A Ramadan Tale - Chacha & the Tapenade

In which Chacha’s alacrity exposes him to my inner control freak

In Ramadan our lives are turned upside down. The general idea is to reduce outer distractions so inner interactions can take centre stage. Its not just food but a whole slew of other worldly activities that are restricted. Life in Karachi often gets to feel like a runaway train, so when Ramadan comes round I welcome it with the relief of one who’s found the brakes.  I am forced to stop, take stock and narrow down. The simple act of proscribing any form of alimentation during daylight hours lends inner muscle to the deeper ‘authentic’ self.

As I settle into the rhythm of the fast, I find a blissful inner silence starts to descend and infuse throughout my being. The usual mental white noise is hushed by the lack of blood sugar and by the cessation of constant taste-bud stimulation. There’s a distinct shift away from worldly pleasure to inner treasure.

Which is not to say that fasting isn’t a challenge! Fasting in Karachi brings with it its own peculiar pressures, pleasant and unpleasant, both. Heat and long busy days easily erode one’s energy levels.  Possibly the most stressful and conflicting aspect is iftaar. Well, not the act of breaking fast itself, but the accompanying culture of fried foods and over-eating.  Once upon a time iftaar was a matter of a few dates, water or milk, and maybe a warm beverage or light soup. While dates still appear on the menu in Pakistan, iftaari, as the fast-breaking is known here, is a much grander affair: the common comestibles prepared are pekoras (spicey gram flour fritters), samosas and chaat (spicy salads of chickpeas or fruit). There are of course many other delectables but almost every household would have these as the core of their fast breaking.

A Pakistani Muslim prepares to distribute food stuff among the people for 'Iftar', a time to break the fast, at a shop on the first day of holy fasting month of Ramadan, Sunday, Aug. 23, 2009 in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. During the Islamic holy month of Ramadan observant Muslims throughout the world refrain from eating, drinking, smoking and sex from sunrise to sunset. (AP Photo/Anjum Naveed) http://newshopper.sulekha.com/pakistan-ramadan_photo_945169.htm

I grew up in an Arab/European family that broke fast with dates and water, prayed and then ate dinner starting off with a light soup. A far simpler affair. Every year since I moved to Karachi I would declare my home a pekora-free zone, as I also harbour a morbid fear of re-using oil (heating oil releases those nasty free-radicals & carcinogenic peroxides). And every year I have started to succumb more easily to the expectations of fried, toxically tasty morsels. While virtuous low GI chaats help feed the higher centres of one’s being, the greasy stuff just drags the energies down. But that, it seems, is what the punters like!

Ramadan meals,therefore, often become a big deal.  Even sacrosanct. During the first few days the day long deprivation is often rewarded upon fast-breaking by a heightened awareness of how Nature’s bounty is a banquet of pleasure in taste and texture, usually taken for granted.  In my case this gratitude is accompanied by a strong streak of nutritional self-righteousness and keen moral aspiration. The demon fear of starvation is also manacled as you realize you can go through a calorie free day without collapsing.

Nevertheless over-indulgence always threatens – let’s be honest here! As my husband and I have grown older, however, we find that after the first few days of preparing Ramadan ‘treats’, we tend to retreat to safe, nourishing, digestible food. In order to function optimally, you cannot indulge in eating what you like in any amount you like. Post-iftaar indigestion threatens to obviate the whole purpose of the fast. I start to obsess about what I put into my mouth and fear invitations to other people’s homes where banquets of fried foods and other delectable dishes that one wouldn’t normally dream of eating for 'break-fast' are served. Pekoras and samosas are, in the final analysis, hard to resist. At least in my own home I have greater control. What you put into your body becomes as important as what it tastes like in your mouth. It’s a happy day when a liking for the two coincide.

Made from olives, capers, garlic, olive oil, lemon juice, herbs to taste. http://dico-cuisine.fr/news/tapenade

So now let me wax lyrical about tapenade. Breakfast in general – even outside the ‘fast’ -  has long posed a problem for me. Sugary cereals are out – can’t deal with the post insulin surge-slump. Toast, butter and jam is another slippery slope, particularly here where we cannot get real whole wheat bread or pure rye. I never grew up with a British-style ‘fry up’ so its not in my culinary vocab. The early pre-dawn meal of Sehri demands just the right kind of nourishment, light and savoury. And skipping to the heart of the matter: there is no substitute for a good tapenade on toast, preferably with the cooling and sweet counterpoint of fresh yoghurt on top, with a few fresh mung bean sprouts sprinkled on for crunch and living enzymes. A close second would be my father’s famous breakfast mixture – based on za'tar (eastern thyme) and yoghurt.

For Ramadan a few years ago Abbas had brought back with him from South Africa a small but costly jar of gourmet tapenade from a delicious deli.  And so it was with a sense of self satisfaction that we would spread a thin layer of this ambrosial paste onto our toast at 4 in the morning.  The earthy aromas and unctuous texture rendered the usual insipid ‘bran’ toast more than just edible, but delicious. Noble, even! So sparing were we with this treat that it seemed we’d be able to eke it out over almost the entire month. We were set!

Five days into the fast the jar disappeared. I let its disappearance go uncommented – after all we could eat other things too. I wasn’t too perturbed and enjoyed delaying the gratification. But the following day I searched throughout the kitchen for it. Finally, after a few puzzling hours of mounting frustration, I discovered the jar in the pickle cupboard. Suspicions aroused, I twisted the lid off to take a whiff – not entirely forbidden by the fast. Instead of that rich, olivey aroma, a sharp smell of vinegar scented with Iranian Angelica seed (golpar) assaulted my nostrils. What?! I was stunned. Some leftover Persian pickles had been decanted into this more appropriately sized jar. How could this have happened? As I googled my mind for all logical possibilities, one rapidly emerged. Chacha must have smelt the tapenade and thought it was off. And...thrown...it...out! Horrors! But he had saved the jar as he knew how thrifty I am with jars (well, they are very useful whenever its jam-making time).

I was apoplectic.

After a brief inquisition with Chacha, our tireless bearer-cum-chowkidar, he sheepishly acknowledged that he had indeed discarded the offending material as it had been left by the sink – an obvious indication to him that it was meant to be discarded. And besides, it did smell bad. To him. Needless to say, Chacha has never eaten an olive in his life, much less nibbled tapenade on melba toast. I’m not sure he even knew they feature in the Qur’an on that magical list of holy fruit and veg. After his admissal he first looked chuffed with himself, and then, as he saw my face cloud over, his eyebrows swiftly contorted into a spasm of mortification.

‘But Chacha!’ I remonstrated futilely, ‘it wasn’t supposed to be thrown away. It wasn’t bad!’ 

‘But it was left near the sink!’ he cried in dismay.

Too late. In my fulmination I thoughtlessly trotted out another dagger for his heart.

 ‘And it was expensive! Sahib had brought it from abroad!’ 

Having thus imbued this absent paste with even more unattainable mystique, Chacha’s mortification was complete. He hung his head in shame. The pain of failure and the embarrassment of ignorance radiated from his every pore.

His rueful demeanour slammed the brakes on my juggernaut of annoyance. I immediately castigated myself: how could I indulge in such indignation in the face of such innocence? Remorse reached down and in and whacked me one.

To see Chacha thus pained iced my ire in a jiffy, for Chacha is our resident Man Friday, our ‘salt-of-the-earth’.  And without salt bread tastes bland.

Respect!