Sunday means...

...family lunch!!! It's been a while since I've shown off the foods that are keeping me happy (and flourishing), so I thought I'd share a bit of today's Sunday family lunch. This is going to make you hungry, so only scroll down if you've already eaten.

Hriese, a soup mixture of shredded mutton, wheat and spices (mainly cinnamon), sprinkled with cinnamon. Ata made it especially for me because she knows it's one of my favourite local dishes. Guess who has a Tupperware of the leftovers to take down home to Beirut tomorrow...

Fattouche, a Lebanese salad with toasted Lebanese bread. Bride cousin made today's salad, but here's Dad's recipe (his speciality back home):

Ingredients for salad

Lettuce

4 tomatoes

2 cucumbers

2 onions

2 green peppers

1 cup chopped mint

1 cup chopped parsley

4 slices toast (this is the South African version)

Ingredients for dressing

1/2 cup lemon juice

1/2 cup olive oil

4 cloves of garlic, crushed

salt & pepper to taste

Slice and mix all the vegetables together (the mint and parsley are a bit of a schlep because of all the leaf-picking). Fifteen minutes before serving, add the toast and pour over the dressing and mix it all together. Sahtein!

The true Lebanese version includes sumac and purslane (not always the easiest things to find back in South Africa).

Mahshe malfouf: mince and rice wrapped in cabbage leaves. Ata always puts the perfect amount of garlic and lemon juice in her pot, creating a divine taste in these cabbage rolls that are served with laban (Greek-style yoghurt).

It's time for Africa

I miss Jabu. In fact, I miss hearing the names Ayanda, Mpho, Dineo, Sechaba... I miss the smiling faces of African people. Black skin here is covered by a street-cleaner's green Sukleen overall or housekeeper's aproned, light-blue outfit. It's silly how I feel connected to these people I don't even know just because they've come from the same continent as me; but at the same time I'm so disconnected because they're never out in the places I frequent in Beirut. That's why, when I heard the sounds of the Ethiopian band playing at the opening of the new Gemmayzeh rooftop bar Coop D'Etat, I couldn't stop myself from joining the African ladies showing off their sway on the dancefloor... to reconnect with my continent. What a refreshing night out, seeing fifty-year-olds next to twenty-year-olds - from Lebanese and Ethiopian to Dutch, Danish, American, British, Irish and South African.

Waka waka yeah yeah!

Fashioning my mood

Lebanon loves hitting me with a surprise when I'm feeling down. She (and I know she's a she because she has just as many ups and down as any girl I know) knows how to give me a lift when I'm sick of public transport, ogling men, rude shop keepers, lousy waiters, loud hooters, queue skippers, old-school thinkers, pay-for beaches and littering taxi keepers.

Take yesterday for example. I was on www.travelstart.co.za checking out prices for a ticket back home - back to Ava, men who don't even know I exist, chatty kafee tannies, Knead's energetic waiters, robots that serve a purpose, diligent queues in Home Affairs, way-out radical ideas, Muizenburg's ever-long beach and dustbins on every street corner.

But then Lebanon threw two incredible things my way. They both happen to be fashion related (and you still think she's not a she?!) and they both rocked my world, clothing me in happiness.

The first came in the form of Botox. The kind Lebanese ladies love injecting into their faces. But yesterday's Botox came in a bag. My interview with Mauro Orietti-Carella, creative director and CEO of Zagliani, an Italian handbag brand established in 1947, had us exchanging 'oh it's so fab' comments about each other's handbags - mine from Tokyo (which he loved because he grew up there, and has also designed a bag in the same shape); his a croc-skin tote bag injected with his signature silicone Botox concoction, in a colour he created to resemble the moon. Soft to the touch, yet durable when you rub them up the wrong way, his python- and crocodile-skin bags (all injected by him and his dad) can be seen strutting down Rodeo Drive, dangling on the arms of J-Lo, Cindy Crawford, Rihanna, Janet Jackson and Kylie. They're up for grabs at Aishti too, making Lebanese women more Botox-obsessed than ever before.

