Traditional Palestinian cuisine offers a rich variety of dishes characteristic of the eastern regions of the Mediterranean.
At a crossroads between East and West and a strategic post on the trading routes for centuries, Palestine has had its share of invasions and occupations by foreign forces. If such a tumultuous history has marked the national psyche, it has certainly served to enrich the Palestinian experience, conferring upon it the cosmopolitanism that distinguishes it from neighbouring Arab cultures, while strengthening the base that roots it deeply within the civilisations common to this geographic area. Modern-day Palestine is identified with a variety of lifestyles that cover a wide range, from nomadic migration to urban sophistication.
The establishment of many foreign communities who settled in the Holy Land in the aftermath of the Crimean War in 1855 has also contributed to the present character of Palestinian cuisine, especially in urban centres such as Jerusalem, Jaffa, Ramallah and Bethlehem. In its most recent history, especially during the last fifty years, the demographic changes that have swept the area have influenced culinary trends both directly and indirectly and although the scope of such influences is still to be determined, it cannot be dismissed or underestimated.
Palestinian cuisine, as an expression of this diversity and manifold social and cultural make-up, has shouldered the tides through integration rather than rigid resistance. Staple Palestinian dishes, based primarily on rice as a main ingredient, are a dramatic expression of this osmosis, as rice has always been an imported commodity. The cuisine of the Bethlehem area has evolved more dramatically than that of other cities, the main reason being its close proximity to Jerusalem, quite the international city since the second half of the nineteenth century, but also because Bethlehem has been exposed to outside influences in its own right. Still, due to the many villages that dot the landscape towards the south and which have close ties to the city, Bethlehem has managed to maintain rustic attributes and to happily reconcile the rural with the urban, the sophisticated with the earthy, in a way that distinguishes it markedly from Jerusalem. The testimony of a nineteenth-century pilgrim to the Holy Land still holds true:
Finally, here is the city, lying in the hills and surrounded by green valleys. The white houses, vain and bright in the fading light of the setting sun, are reflections of marble against the intensity of the deep blue sky. Low walls of dry stones happily delineate the hilly slopes into terraces and gardens, cultivated in a manner henceforth unfamiliar to Jerusalem.
L’Abbé Landrieux, In the Land of Christ
Lamb holds a place of honour at every festive occasion. Throughout the year, in both affluent and modest circles where every occasion necessarily gives rise to celebration, the slaughtering of a lamb is one important component capturing whole categories of cultural and social symbols that gird the fabric of daily life. Lambs are slaughtered for weddings; the occasion of the birth of a son; recovery from a long and serious illness; the return of a long-absent family member or friend; the building of a new home; and even the acquisition of a new car. The celebration of Easter and Adha, two major feasts based on the concept of sacrifice for Christians and Muslims alike, are a culmination of this tradition and the extended family meets around the festive table where lamb occupies the centre place. In the last three decades this practice has somewhat weakened due to several factors: urbanisation and the consequent changes in perceptions and lifestyles; economic considerations which are closely tied to a dramatic rise in the cost of living; and health awareness. However, it still persists in conservative strongholds and, more particularly, in the northern villages of Palestine where adherence to traditional practices was one of the few means of cultural expression under Israeli hegemony during the last fifty years. It also remains constant during such solemn occasions as the loss of a family member or neighbour. If the consumption of lamb has receded in favour of leaner beef or white meat, especially chicken, it still remains the basic ingredient in the rich regional cuisine and no Palestinian would ever consider honouring a guest with anything but lamb.
Samneh baladieh, or clarified butter, is another feature particular to Palestinian cuisine. During the spring season, the only time of year when the hills and grazing grounds are green and the ewes have just given birth, ewe’s milk and ewe’s-milk cheese are sold door-to-door. Samneh is strained butter that has been boiled with cracked wheat, nutmeg and turmeric, a bittersweet spice that gives it its musky flavour and a distinctive bright yellow colour. It is one of those ingredients that cannot be bought off the shelves but has to be obtained through a network of contacts among the nomadic bedouins who breed the sheep and make the butter. The month of April witnesses the stir of housewives inquiring about prices and quality, and those who have a sure source of supply warrant their stock for the whole year before passing on the information to others. Again, due to dramatic hikes in prices and health considerations its use has been greatly reduced in favour of healthier sources of fat and many cooks use it in small amounts for flavour.
When the milk is churned to extract the butter, the by-product, laban mkheed, is also processed for year-round storage. This buttermilk is left to drip through cheesecloth for a few days. The resulting pasty cheese is then kneaded with salt, cumin and turmeric, shaped into balls and dried over a wooden board in a dark room for a few days then stored in cloth bags. Individual balls of laban jmeed, as it is called in its new state, are diluted as needed for sauces for many traditional dishes. Bedouins in the Bethlehem area substitute the cumin with fenugreek, a highly aromatic, somewhat bitter, spice.
Last but not least, it is the careful use of spices that will ultimately impart character to any cooking. The range of spices and herbs used in Palestinian cuisine has multiplied through the generations, but it is the repeated use of basic ingredients such as allspice, cinnamon, cumin and cardamom that gives Palestinian cuisine its own stamp. However, whether driven by strict adherence to traditional practices or strongly tempted to experiment and innovate in search of a personalised style, Chef Escoffier’s adage to ‘stay simple’ cannot be truer than when applied to the use of spices.
