The Christmas Turd

I love Christmastime.  I love the music; I love the lights; I love choosing presents; I love the warm furry feeling deep down inside; I love the traditions.  I love it all.  And now that our daughter is almost two years old, I love the idea of creating new traditions for her to grow up with; starting with the Christmas turd. My husband grew up in a house with very consistent traditions.  They included the same menu, the same people, practically the same discussions, and definitely the same arguments year after year.  This was particularly apparent when he was away on a study-abroad program one year and called home to wish everyone a Merry Christmas.  Without missing a beat, he said he was able to replay the entire day's events, despite the 4,000 mile separation., down to the post-dessert discussion of how the presents should be opened, oldest to youngest, or youngest to oldest.  For being so far away, he said it was nice to know exactly what he was missing.

Conversely, in my house growing up, our traditions were a little more loosey-goosey.  Some years we'd be with family, others we'd have friends over, some we'd just spend at home.  Sometimes we'd go to church, sometimes we wouldn't, sometimes we'd have turkey, sometimes we wouldn't.  The one consistent point was that my mother would be madly wrapping gifts until the wee-Santa-hours.  Then inevitably after opening all our gifts Christmas morning, she'd pause and say, "Wait a minute!" and dash off, only to return with a gift she'd forgotten to wrap and had stashed in a "safe" spot back in June.  It always made for an extra touch of excitement and wonder.

Friends of ours have an annual Christmas ornament contest among wide-spread family members.  The goal is to find, or make, an ornament that best summarizes their past year.  They can highlight a specific event (a move, a birth, a marriage, a surgery, etc.), or get creative and summarize their whole year.   Then on Thanksgiving, or the day after, all of the ornaments are shared (some via photos or Skype), and a pre-selected committee gets to decide which is that year's winner.  My friend said, "We always try to play up the sentimental aspects of whatever the ornament represents--if you can make a judge cry, you'll probably win."  (Good to know.)  Regardless of the named winner, however, everyone gets to have a nice collection over the years to reminisce over.

Since getting married, our primary holiday tradition has been collecting ornaments from all the places we've been.  Even from places such as Oman, where Christmas ornaments are not readily plentiful, we have a lovely silver Omani dagger keychain that works perfectly.  So every year when we get out the tree and start unwrapping the ornaments one by one, we get to remember our gondolier from Venice, or our Santa on a lion from Tanzania, or our White House ornament from Washington, DC, or even our humuhumunukunukuapua'a fish from Maui.

And over the years, to add to our collection, my mother has been slowly passing on ornaments from my childhood.  She started with my favorite, baby Jesus in a walnut shell.  And every few years she passes on a few more; the bristly hedgehog, the yarn Santa, the paper ballerina pig, and most importantly, the Christmas turd.

Now, I didn't grow up calling it this.  It earned this title when my husband unwrapped it one year and exclaimed rather harshly, "Why do we have a Christmas turd?"  Prior to that, I had always thought of it as a dried seed pod (of the lotus variety) that my mother and I had coated with glue and large glitter pieces one year when I was about six.  Over the decades since, it never occurred to me that it might be seen as anything but sparkly and homemade; until now.

But that's the fun thing about traditions.  They're highly personal.  One person's cranberry jelly with the crenelated can markings, is another person's snow ghost pie; or staying up for midnight Mass, is another person's "Harry Potter" marathon.  So, whether your traditions revolve around the guests around the table, or the meal on the table, or whether you unwrap gifts according to age or rank, they're what make Christmas special to you.

And in our house, our traditions may not be completely consistent, and I may be more inclined to be doing the midnight wrapping frenzy, but at least we'll always have the Christmas turd (and the accompanying "Oh, Christmas Turd" song my husband sings for weeks).  And not only will I happily pass the ornament on to my daughter, but maybe we'll even make some fresh Christmas turds of our own (of the lotus variety, of course).  Traditions must be passed on, after all.

Neighborhood Explorations: Abdoun

Abdoun is a neighborhood in southern Amman.  And from what I've seen so far, it's full of palatial villas, embassies, and apartment buildings.  There are shops and hospitals and malls, of course, but it's what Americans would call upper-middle-class to wealthy, i.e., posh suburbia.  

So, on the surface, it's not really that interesting.  However, once you know what to look for, Abdoun becomes a life-sized "Where's Waldo", only you're not looking for a gangly guy in a striped shirt.  Instead, think Dr. Seuss-like foliage and creative faux finishes. As you drive around, you can certainly become numb to the rows upon rows of beige villas, with periodic splotches of green bushes and trees.  These are really the only two colors in Amman.  But the next time you're at a stop light, blink a bit and refocus and check out the bushes around you.  Do they look a little... wacky?  Like maybe Edward Scissorhands is Jordan's Minister of Foliage?  Or maybe "Dr. Seuss's Guide to Pruning in Whoville" caught on here with a vengeance.  The zaniness of the bushes cannot be explained; it must be seen.

If the foliage doesn't amuse you enough, then start checking out the villas.  All of the villas and apartments are made out of the same beige-colored cement, creating endless rolling hills of beige.  Some are just jaw-droppingly palatial, replete with ornate gates and probably an elevator or two.  Granted, there were palatial villas in Kuwait as well, however, they tended to be just big, beige, bland, and blocky.  Here, however, they've taken the time to embellish, sometimes to an extreme degree.  So, again, blink and refocus and look beyond the beige; you may find faux wonders beyond your imagination (but lucky not beyond someone else's).

Toto... We're Not in Kuwait Any More

It's typical following any move to find yourself comparing one life/home/neighborhood with another. Even in our situation, I cannot help but compare our new life in Jordan, with our lives in Kuwait or even Cairo. And so far, allowing for the possibility that I may completely negate myself in the future, I would say that Jordan seems to be the perfect melding of Cairo and Kuwait. How so? Well, Amman is definitely a modern city like Kuwait. It has well-maintained roads, malls, coffee shops, movie theaters, sports clubs, etc. But it still has a touch of Cairo's wackiness with quaint back alleys and kitchy shops, road-side sellers and camels grazing by the highway.

As usual, however, their similarities are far less interesting than their differences. And as we continue to settle in, I find that I'm discovering more and more examples of how different Jordan and Kuwait are.  Here are the most obvious differences I've noted so far:

1.  Seasons!  Jordan has four seasons and I can't tell you how utterly thrilled that makes me. Autumn is my favorite time of year, and not only do we get cool temps here, but we also see leaves changing (just a few, as most trees are palms or firs, but I'll take it)!  Who needs Vermont, right? (Okay, it's not nearly that colorful, but I've been so deprived of seasonal changes for years that I'm reveling in this.)

2.  Women's hair; it's everywhere.  This is closely tied with numbers 3 and 4, and it's all in relation to Jordan being less conservative than Kuwait or Saudi.  Yes, it's still predominantly Muslim, but I've seen only a fraction of women in full black coverage (niqab, abaya, hijab, etc.), whereas in Kuwait that was the norm. And in almost two years in Kuwait, I don't recall seeing one bobbing ponytail.  Some women still wear hijabs in Jordan to cover their hair, but they're often colorful like in Egypt.  But I'm still seeing more women's hair flowing than I've seen in years.  It's like a never-ending Pantene commercial.

3.  Crosses worn openly.  I was honestly shocked at the number of women I've seen wearing crosses on necklaces and bracelets.  Which, in and of itself, told me that it had been an uncommon sight in my life that I hadn't really even noticed.  It's a little odd to notice an absence, isn't it?

4.  Martini Mondays.  Kuwait was a dry country, meaning no alcohol, even in Italian restaurants (which drove my husband crazy).  However, in Egypt, restaurants would serve alcohol, and there were even shops called Drinkies that not only sold beer and wine, but would also deliver it to your door.  But even still, coming to Jordan where there are actual liquor stores and popular restaurants advertise "Martini Mondays" and "Tequila Tuesdays" is a bit of an adjustment, even for me.

5.  Bookstores selling books.  In Kuwait, I spent a few months searching for bookstores.  I was able to find about three, and they were tiny.  The Virgin Megastore that had been touted as Kuwait's largest bookstore was closing within months of our arrival.  I overheard a clerk telling someone, "We can't sell anything here. The censorship is too strong."  Maybe he was making it up, maybe he wasn't.  Regardless, the one book we bought in Kuwait was a child's Arabic vocabulary book, and we bought it at the grocery store.

6.  Sidewalks (sort of).  Don't get me wrong, Jordan is not lined with suburban American sidewalks, perfectly maintained, bedecked with hopscotch outlines, a haven for jogging strollers and dog walkers.  However, they do exist, and there are times you can actually walk on them.  Granted, there are also times when trees are planted in the middle, or cars are parked on them, or the hills of Amman have caused the curbs to be almost 48" tall (completely blowing away Cairo's "buns of steel curbs" which I had thought were the highest), but as a mom with a stroller who loves to walk, I can say that they're sort of walkable.

7.  No red onions.  Maybe not earth-shattering, but strange, no?  We've looked in all grocery stores, from large chains to smaller shops, we've checked out the road-side veg sellers and the fruit and veg bodegas, and not a red onion to be found.  So sad.