The second fashionable encounter happened by chance. Beirut Souks are having their official opening this week, and I happened to be taking a wander through them after my Botox-bag interview. A huge grandstand was being erected down at the end of one corridor, and the journalist in me just had to investigate. A security guard informed me it was for Elie Saab's fashion show last night (apparently his first show in his home country in 18 years!).

'Ooooh, how exciting!' I squealed. 'Yes, that's him there,' said the security guard, pointing to a black-suited back five metres away from me, happy to have made my day. Of course the camera was swiftly hauled out of the Tokyo bag to take a shot of this international fashion designer's back and shiny grey hair. But the security guard, keen to make my day even better, insisted I go closer and get a photo with Elie (did I mention that I was not loving Lebanese people three hours before this star-struck incident?!). I moved in for the kill but, being the queuing South African that I am, did not have the guts to bring out the Lebanese in me and interrupt his conversation.

I waited patiently (well, as patiently as a person who's about to meet a designer whose dresses always feature on top of her designer list) next to a very handsome, slickly suited man, who, it turned out, was his assistant who travels up and down with him between Paris and Beirut (and everywhere else in between, like, um, Cannes). He called Elie up to us (yes, Elie Saab came up to me!) and took a photo of the two of us. It may not have been the red carpet, and there was no evening gown in sight, but it turns out Elie Saab thinks I'm quite a starlet - I mean, he didn't take his sunglasses off!

I got the purest taste of Elie Saab, the man behind many of Angelina Jolie's gowns. A gentle, welcoming and friendly man, whose hands (the same ones that draw sketches that become creations such as Halle Berry's 2002 Oscar-winning dress) touched mine - twice!

Elie and I. Just your average day in Beirut!

Rachel McAdams at the 2010 Oscars in her uber-feminine, pastel-coloured Elie Saab gown.

Finding peace

Buzzing generators were the only sound heard in the village streets on Wednesday. Dekens stopped selling 7Up, the ice-cream shop shut its doors, builders downed their tools and even fat neighbour's voice was silenced. The moghtar had died and was being buried.

Kholso zeiteto as they say up here. His oil has burned up.

That, I understood. The message about his death, however, was less comprehensive.

Tuesday morning, 7am, same wake up call as always in our village warsheh. Construction works at their peak. It's tiling time, and it seems the best time of day to razorblade through these tiles is early in the morning. Must be something about the way the sun reflects from the angle grinder... Either way, it's a resounding noise that takes us right up to lunchtime. Except that Tuesday was different. By 10am the noise had vanished. I thought nothing of it - must have been ahwe time - and silently stepped outside to reset the Internet box on the roof (the joys of Lebanon's slow connections), only to be accosted by the only worker left on our property.

'Did you hear what happened?' he asked solemnly. No, I hadn't. What had happened?

'Blah, blah, blah twafa...' Which I understood as 'blah, blah, blah taffa'.

twafa = he passed away

taffa = it went out (as in electricity or a candle)

'No, no, there is electricity,' I say, smiling widely and nodding my head. 'The fan's still on.'

'La ya hammeh, twafa!'

'No, don't worry, it's just the Internet that's not working.'

'La ya hammeh!!! Met el moghtar!' (The moghtar died!)

Women and men left the cool comfort of their stayghas on Wednesday afternoon to bid farewell to the 51-year-old man who died in his bed after watering his garden two houses up from us on Tuesday morning. Villagers dressed in black congregated in the village sala to pay their respects to the moghtar's family.

The church bells rang solemnly that afternoon, just as they'd rung on Tuesday morning to announce the death of a villager. Ahwe was poured for all those visiting the moghtar's family in the sala where they sit to receive condolences. Some people stay all day - for three days - drinking ahwe with long, sad faces.

The dead leader of the village now has posters of his face tacked onto every tree. Villagers who were not home to hear the bells ring and listen to the public-speaker announcement of his death, or those who didn't receive an SMS of the news, will know that he is no longer their leader by the picture of the mustachioed man haunting every street.

