G. Willow Wilson :
The week before Ramzan, I ordered a $65 jumbo box of medjool dates. “By the grace of God, 100% organic,” the advertisement read. “Highest quality.” I find myself thinking, “At that price, they’d better be.” One more thing ticked off my list, along with halal free-range chicken – raised by a conservative Christian farming community known as the Amish, butchered by Muslims – dried apricots, phyllo dough for sweets and a half-million other things, because for the designated cook in any Muslim household, the holy month of fasting involves stocking up on food.
When you’re only eating one big meal a day, you’ve got to make it count.
During the day, Ramadan might be a month of self-discipline and restraint, but at night it becomes a time of feasting: Seasonal eats enjoyed with family and friends are as big a part of the month’s festivities in America as anywhere else the fast is observed.
Our local community in Seattle is very diverse, so gatherings are a combination of many different cultural traditions: Tunisian friends bring flasks of minted green tea; Egyptians, platters of flaky dessert pastries to be placed alongside filling home-cooked American staples like fried chicken and biscuits. Something special happens at that wonderful moment when the call to prayer rises up from the nearest iPhone (there’s an app for that) and you descend on a table of lovingly prepared traditional foods.
Yes, Ramadan is a time for spiritual reflection, a month when Muslims around the world deepen their practice through fasting, reciting Quran and giving to charity.
And whenever anybody takes a moment to rhapsodize about the food, there is inevitably one person waiting in the wings to say, “Food is not the point. You shouldn’t even be thinking about food.” Okay, brother. But who do you think is making that biryani you eat at sunset? It doesn’t cook itself.
For me, preparing the evening meal has itself become a form of ibadah: an act of worship and striving for God. Even a dish you’ve cooked a hundred times before gets tricky when you can’t taste as you go and adjust the ingredients accordingly.
Is there too much salt? Not enough garlic? You won’t know until sunset, when you and your guests will find out at the same moment whether your instincts served you well. Cooking while fasting is a unique experience, not least because you’re surrounded by the perfume of food you can’t eat. Very early on, I discovered that I’m never tempted to sneak a bite of something – if anything, cooking the evening meal serves to emphasize the purpose of my fast, defining my service both to God and to the people who will break their fasts with the food I’ve prepared.
Eating good food with people you love brings an essential but often overlooked element to religious practice: joy.
You’re filled with gratitude to God to be sitting at that table (or in traditional households, on that floor) with those particular friends, able to enjoy a meal together after a day of intense abstinence.
A lot of people around the world aren’t so lucky. Part of the point of Ramadan is remembering how fortunate you are, and endeavoring to make life a little better for people who have less.
Even as we enjoy our evening meal, prayers and alms are winging their way to those for whom the sun sets on war, famine and heartbreak. As we open our homes and tables to our friends, we open our hearts to you.
The week before Ramzan, I ordered a $65 jumbo box of medjool dates. “By the grace of God, 100% organic,” the advertisement read. “Highest quality.” I find myself thinking, “At that price, they’d better be.” One more thing ticked off my list, along with halal free-range chicken – raised by a conservative Christian farming community known as the Amish, butchered by Muslims – dried apricots, phyllo dough for sweets and a half-million other things, because for the designated cook in any Muslim household, the holy month of fasting involves stocking up on food.
When you’re only eating one big meal a day, you’ve got to make it count.
During the day, Ramadan might be a month of self-discipline and restraint, but at night it becomes a time of feasting: Seasonal eats enjoyed with family and friends are as big a part of the month’s festivities in America as anywhere else the fast is observed.
Our local community in Seattle is very diverse, so gatherings are a combination of many different cultural traditions: Tunisian friends bring flasks of minted green tea; Egyptians, platters of flaky dessert pastries to be placed alongside filling home-cooked American staples like fried chicken and biscuits. Something special happens at that wonderful moment when the call to prayer rises up from the nearest iPhone (there’s an app for that) and you descend on a table of lovingly prepared traditional foods.
Yes, Ramadan is a time for spiritual reflection, a month when Muslims around the world deepen their practice through fasting, reciting Quran and giving to charity.
And whenever anybody takes a moment to rhapsodize about the food, there is inevitably one person waiting in the wings to say, “Food is not the point. You shouldn’t even be thinking about food.” Okay, brother. But who do you think is making that biryani you eat at sunset? It doesn’t cook itself.
For me, preparing the evening meal has itself become a form of ibadah: an act of worship and striving for God. Even a dish you’ve cooked a hundred times before gets tricky when you can’t taste as you go and adjust the ingredients accordingly.
Is there too much salt? Not enough garlic? You won’t know until sunset, when you and your guests will find out at the same moment whether your instincts served you well. Cooking while fasting is a unique experience, not least because you’re surrounded by the perfume of food you can’t eat. Very early on, I discovered that I’m never tempted to sneak a bite of something – if anything, cooking the evening meal serves to emphasize the purpose of my fast, defining my service both to God and to the people who will break their fasts with the food I’ve prepared.
Eating good food with people you love brings an essential but often overlooked element to religious practice: joy.
You’re filled with gratitude to God to be sitting at that table (or in traditional households, on that floor) with those particular friends, able to enjoy a meal together after a day of intense abstinence.
A lot of people around the world aren’t so lucky. Part of the point of Ramadan is remembering how fortunate you are, and endeavoring to make life a little better for people who have less.
Even as we enjoy our evening meal, prayers and alms are winging their way to those for whom the sun sets on war, famine and heartbreak. As we open our homes and tables to our friends, we open our hearts to you.
