moments, I am overwhelmed by the feel of the memory. I have read that the sense of smell is one that strongly evokes memories in the human mind, but for me, the music does this more often than anything else.

It happens at other times too. Yesterday, upon returning from an overnight trip, I had to stop for a few groceries. As I was going around the store, collecting the items I needed, the thought occured to me to examine the selection of breads. I hoped that maybe there would be something new, something that would be similar to the bread of Kurdistan. Nothing. The same things.

I looked at the pide. The makers of the pide may do their best, but, as I look at the packages, I already know that this pide more resembles cardboard than anything else. I remember the bread I would get from one of the bakeries in Ainkawa. I remember the size, shape, color, texture, smell, taste of that bread, and I pass over the imitation pide before me.

I see packages of flatbread. It’s supposed to be an Armenian-style bread, but my skepticism tells me there is probably nothing like this in Armenia because I know there is nothing like this in Kurdistan. It is rectangular and thin with no texture and no taste. I remember the village nan of Kurdistan and, even as I reach to touch the package in the hope that, by some miracle, this bread will feel like village nan, I am again disappointed. It’s not such a great disappointment because I know that there are no such things as miracles, but it is disappointment nonetheless.

No pide. No village nan. Nothing.

I remember the grilled bread at one of my favorite places to eat in Amed. The bread is flat, baked in long pieces, and cut into squares for serving. In this restaurant, the squares of bread are brushed with spicy oil, lightly grilled and brought to the table cut in little strips and placed in a basket as an offering to appease hunger until the kebabs or grilled chicken arrives. It is warm, crispy, spicy and delicious.

I remember the village nan served with a lunch prepared by a Berwarî tribeswoman, as well as the entire meal. Lamb kebabs, chicken and rice, two kinds of soup, salad, the nan, gallons of hot, sweet tea after, served in the room of her house reserved for receiving guests, with carpets stretching from wall to wall and cushions lining the walls. A pair of birds flit in and out of the room, chirping in perplexity because they seem to have lost their way. I am happy when she comes in to sit with us, and to chat and joke and laugh with us as we drink tea. I am happy that she has not only honored us with her food, but also with her presence.

In reality, there is nothing unusual about her meal; it is typically Kurdish. But she is an artist with food, and her home is the epitome of that indescribable ambience created by the entire culture of Kurdish hospitality. Thus the entire visit is as delicious as it is unforgettable.

I remember all the roadside restaurants in Kurdistan where nan is served with every meal. I remember my friend’s sister kissing the piece of nan she had dropped on the floor as she picked up the remains of a meal. I wonder, if I dropped a piece of this packaged bread on the floor, would it be worthy of a kiss?

This is why, in the West, I rarely eat bread.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: