A/N (New): After I originally posted this chapter my beta came back to me and said that there were some things I should change. And as a smart writer, first I pouted because it's my fic and of course it's wonderful. I mean sheesh, I wrote it! Then I looked at her comments and whadda ya know, she had a point. And so enough of my jabbering. I'm declaring a mulligan and here is the version.
A/N (Original): Writing this ficlet series is amazing. Thanks so much to everyone who comes into my little corner of the world; and an even bigger thanks to those who review, favorite, and alert. Always-Underrated, MavenAlysse, saides, WhiskeySkye, you all rock! Gaben, thanks so much for beta-ing; and putting up with my many insecurities and deep obsession with food! Sprite91360, thank you so much for letting me dip into your Phone Call 'verse. If you all haven't checked out this series, you need to! It rocks!
Season 5 Age Of The Geek Baby! Season 5
Chapter 6: Times Past
It was another narrow win. But, they'd pulled it off. Saved the world, and all that. Shelley was coming over for dinner. That meant it would be an evening of stories and good times. Maybe a game of cards or two.
Joe had said he'd be over after he taught his last class down at the dojo. What to make for dinner? The last time he and Shelley had been on a mission… Well, that had been the Khyber Pass. Oh, that had been interesting. They'd hiked from the Khyber Pass to Torkham and managed to get a ride into Lahore in the back of a truck filled with goats.
After that they'd laid low in Lahore near the often contested Pakistan Indian border. They'd stayed with the Agha family; some people that Shelley had helped out a couple of years before. It was a gorgeous house; a single story whitewashed structure. It was pretty much a small and very secure fortress, with a courtyard in the middle filled with all kinds of plants. There was a huge vegetable garden where Eliot had spent the better part of a month until he and Shelley were well enough to head back to the States. This had been a really rough mission, a rescue mission. A rescue mission that had failed, because the target had been dead before they'd shown up. And the number of guards and security personnel had been over double what intelligence had predicted.
Luckily there had been friendlies around. And they had helped them get to Lahore; to Auntie Tari, and her family. And her courtyard garden; the flowers were beautiful; the reds, magentas, and lush greens. All kinds of plants that Eliot had never seen before. They weren't as brightly colored as tropical flowers that Eliot and Shelley had seen when they'd been places that couldn't be mentioned; but, they were beautiful.
Auntie Tari, as she told them to call her, Tari was short for Tahira. Auntie Tari was a wonderful woman, kind and generous. She told them about the history of Pakistan and about her childhood when it had been one country, India. Over meals of harissa, she told them about her school years and how everyone used to play together; the Sikhs, Muslims, and Hindis, but after nineteen forty-six sadly everyone had their own little corner of the schoolyard where there were no more shared lunches.
While Auntie Tari taught him to make harissa; a slow cooked porridge made of pounded meat, and cracked wheat, she told Eliot stories of Mughal emperors. She spoke of the Mughal conquests of the thirteenth century. She told of how the conqueror Akbar not only brought in his own traditions, but how he accommodated the local religions. She told him the stories about Muslim jihad that her ama had told to her during their quiet times in the nursery.
Over the hours that it took to slow cook the harissa, she explained the difference between a Mughal and a Mongol, the condiment harissa and the porridge harissa. And that depending on where you went it might be called Harees or Haleem. They ate harissa as a starter to the meals that Eliot cooked under the watchful eye of Auntie Tari. She told them stories about her mother teaching her to cook. Well, actually stories about watching the cook make the meals, after all this was an upper-class household!
While they toasted spices to make garam masala, she told him stories about the festivals she'd gone to as a child. As the cloves filled the air she told Eliot and Shelley about Mela Shalamar, the Festival Of Lights. And how when she was a child it used to take place in Lahore, but now was held in Baghbanpura the shrine to Shah Hussain, in the outskirts of Lahore. The suburbs as Shelley called it. She didn't tell them about the possible problems which hiding two fugitives could cause her husband second husband Bilal. Instead she talked about the food stalls they used to visit during Mela Shalamar. She told them about her life as a child, her first husband Ali, and her second husband Bilal.
The smell of cinnamon brought about the stories of how Mela Shalamar used to be the biggest of all the festivals in Lahore; but, now that was Basant. And that wasn't a good thing. The smell of cumin toasting made Auntie Tari tell stories about Ghengis Khan that she had learned in school. The pepper was stories of the conqueror Bebur and the Bāburnāma. After much fumbling with the language Eliot and Shelley understood that the Bāburnāma was Bebur's memoirs, the story of his life from his birth in what is now Uzbekistan. Every spice in garam masala, Eliot now associated with a story: The peppercorns; cloves; malabar leaves; mace; black, and white cumin seeds; black, white, and green cardamom pods; nutmeg; star anise; and coriander seeds.
Even now, years later when Eliot saw the large black cardamom pods, he thought of the time he and Shelley spent in the Agha's compound. And he when he crushed the pods and breathed in their aroma he remembered Auntie Tari explaining that black cardamom wasn't actually cardamom; but it was often used as a substitute when Pakistani's couldn't afford the real thing. It had been used for so long and the flavor notes were needed to round out the garam masala.
