A version of this work was published in ZineWest: Western Sydney poetry art prose, 2019. Awarded Highly Commended.
Ingredients
4 Aunties in the kitchen
4 Large McCafe coffees
Big silver bowl
Conversation
Also: burghul, lentils, lemon and garlic. Only one auntie knows the exact quantities of each. It’s a secret recipe written on a scrap of paper, lodged in a recipe book in someone’s house somewhere.
The McCafe coffee tradition merged with the burghul and lentil soup tradition a few years back, when Taita was still with us. The only drink we were allowed on Good Friday was water, because Taita believed we needed to suffer like Jesus did. My family is afflicted by a horrible genetic condition known as ‘Early Morning Intolerance’, so this truly was suffering of the worst kind. But one year, Mum cracked like a lentil in boiling water. She did the naughtiest thing she’s ever done before or since: swerve into the McCafe drive-thru and order four large lattes, fearing the wrath of Taita more than God. I remember holding the flimsy cardboard tray for the rest of the car ride, only to endure the divine reckoning of coffee overflowing and scalding my tiny hands.
Method
Step One: There is no method
Auntie is responsible for kneading the burghul in the big silver bowl. She presses her fingers between the grains to measure the texture, asks me to add more water, sprinkles more salt, tastes a spoonful, asks me to add more water, asks me to add more flour, pounds the burghul a little more, tastes a spoonful.
Perfect.
We are ready to roll.
The traditional Lebanese dish, Kibbit healeh, has been altered beyond recognition in our household. Once, I tried to feverishly transcribe the recipe, but gave up after realising it was an assortment of vague, subjective commands rather than any measurable methodology.
Taita is also credited with inventing a unique deviation from the original recipe: the fried burghul nugget. In a completely different process to the soup ball, to create the fried nugget we use three fingers to flatten the ball into a disc shape, leaving a jagged imprint. Then we fry the nuggets in a saucepan sizzling with crispy brown onions. This spin-off originated when a soup ball accidentally fell into the onion pan. The rest is history.
Auntie is the nicest person you’ll ever meet. However, she’ll quickly turn into Lebanese Gordon Ramsay the moment you roll an unsatisfactory burghul ball.
Step Two: A round ball is a good ball
Auntie is the nicest person you’ll ever meet. However, she’ll quickly turn into Lebanese Gordon Ramsay the moment you roll an unsatisfactory burghul ball. It was cute when our cousins were babies, throwing squares and hexagons into the broth willy-nilly. But if you’re an adult and are still unable to form a perfect sphere, Auntie will evict you from the kitchen faster than an MKR contestant plating up undercooked chicken. Case in point: Good Friday 2018, when she ordered my brother to cease all rolling immediately and fix the TV instead.
Step Three: Like something out of The Sixth Sense
One minute the kids are watching music videos; next minute, the TV is glowing white. I comment that music video technology has really come a long way, before realising there is actually something wrong. My brother fiddles with some dials at the back of the monitor, unplugs and plugs in various cables. But the screen remains white.
Then, this. Mum reminds us of a chilling fact.
Taita never let us watch TV on Good Friday.
Shudder.
Step Four: Mass exodus
When I was young, my whole family were compelled to go to Our Lady of Lebanon church for 3pm mass. Most of the congregation had also cooked and consumed burghul balls for lunch, so the air in the church was a thick and suffocating infusion of garlic, onion, and surges of incense. If a vampire happened to walk within a two-kilometre radius of Harris Park, our collective breath would have exterminated their soul within seconds.
This year I decide to stay home with my siblings, because Mum and Dad’s Foxtel subscription is our Easter miracle. While they endure two hours of morbid reflection, kneeling in prayer for their children’s sins, we resurrect old episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm and worship the awkward situational faux-pas of life on earth.
Garnish with a small sprig of guilt.
Serves 18-20 people, give or take, with some leftovers for lunch tomorrow and a little extra if the neighbours visit.
Danielle Catherine 