Unable to speak a word of English, I was scared and isolated. In post-9/11 America, showing up as a Lebanese immigrant in a predominantly white community made me the target of relentless bullying. My parents were busier in Boston than in Anfeh, but my mom insisted on having dinner around the table every night as a family. It was important to sit together, discuss our day, and check in, but because both my parents worked full-time jobs, at ten I started stepping in to help make dinner.
I started off with a small repertoire that included chicken burgers, fettuccine or ravioli, and sometimes shawarma skewers. The burden of being bullied, of being called names, and the pressure to speak unaccented English all dissipated as I’d rolled out Pillsbury pie crust to make my own version of savory mini croissants. I would stuff them with sliced deli ham and cheese from Stop & Shop, top them with sautéed mushrooms, and always finish them off with an egg wash, Jacquo’s finishing touch. During the few times that Odette and Jacquo came to visit my family in Boston, they’d share their culinary secrets with me, wanting to keep their traditions alive. Notebook in hand, I learned how to make stuffed potatoes and whole chicken filled with rice and ground lamb, an unforgettable dish. One time Odette yelled at me, “What, are you a lazy American now?” because I’d wanted to use Minute Rice instead of jasmine rice to make her riz a djej. I couldn’t help but laugh as I hid the offensive rice from her view.
After what felt like a lifetime, I returned to Lebanon at the age of fourteen to visit my family. It was summertime when I returned to Anfeh, and everything felt so surreal. All the memories I was holding on to came flooding back: the beach, the grilled fish, the French fries, the long trip to Aleppo, that kibbeh nayyeh—except this time I would scarf down two toshkas instead of one.
Speaking Arabic and French all day after having to communicate only in English for five years was a wild sensation. While playing cards at night with Odette and Jacqueline, I would try to get more recipes out of them. They kept their secrets guarded, but I would follow them into the kitchen and watch anyway. It was never easy to leave, but it was always a celebration to go back every summer. I would hold on to the food memories, often salivating thinking about what my first meal would be when I landed back in Beirut.
Middle school was a drag. I attended ESL classes all day, and the bullying continued to be horrendous. Every day, I would race home, grab my Diet Coke and Cheez-Its, and glue myself to the TV at 4 p.m. for the Oprah Winfrey Show. As soon as it was over, I would get in the kitchen and make all the things I had been daydreaming about during school.
By the time I reached high school, I was finally speaking fluent English, and my thick accent began to fade away. I started to relax and figure out who I really was. When my high school cut cooking classes from their curriculum for budgetary reasons, I petitioned and started my own after-school cooking club, held in the cafeteria. Students actually showed up, and the cooking club turned into my own broadcast cooking series on the local public access channel, taped from my home kitchen once a week.
I knew I wanted to become a chef, that food was my way to find myself and keep Lebanon alive within me.
Excerpted from Keep It Zesty: A Celebration of Lebanese Flavors & Culture from Edy’s Grocer with permission from Harper. © 2024 by Edy Massih
