Laurice Helou

My beautiful mother, and my first food heroine

I have always been interested in food, from when I was a chubby baby. It may be because of a story my mother had often told me, which of course I don’t remember because it happened when I was 6 months old. Apparently, she had left me with my paternal aunt (3ammto in Arabic) Zahiyeh in Mashta el-Helou for a couple of days while she went somewhere with my father. My aunt, who was a fabulous country woman - she grew everything on her lands and made everything at home - decided to wean me figs from the tree across from her courtyard. According to my mother, she nearly killed me but fortunately my mother returned in time to save me.

You would think that a story such as this would have made me hate both food in general and figs in particular but paradoxically, I am fairly sure that it was this first taste of a ‘forbidden fruit’ that made me so passionate about food. Also, this story could have made me resent my mother but it didn’t. In fact from when I can remember, I was my mother’s kitchen pest, following her every gesture while she prepared our meals and begging for a taste which she hardly ever allowed, admonishing me to wait until we sat at table. So, until I left Beirut at the age of 21, I was forever watching my mother, grandmother and aunt and of course 3ammto Zahiyeh cook, make preserves, and bake, not to mention shop or forage for ingredients in spring and summer, even if I had decided in my teens that I wouldn’t cook for anyone so as not to be domesticated - by then I was reading Simone de Beauvoir, Camus, Sartre and other existentialists, imagining a free intellectual life for myself away from the restrictions of Lebanese society.

This said, the reason why I started to cook had nothing to do with feminism and all to do with a pang of jealousy I felt as I watched the man I then lived with enjoy a meal cooked in our kitchen by a glamorous American friend he had brought home where I had, per usual, nothing prepared for dinner. When he asked what was for dinner, I suggested he open the fridge and see what was in there. Instead, she did and proceeded to cook the meal. I don’t remember what she had prepared - it was a lifetime ago - but I still remember how pleased he was, and how miffed I was!

So, I decided there and then to cook a Lebanese meal for thirty of our friends and this is where my mother played a pivotal role regardless of the fact she wasn’t anywhere near me, nor at the end of a telephone line - it was the height of the first phase of the civil war and there were no communications between London and the home country. However, all those days I had spent watching her cook our daily meals meant that I had learned how to cook by osmosis. As a result, I was able to produce a lavish lebanese meal despite London being a culinary desert then - it was the mid 70’s and the only shop stocking tahini, olive oil, fresh herbs etc. was Athena store on Moscow road.

After that I started cooking although only occasionally to entertain friends and never on a regular basis.

However, the biggest culinary debt I owe my mother is my first cookbook, Lebanese Cuisine, which could also be considered hers given that almost all of the recipes are hers, as is much of the information re. Lebanese culinary lore, traditions, and so on. Of course, I didn’t transcribe her recipes as she had written them. They were vague as with most home cooks recipes, but still good enough for me to be able to test them and convert the measurements to precise weights or measures, especially with her by my side - she came to London to help me.

My mother is still alive and well at 91 (touch wood!) and she still helps me when I need to research Lebanese culinary traditions, techniques, etc. But most of all, it is thanks to her and her mother that I am a good cook. Both were amazing cooks. I use the past tense for my mother as she has lost a little of her precision in the kitchen, which must be because her taste buds have been slightly dulled by old age. Still, bless her for still being there, able to cook and willing to teach me new tricks.

The photos are from the top, my mother on her 90th birthday, my gandmother and aunt in their kitchen in Achrafiyeh, Beirut and my mother a few years back toasting sesame seeds to make a batch of za’tar.