Anthony Bourdain said it best, when he asserted that context and memory play powerful roles in all the truly great meals in one’s life. It’s a philosophy echoed by Dina El Mahi, one of the rising stars of the community focused culinary circuit who along with her family, embraced Bourdain’s musings and approach to life, travel and food.

Along with a school of equally passionate food auteurs, she hosts a monthly gathering titled One Meal with Egypt offering guests the chance to experience the diversity of Egypt through a presentation of culture and traditional Egyptian food.

In what we hope will be a regular serving of meals and lives past and present, we invite you to a view from the KRULL Kitchen.

THE KITCHEN: MY FAVORITE COLOR

I was born in Stockholm to two Egyptian parents:

Rehab (mother): Loves football, wears Estee Lauder’s perfume “White Linen”, is an interior designer, and is the vanguard of all things Egyptian in my upbringing. She speaks Arabic to my father and I.

Samir (father): One of the first Arabs to arrive in Stockholm in the 60s, owns his own European restaurant, loves Faulty Towers, smokes Red Prince cigarettes, and loves to eat Milk Chocolate with Fruits and Raisins before his daily nap. He speaks Arabic to my mom and Swedish to my siblings and I.

My older siblings, who come from my father’s previous marriage to a German woman, are:

Santina (sister): Listens to Duran Duran and Depeche Mode religiously, her favorite sport is kicking me out of her room, she is the best at anything she does, and loves salty liquorice. She speaks German to my brother and Swedish to our father.

Sami (brother): has long hair to his waist, thinks he’s Rastafari, owns a python snake, and seems to be part of a cult that worships Bob Marley. He speaks German to my sister and Swedish to our father.

The five of us go under my father’s surname, El Mahy (which I spell El mahi) and we are the only foreigners on the block but are well camouflaged in a big wooden Swedish Red house that has a garden at the front and a small forest at the back. The soul of the El Mahy household is the Kitchen. Rain or shine, my father cooks and gathers us all around the dining table every day at 15:00 to eat, bicker, complain, and give my parents a headache. It is a wonder that this house can fit all five of our characters, languages, eccentricities and rituals. Each of us are lone wolves and do our own thing except two things that we quite enjoy doing together: eating and making fun of our neighbors.

During the day, if I am not outside playing in the woods, watching Arabic dubbed Disney movies (watching Snow White speak in Classical Arabic is awesome on so many levels), I am in the kitchen with my father. If allowed, of course. I feel important. I am the sous chef helping Pops with the “mis en place” and food tasting. Mostly, I love observing my father as he effortlessly creates some of the most complex yet delicious European dishes, while still wearing his pyjamas. He has swagger like that.

Every Saturday Mom, Dad, and I will hit the grocery store. Dad’s car smells of his Chanel no.5 and smokes. Dad turns the engine on and plays the same cassette of his favorite Oum Kalthoum song, El Atlal, every Saturday. Oum Kalthoum can make my father cry sometimes and he never cries. I try to listen, to understand why my father loves her so much…but I just do not understand why she mesmerizes him. I, however, am mesmerized by Dad and how he knows where all the fruits and vegetables come from. Visiting the grocery store with my father is like visiting the world to me. One aubergine, tomato, and paprika at a time. Small little transits. This is my world: My family, in the red house, gathered in our kitchen, with the woods as my playground.

A day arrives when my mother sits me down to tell me that she and Dad have made some big decisions. They have decided that we will all move to Egypt. That I will start a new school there and make new friends. That they will sell the Red house and buy a new place. I do not notice that I am crying until my Mom wipes away my tears. Tears that taste blue and salty like the sea. Tears that taste like change and the unknown. I am Dina: I am 7 years old, I love to cook, I love the woods, I like Madonna, and I love the color Purple.

We live on 22 Wadi El Nil Street, in the province of Giza. 20 minutes away from the Pyramids. The name of our street in English means: 22 Valley of the Nile Street. Our apartment is on the fifth floor and is surrounded by other high rise buildings. My brother cut his hair and follows in my father’s footsteps and is studying at a culinary school in Switzerland. My sister moves with us to Cairo and starts her studying at the American University in Cairo and I am enrolled at the El Alsson British School. I feel somewhat lost in this big city, it is hard for me to make friends, and I feel disoriented. This feeling of disorientation subsides when I am at my Grandmother’s house or in our kitchen with our family cook, Mrs. Hanem. I love to watch her make Molokheya, the national dish of Egypt. It is a thick, green, leafy soup that is flavored with minced Garlic and crushed coriander seed that is fried in Ghee. I love the way both Mrs. Hanem and Grandmother use spices. Watching them is like watching powerful women brewing a magical potion. So very different from watching my father prepare a meal, a man who measures his ingredients accurately and uses many techniques in order to achieve good texture and color of the food as well as presentation. Grandmother’s most important ingredient is time and she carries an internal clock-she somehow knows in which stage her food is in by how it sounds or smells. Her most powerful ingredient is love and it permeates all her dishes. Her love emanates from her eyes to me and settles somewhere deep just like the flavor of her food. She helps me feel more settled in my new Egyptian self and I am better able to navigate this new space. Egypt, the color of soft brown, earthy, milk chocolate.

It is early in the morning and my mother is waking me up. She is dressed in her blue velvet robe and is urging me to join the living. “Yalla, oomi (Arabic for “get up”). Come with me, I have something really exciting to show you” I know that it must have something to do with Eid, seeing that we were calling half of Cairo last night to wish them a Blessed Eid. I follow her through our sunlit apartment until we reach the living room, where I plop down on the sofa like a sad sack. I am still half-awake and I notice that no one else is up. Both my father and my sister are still asleep. I am about to question Mom as to what I have done to deserve this fate when she slides our balcony door open. I am greeted with a Tsunami wave of sound that envelopes our living room, Mom, and I. Suddenly I am wide awake. I step outside onto the balcony and stand next to my mom. She points at the throngs of people who are all moving and singing in unison to God, as they head to Eid prayers at the Mosque around the corner. She says, “This is how we celebrate Eid in Egypt. These are our traditions. These are your traditions”. Something shifts. I change. To me, what my mother seems to be saying is, “These are your roots. These are your people. We have come here so that you can know them. So that you can know who you are”. My mother is my mirror. Her color is perfection. I am 8 years old.

I am now 37 years old and am part of the vast and diverse Swedish/African Diaspora in Stockholm- a world full of people like myself. People who are proud of their roots and who are constantly striving to understand and preserve their roots. I have found that the best way to preserve my roots is by sharing them and making them the source of my contribution to society. In a world that is constantly changing, in a life that is constantly evolving – that source for me can always be found in the kitchen. It is the place where I revisit myself, recreate memories, explore the world, and show my love to the earth and to those around me. While I direct all my questions to the past, to the future my intentions, the kitchen is where I fully give my energies to the now. It is in the kitchen I shape and mold how I choose to cook and manifest my own creative expression. It is where I share my story.

Within me, there will always be a big red house, a beautiful kitchen, and a dining table. A dining table that has space and welcomes anyone who is hungry.

-words DINA EL MAHI @onemealwithegypt

images courtesy of Dina El Mahi

For more:

Link to OME’s Facebook page
https://www.facebook.com/OnemealwithEgypt/


Link to OME’s Instagram account
https://www.instagram.com/onemealwithegypt/


Dina’s personal blog
www.dinaelmahi.com