Tabbouleh

2020 Short Story & Essay Contest: Honorable Mention, Adult Short Story Contest

June 16, 2020 6:32 p.m.

Mother prepared tabbouleh as an easy salad, so refreshing to eat in the summer.

But my sister Sohair, her friend Najla, Najla’s brother Majed and I wanted to do our own.

We were best friends and in their house we played games that were forbidden in ours. Father thought games were a waste of time and he encouraged reading instead. Majed preferred cards, and I liked “Barjees” which we played on a dark velvet fabric with colorful embroideries. Six cowry shells, used previously as money, were thrown on each turn. Whether they landed on their opened or closed side determined the moves, much like a pair of dice.

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I was in love with Najla and desperately wanted to give her a glimpse into my feelings. She was so beautiful, a few months older than me and taller, with hazel eyes and straight black hair arriving to her shoulders. A budding woman at age 11.

Tabbouleh needed a collaborative effort. Najla would give the orders and I proudly carried them out.

I picked tomatoes from the patch that the gardener cultivated on our property. They had to be ripe, evidenced by red color with a bit of green left at the stem. Firmness was equally important because if they were too ripe the taste changed to slightly sour. I used my hand to check the weights. Not too big, not too small.

It seems that some of the tomatoes shouted at me, “Pick me, pick me,” slightly jealous of the chosen one.

And I replied: “I prefer the mature ones, as you are too green. You are lacking the most desirable qualities of the tomatoes with five basic tastes, sweetness, sourness, bitterness, saltiness.”

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The best way to select the prime tomatoes was to pierce the red delicate skin with my front teeth and suck the juice coming from its punctured flesh.

To hide this unconventional method, I covered the holes with my fingers and quickly cut the tomatoes into small pieces.

In the next patch grew romaine lettuces. I often watered these green rectangles and saw occasional worms, but mostly orange and black streaks of monarch butterflies.

Majed went to the mint patch and chose the delicate green leaves. Their cool and refreshing fragrance wafted around him, spreading tranquility and peace as they left the taste buds with a mild menthol taste.

The next plot in the garden grew the flat, dark green Italian parsley. And as soon as it was cut, its peppery anise-like perfume floated in the air but could not compete with the mint. The former accepted its refreshing taste essential to the tabbouleh.

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Sohair picked the white onion with its strong “bite,” which made her teary while chopping. Often the tears would overflow silently, which seemed odd because her voice was not distraught.

Najla brought the yellow lemons. She squeezed the juice.

On one occasion the drops of citric acid showered her face and eyes, making her weep at precisely the same time Sohair’s tears were flowing.

The two friends looked at each other and burst with wholehearted laughter and said: “This salad cost us tears but nothing will keep us back from our love of tabbouleh.”

Then they fetched one cup of bulgur, along with all our local fresh ingredients, and walked down the valley away from the house. But they forgot to ask Mother the oil and lemon proportions. So we added salt and tasted. Then added more lemon or extra virgin olive oil, and tasted again, relishing the savor when it was just right.

We sat in a circle on a very smooth large rock warmed by the sun. We were in the middle of quietness, still as in silent prayer.

From here we could see the opposite mountain, with the village of Majd -el Baana, its vineyard, fig trees and pomegranates.

The mountains traced an irregular cropped horizon against the sky as the sunset changed the space into orange, then blue colors as clouds added a splash of white to the scenery. Life was like that for a 10-year-old lad.

We shared our meal.

We used grape leaves as napkins since we had no utensils. I loaded tabbouleh on a leaf of romaine lettuce. It served as a spoon until I crunched it, dripping oil and lemon over my cheeks and chin. The taste of each ingredient tickled my taste buds with heavenly pleasure.

I offered the lettuce heart to Najla as a symbol of my eternal love.

She took it from me without batting an eyelash or giving it any thought, unaware it was a hidden sign of my affection. She crushed it with her teeth, making a muffled grinding sound.

We finished our salad, happy with our accomplishment and a pleasant fullness. On our way back we came across a herd of billy goats with their musky odor and their rowdy bleating and whose milk I used to drink.

We went up the valley when the North Star showed in the sky and returned to our respective apartments. Majed and my love lived on the second floor, above us.

Tabbouleh was refreshing in summertime, and it was as good and tasty as my mother’s.

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