A few weeks ago I was tasked with taking an elderly Iraqi refugee to Social Security and DSHS. Her son and his family arrived a couple years ago; they're well-settled, and the father has a good job, so grandma was moving in with them. Since her grandchildren speak English, one of her granddaughters came along to translate. Unfortunately, grandma has really bad back problems and needed serious assistance walking anywhere. As soon as we get in the car, she starts complaining about health problems. Now, I love old people, but sometimes they wax on and on about the meds they take and what doctors they see and how many surgeries this toe had and blahblahblah, and it makes it difficult to enjoy the conversation. It's not a cultural thing; I'm pretty sure old people everywhere do this. So I employ my old-people-distraction-tactic, asking about "the good old days," which almost always works, and ALWAYS pays off. Old people have great stories, and this lady topped most of them. Her husband was in the Iraqi military for like 50 years and was an ambassador to France for a few years. So not only is she fluent in French, she's traveled the world, met awesome people, seen first hand the biggest political and global changes in the last near-century, and experienced both ends of the wealth and public favor spectrum. Her English isn't half-bad, either, and she's got a great sense of humor to boot. Her granddaughter is a sweet middle schooler, quiet and kind of shy, so grandma and I carry on our own muddled conversation mostly in English, partly in minimal French, with a smattering of my fragmented Arabic, cracking jokes the whole way through. She asks if I've had Iraqi food, and I explain I lived in Kuwait for two years, assuming Kuwaiti food is pretty similar. She belly laughs and assures me I haven't lived til I eat Iraqi food, "BEST in the world." I will gain 5 kilos as soon as I start eating it, she says, because I won't be able to stop. Come to my kitchen! I will make you fat like me! So I promise I'll come by sometime and try her cooking.
After a long day sitting in offices, we make it home, and I tell her she should take a nap. Instead, she makes me sit on the couch and watch t.v., and brings me a full plate of baklava straight from Iraq. I eat a couple of pieces, dripping with honey, and rave about how good it is. I don't have to fake that, because it really is absolutely delicious. She tells me to eat another piece, and I don't want to be a pig, but ok, fine, twist my arm. We sit and talk, and she shows me old pictures of her husband in his uniform, pictures of him shaking hands with generals and politicians. Her son looks just like him. I ask if she has any pictures of herself from then, and she says no, they're in Iraq. Even years after his death, she is excited to talk about him, proud of his accomplishments and character. She may not seem sad, but she certainly still loves him, and I feel glad she can be with family again, investing in her husband's legacy through caring for her grandchildren. The littlest granddaughter, out of the four, all girls, plays on the floor. Grandma asks, "Are you a GOOD girl? You are a BAD girl, very bad." She smiles mischievously and says, "Nononono, GOOD!" They both laugh, and the grandma makes me eat another piece of baklava. Ok, last one, I say. One more, one more, she insists, literally holding another piece in front of my face. She wasn't kidding about fattening me up, so I take a bite and put it back on the plate. Eventually, I head out after giving her son my phone number so she can call me and we can set up a time to eat a real meal together.
He calls a couple weeks later, explaining that somehow they got the wrong number, or they would have called earlier to invite me over. We make plans for lunch on a Thursday, when the family's old case worker can come, as well as the grandma's new case worker. I'm really excited, and when the day comes, I make sure I'm good and hungry before heading over. The grandma and mother have been cooking all morning, the father is home from work, and there is a huge feast waiting for the six of us. I should have written the names of the dishes down, because I've forgotten them now, but there was roasted chicken biryani with potatoes, rice with thyme and beans, regular rice, goat and tomato soup, spiced meat patties, chopped salad with cucumbers and tomatoes, mango juice, and more I can't even remember now. Needless to say, it was all amazing, and I ate way past the fill line of my stomach. My favorite dish was the rice with thyme and what I think were lima beans, which went with the goat soup. Ah, I'm getting hungry now just thinking about it. I could definitely gain a solid 5 kilos in a week eating like that every day. One of the many perks working with refugees! Next on the menu, Afghani food :)
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