Over many small glasses of tea, she told Eliot and Shelley about how you could identify where someone was from by the type of tea they drank. Afghans drank green tea scented with cardamom, while Peshawaris would drink either green or black tea. Hindis liked black tea with cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves. Specifically they liked assam; if you were in the Indian foothills of the Himalayan mountains it was Darjeeling, and in the south of India it was Nilgiri, a strong black tea. There were no business deals made in Lahore without many cups tea being drunk. After tasting all three types of tea under the watchful eye of Auntie Tari, Eliot found he preferred Darjeeling; a delicately flavored tea. He especially liked the slightly biting notes of the second harvest teas; they were quite distinctive. Shelley really couldn't tell the difference between the Darjeeling teas and preferred Assam as it was more like coffee. Auntie Tari sniffed and called him a barbarian.
It didn't bother Eliot to be the favorite. Shelley had to ask a couple of times to get her to teach him things; Auntie Tari would always pass Shelley off to one of her many children or grandchildren. But, she was always willing to take time out of her day to teach Eliot, Punjabi and the official language of Pakistan Urdu. Auntie Tari spoke English because that was one of the official languages, but she was more comfortable in Urdu or Punjabi. Eliot's basic Arabic was a huge help in learning both Punjabi and Urdu. While Urdu was the official language of Pakistan, most people spoke Punjabi. After that it was Pashto and then Sindhi. Auntie Tari spoke English, French, Arabic, Punjabi, Urdu and Sindhi. She'd had to learn multiple languages as her father had been a diplomat in the pre-war world. By the war she didn't mean the post-2001 world that most Americans lived in. She meant pre-World War II, and the peaceful land that she'd grown up in.
In the time that it took Eliot and Shelley to weed her extensive gardens, they learned about Basant; the biggest festival in Pakistan. Auntie Tari told them about the feasts she'd held with her first husband Ali, now long decesased. The festivals; where she'd served Ali and the men folk Pepsi cola and green tea until late into night. She spoke of how most of the men had small glasses of "Pepsi" which Auntie suspected actually spiked with whiskey, even though most observant Muslims don't imbibe in alcohol. She told them about the high flying kites which swooped and dove in combat to the death, and how Basant's roots lay in Hindu traditions. Yet, no one in Pakistan was willing to acknowledge it.
Over the course of that month Eliot and Shelley spent in Lahore Pakistan; Eliot fell in love. He'd fallen in love with Auntie Tari, and the culture she'd taught them about. Auntie Tari was old enough to be his great-grand mother, but even now standing, in his modern kitchen in Boston, Eliot could think of no one he held in greater esteem than that wise matriarch. The lady that had healed his soul with stories and food. She'd made him boorani bajan; spicy eggplant with yoghurt. She'd made him weed her garden while telling him stories. And then made him bihari bhujia; potatoes with red chilies and crispy onions, to soothe his soul. She'd understood that they both had problems sleeping, and made them cup after cup of mint tea; a strong soporific. She'd understood the cabin fever that both he and Shelley suffered when they couldn't go out of her walls, because of the risk of being spotted by local enforcement she taught them to make naan; a heavenly flat bread. So during the fireworks that were being shot off during the festival of Basant she had them kneading bread dough and told them the stories of her youth. She felt their frustration when their bodies weren't healing as quickly as they felt they should and had them paint the courtyard walls. Eliot could still feel the ache in his muscles as they'd washed the stucco walls, then primed them, and finally painted them in a rainbow of festive colors. Looking back he realized it was great physical therapy! And as he kneaded the dough for tonight's dinner he chuckled at the similarities to the exercises he'd had physical therapists prescribe him.
And so Shelley and Joe were coming over for dinner tonight. And in honor of the stories they'd all tell that night, Eliot was making pasanda kebab; spicy lamb kebabs, chicken biryani; baked chicken and rice, and chappli kebab; spiced beef patties. There would be home-made naan to sop up the meat juices. A lot of meat, because as Auntie Tari's first husband, Ali always said "We are Muslim, and meat is what we eat!"
Bilal, Tari's second husband always had a forbidden bottle of whiskey for them to sip on while they'd been recovering in Lahore. The stories he'd told them, while slowly sipping and talking to them around the fireplace in the courtyard had been amazing. A friend had brought Eliot back a bottle of Pakistani whiskey a couple years ago when he'd had a job over there. Eliot didn't ask how he got it. But, this was a good night to break it out.
It was going to be a good night!
E/N (New): Yes, I know this was an awesome chapter. I had fun writing it! Well that is why I write: It's fun. I'ts frustrating. I'ts relaxing. And the list goes on. So if you liked it, or hated it. Drop a line and tell me why. And then go to my profile page and read the rest of my glorious fics. Cheers!
E/N (Original): All, the food is authentic. The spices appropriate. I might have erred on some of the details – if so; please tell me! The quote "We are Muslim, and meat is what we eat!" comes from the Sept/Oct 2002 issue of Saveur. One of their better issues. The articles in this issue are amazing!