Simplicity can be certified through the quality of the spices. Careful selection – a reliable ‘attar or spice vendor is as important to secure as a good butcher – and shopping in limited quantities according to your needs for no more than two months are essential. Spices should be bought whole, as grains, sticks or roots, and preserved in tightly closed containers away from any source of light or heat. Then they can be moulded, chipped or grated as needed. Luckily, buying spices in jars off a supermarket shelf is a luxury a Palestinian housewife can do without! The same goes for herbs; it is very useful to have a herb patch in the back garden or plant some select favourites in containers by the kitchen. Nothing equals the aroma of freshly picked herbs in a salad.
The inevitable bowl of home-pickled olives dominates every meal at every table. The olive tree is the centrepiece of every garden, however small, and is a blessed provider, needing little care and as little water. It is also an indispensable source of nutrition for every family: four trees in my garden are more than sufficient to provide for the needs of my family of six and the constant flow of family and guests for a whole year.
Formerly, preparations for the olive harvest stretched over many days of intensive work and involved the whole community, men, women and children:
It was a busy time of year, perhaps the busiest of all, and the whole town was astir with preparations. For the men, it was an occasion for getting together, exchanging general views and speculating over the yield of this year and the profit. For the women, it involved a somewhat more strenuous effort. They would start their long day with the first light when the men and children were still asleep and before the usual morning bustle distracted them from their labour. Only late after sunset, following the return of the men from town and the communal sharing in the frugal evening meal, they could pick up their sewing or embroidery.
When came the day for the harvest the whole household was up before dawn. Their eyes still swollen with sleep, the children huddled at the kitchen table sipping their tea. The women served breakfast to everyone including the jaddadeh, the hired hands; the hot bread from the tabun, lavishly smothered with the last olive oil of the year, quickly disappeared into hungry mouths.
Christiane Dabdoub Nasser, Farha
The uprooting of every olive tree, practised systematically in order to advance the Israeli settler movement on Palestinian soil, is an open wound that is meant to continually deplete the symbiotic attachment of the people to the land. Today’s harvests are but a caricature of former years and a brutal reminder of the history of a whole nation and its relationship to the land.
Up until fifteen years ago, it was still possible to tell the time of year from the vegetable and fruit market stalls. Nowadays, a youngster is more likely to guess the distance between Mars and Venus than the time of year to which a certain vegetable or fruit belongs. It often happens that I still wonder over a display of cucumbers right in the middle of winter when the weather is at its coldest. Mangoes in summer? Forget it. Modern agricultural techniques have erased such nostalgic moments forever.
Today, the true harbingers of the passage of the seasons are a few remaining fallahat who come into the towns to sell their produce out of baskets they bring in on their heads. They are tenacious peasant women who still believe in tilling their small plot according to norms inherited from their forefathers and can count on several private customers in Bethlehem, Ramallah, Hebron or Nablus. There are so few of them, however, that their name constantly circulates among the few lucky households who book them months ahead for special vegetables and fruits delivered to their doorstep. In the Bethlehem area, fresh produce comes mostly from the villages south of Bethlehem, namely Aroub, Battir, Hussan and Artas, and it carries the magic baladi label.
Baladi, from balad, country, refers to the produce of the land grown according to ‘authentic’ methods. In agricultural terms, it refers to products that grow in rainwater and where traditional know-how guarantees the use of natural fertilisers and a minimal use of pesticides and insecticides in order to ensure optimal flavour. It also distinguishes Palestinian produce from its Israeli counterpart, which has invaded Palestinian markets during the Occupation and has led Palestinian farmers to emulate the Israeli example of mass production. The stamp of baladi is the local equivalent to the ‘organic’ label so much sought after among well-to-do circles in post-industrial societies.
It has been mostly due to the parsimony and conventional practices of traditional housewives that the baladi label has survived the last thirty years, and their menus are still largely determined by the natural cycle of the seasons. Unfortunately, however, this distinction has brought on the inevitable dictates of the basic rule of supply and demand, and the constant hike in prices of baladi products has been frustrating to every conscientious housewife keen on maintaining the tradition. It has also led to a racket which caters for culinary snobbery: concerned environmentalists have recently discovered that Palestinian farmers have been using four times the legal amount of pesticides and insecticides in order to secure a lucrative harvest. The concept of baladi has thus become relegated forever to a bygone age!
But all ills can still have their good side. A housewife feels much less frustrated at the unannounced visit of cousins from America because she does not have to depend on the casual visit of Umm Issa bringing in fresh lettuce and string beans from her plot at Artas. Nor has she to look out for the sporadic calls of Ahmad down the street promoting the excellence of his prunes and apples from Battir. No one has to rush to the garden to check if by any chance there is a bunch of betuni left on the trellis. There is a vendor of fruits and vegetables round every corner; failing that, the local supermarket is sure to fill in your needs with frozen products. All thanks to modernity!
This book is an introduction to traditional dishes adapted to the tastes of a wide public avid for new culinary experiences and keen on maintaining a healthy balanced diet. The recipes should be considered as guidelines and once a recipe has been tried and repeated, it is up to each cook to venture further and experiment towards a more personalised version of a favoured dish.
It is, however, worthwhile noting that when it comes to individual kitchens, what elevates plain home cooking to a gourmet feat is nafs and no cook can pretend to any accomplishment without it. A derivative of nafas, meaning ‘soul’, this essential element refers to the generosity of heart that accompanies the preparation of every meal shared with family and friends.
Finally, cooking is not just about food but also about people. There is a whole chain of men and women whose labour contributes to the final serving of a meal yet it is in the kitchen that the magic occurs. This collection of recipes is a tribute to all the Palestinian women who have embraced tradition while looking towards renewal and whose cooking is a reflection of the inherent connection between permanence and transition in a dynamic culture.
