Hello Blazers! Temperatures are rising, trees are budding, grass is greening, birdies are tweeting (no, not that kind), my Blaze, While She was Sleeping is on the shelves (Hint: probably not a good read for grandma) and spirits are up.

We move on to the next piece of our Lebanese meal. You can not think “food” and “Lebanon” without immediately conjuring tabouli. In fact, I wrote a short piece for my food-writing course which includes the recipe so I’ll be lazy and substitute that for a new blog piece today. Enjoy!

For two years before her death, my Lebanese grandmother lived with my family. We called her Teta, Arabic for grandmother. Convinced she had an ulcer, Teta restricted her diet to boiled and bland. Occasionally she allowed herself a taste of Lebanon (indicating the amount by pressing her thumb to the very tip of her finger): Hummus, halvah, and always tabouli.

Tabouli, the national dish of Lebanon, is not a beige, parsley-flecked wheat concoction as often presented in this country. It’s a parsley salad, vibrant green, mixed judiciously with bulgur, studded with tomato, fragrant with mint and scallions, enlivened with salt and drenched in olive oil and lemon.

In the era before food processors, tabouli was our special-occasion-only treat. While the finest grade of bulgur soaked, Teta and my father (full-blood Lebanese), my mother (Scottish-Canadian-American) and I would gather around the kitchen table to pick what seemed endless amounts of parsley. Washed and blotted, the leaves were then spread onto cotton towels to dry. Later we’d gather again, this time with knives (a small one for me) and cutting boards, and we’d chop. And chop. And chop. Parsley first, then mint (out of season we used dried) and scallions. “Is this fine enough, Teta?” She’d consider my effort seriously and either nod approval or shake her head and tell me to keep at it. “Little bit more.”

Chopping done, the magical moment when it all came together, Italian flag colors against the dark wood of the salad bowl used only for dinner parties and for tabouli. At meal time, we’d gather around the table in gleeful anticipation. Adults scooped with pieces of romaine lettuce; my brothers and I made “boats” using whole leaves, loaded bow to stern. The crunch was irresistible, the explosion of flavors addictive, the juice running down chins and forearms a necessary part of the experience.

Teta passed away, food processors came onto the scene, fresh mint showed up in supermarkets year round, salad spinners shortened drying time, and tabouli was demoted from special-occasion-only to whenever-we-felt-like-it. Dad used the magic of the Cuisinart to whirl ingredients to the proper fineness in seconds. I’d still watched him reverently pouring oil around and around the same dark bowl, lemon juice next, then salt, mixing, tasting, mixing. He’d consult me sometimes, “Does it need anything? Lemon? Salt? Oil?” I’d consider seriously and either nod my approval or shake my head and pick one. “Little bit more lemon.”

I now make tabouli alone in my kitchen. Only sometimes do I manage to capture my father’s skill with seasoning, but I always think back with wistful nostalgia to the days when three generations sat around the table with sharp knives and cutting boards, celebrating both family and culture.

Yet at dinner my sons, only one-quarter Lebanese, beam at me over their tabouli boats, juice running down chins and forearms, and I understand that I’m laying the groundwork for their fractioned inheritance to be passed, thriving, onto the next generation.

I feel Teta nodding her approval.

Tabouli

2 large bunches parsley (curly or Italian)
Fresh mint, about 1/4 of the parsley by volume
5 scallions
1 large tomato chopped into ½-inch dice
3/4 cup #1 bulgur (the finest grade)
Juice of 1 and ½ lemons
½ cup olive oil
1 tablespoon pomegranate molasses (optional)
salt and pepper
Inner romaine lettuce leaves for serving

Half a day ahead: Soak the bulgur in a medium-sized bowl with water to cover by a few inches for 4 hours (my dad does it this way, but I don’t think it needs this long). Pick and wash the parsley and mint, spin dry and let dry completely on cotton towels so the leaves will chop cleanly.

Cut scallions into 1-inch segments. Chop parsley (in batches) in food processor until finely chopped. Chop mint and scallions together until finely chopped but not mushy (about 30 seconds).

Drain off the top few inches of water from the bulgur. Pick up and squeeze handfuls dry, put into a large bowl. Mix in greens and tomatoes. Season with oil, lemon, molasses if using, salt (generously) and pepper. May be kept a couple of hours in refrigerator to allow flavors to develop. Take out an hour before serving.

Eat piling the salad into pieces of lettuce.

This entry was posted on Thursday, April 15th, 2010 at 6:00 am and is filed under Isabel Sharpe. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.