The moghtar's brother was busy tiling our staygha when he received Tuesday's news. He dropped everything and ran to the home where his mother had discovered the lifeless body of his eldest brother. Our staygha will always remind him of the day he lost his brother. The day his brother, our moghtar, found his peace.

Glossary

deken = convenience store

moghtar = elected village elder

warsheh = building site

staygha = patio

sala = hall

ahwe = Turkish coffee

Eids and fires

Two things the Lebanese cannot do without: eids (feasts) and fire or fireworks. There's always some kind of eid going on somewhere in the country - be it a religious celebration, someone's birthday, pre-marriage festivity or celebration of a child's first tooth. No occasion goes by without having the word eid preceding it. And nothing, as in nothing (not even a tray of shooters) goes by without some form of firework attached to it. Fireworks for weddings, candles for shrines and fires for religious days such as yesterday's Eid el Saleeb (Feast of the Cross).

Fat neighbour came up with the clever idea that, seeing as yesterday was Eid el Saleeb, we might as well make use of the massive pile of dead leaves and pruned branches that were collecting in our back garden (thanks to Dad's big, ongoing garden clean-up project) and cast them into flames in celebration of the eid.

And so the aboulleh was ignited, reminding me of the Eid el Saideh celebrations celebrated in Lebanon during our childhood, where we'd go to Jeddo's brother so catch the spectacular aboulleh show before heading back to Jeddo's staygha for the magical fireworks' performance.

The interesting thing about this eid, is that the 12 days leading from Eid el Saleeb will supposedly indicate what kind of weather we can expect for the upcoming 12 months of the year. Yesterday was very cloudy and it rained in some parts of Lebanon (so September will be that way - which i don't understand if the rest of the month is going to be an indicator...) and today is sunny with a bit of cloud (so October will still offer us some sun).

Tomorrow will tell what kind of November we can expect. Whatever the weather, we can definitely be sure the month will be accompanied by hundreds of fireworks and many eids.

Beit essentials

A Lebanese beit (home) requires a few essentials. I will highlight three of these. Please feel free to add what you think makes a home a beit.

The arguileh. Best enjoyed on the patio or balcony. Hence the construction of the new staygha in our village home. I mean, we need a visible spot to be seen looking relaxed with a pipe dangling from our mouths when guests arrive or villagers drive by. Cough cough.

The brie. A glass water jug found in every kitchen. It allows residents and guests to drink from the same vessel without allowing it to touch their mouths. Lift it by its handle and tip it above your reclined head to let a stream of water enter your ridiculous-looking open mouth from the nozzle. The water streams down nonstop for as long as you can glug. People here have become so accustomed to the brie that they even drink like this from their plastic water bottles - even when no one else is sharing the 500ml bottle!

The Almaza. Lebanese Pilsner beer since 1933. Nuf said.

Yesteryear's Hamra

I spent a morning with the folks in Beirut's Hamra Street, passing by some old joints they remember. Well, places Mom remembers at least. Dad couldn't seem to locate the pubs and clubs he used to frequent ;) I love seeing things through their eyes, and noting how Beirut has changed since the war.

The Saroulla Center that Mom remembers was a much larger space where her aunt Pruni had a burger joint called Saddle Sore - the first American diner of its kind in the city. The lemon meringue was baked in her home and was a hit in Beirut.

During the year in which Mom and Dad were corresponding by mail (they met while Dad was on holiday in Lebanon and wrote letters to each other for a year before he returned to propose and fly her off to the wider streets of South Africa), Dad's cousin took Mom to the Piccadilly Theatre to see Fairouz live. Mom remembers being rather embarrassed by her escort singing along to every tune by Lebanon's most famous singer.

Way In is where Mom used to purchase all her books for varsity when studying at BUC (Beirut University College), now LAU (Lebanese American University. With LAU on one side and AUB on the other, this is a Hamra institution that will never close down.