8.  Prius, yes; Maserati, no.  This is such an amusing change from Kuwait, I can't tell you!  Not only have I seen one Prius, but I've seen several.  And while BMWs and Audis and all are seen, I've not seen one Bentley, Lamborghini, or Maserati.  Not passing judgement, just making an observation.

9.  Traffic and right-of-way.  Okay, this is still similar to Kuwait.  For whatever reason, and I don't know who started it, but Jordan, like Kuwait, has a bias against left turns.  Conversely, they love medians, the longer the better, u-turns and traffic circles.  Unfortunately, also like Kuwait, the concept of right-of-way, and priority given to already turning vehicles, remains foreign and untranslatable.  Hence, driving here is almost as frustrating as in Kuwait (though they don't reach the speeds of the yahoos in Kuwait, and seem to have a lower crash rate; interesting parallel).

20.  Western seepage.  I truly do wonder just how many places in the world there are left that remain untouched by greasy hands?  Jordan, like Kuwait, Dubai, Cairo, etc., is thoroughly doused in KFC, McDs, BK, Popeyes, Pizza Hut, Papa Johns, Starbucks, Caribou, etc.  And not to be outdone by fast food, there's also Ace Hardware, True Value, Bath & Body Works, and there's even an Ikea coming.  Progress or regress, you decide (though I do love a good Ikea).

So, for good or bad, this is not Kuwait and it's not Cairo, but it is home.  And home is what you make of it.  And as long as we plan accordingly, we should be able to survive three more years without making one left turn.

All Things Olive, part 2

Following our introduction to the olive wood creations, our "all things olive" tour continued with a 90-minute drive north, past the forests of Ajloun, near the Greco-Roman ruins of Jerash. We had signed up with a local tour group (www.engagingcultures.com), but had opted to drive our own car and follow their van, so the baby could have her carseat. This was not only the first time we were driving out of Amman, but it was also the first time we were driving any distance and blowing the dust off our new (2006) Mitsubishi Pajero. It was slightly harrowing, as the van driver drove faster than I was typically used to, especially in a new larger vehicle. But I managed to keep up with the help of tight abs, constantly tense shoulders and never-blinking eyes.

We drove north out of Amman, through smaller towns and cities, past farms and road-side fruit stands, past little kiosks with blinking blue lights indicating "coffee here", past multiple sellers of ceramic jugs, pillars and the occasional lion.

We passed by the sign for Ajloun Forest Reserve, as well as the 2,000+ year-old ruins of Jerash, noting to return on another date for proper explorations of each.

After driving through two towns and their windy hilly roads, we came upon Ajloun Castle, high on the hill overlooking practically everything (yes, it's also on the "visit here" list). Here is where we met our host for the day, Abu Anas. From here, Abu Anas led us to his olive farm, which consisted of true off-roading over rutted dirt "roads" and up and over some rather breath-holding angled hills. The van couldn't make it up the last ascent, so they pulled off to the side but we were told to drive on up, so with my foot to the floor and being ever so thankful there was no ice present, we bumped up the last hill to park at the top.

The tour group had arranged for us to come out and spend a few hours picking olives, have lunch, and get to know our hosts. Abu Anas quickly gathered us all around, and explained quite simply that our job was to either, a) remove the olives from the tree branches by hand, or b) pick up the olives from the tarps laid under the trees. Every single olive was to be gathered and collected in the buckets, regardless of size or condition (squashed ones, too). Abu Anas' family, including his sons, nephews, wife and her sisters, were also there picking and plucking and bucketing far faster than any of us.

There were ladders for those willing to reach out and up for the top olives, and the rest of us gathered around a few trees and started picking or gathering. Even the kids got involved, including Bean. Though we did have to repeatedly explain to her to put the olives in the bucket, not take them out.

Abu Anas' farm is located on approximately 5,000 square meters of very hilly land. It was beautiful scenery, but very rocky and muddy, though luckily it hadn't rained recently so we weren't caked in it. I couldn't begin to imagine the number of olive trees he has, but this is harvesting season, so every olive must be gathered. Some are taken to a factory where they're squeezed into oil, but others are packaged up for regular olive consumption. We were all given two jars of fresh olives to take home, as well as the recipe to make them edible (apparently olives don't just fall off the tree ready for the closest martini or vegan tapenade).

We picked and gathered olives for an hour or so, and I say that loosely as I spent more time taking pictures and watching Bean toddle around, than I did gathering olives. But then Abu Anas kindly said we were done and gathered us around for a home-cooked meal. As vegetarians there was nothing Bean and I could eat, but I'd packed her lunch so we munched on carrots and cucumbers and pasta while the others partook of the meal. We did enjoy some very sweet tea that was constantly brewing over a lit fire (boy, it's not surprising that it can be difficult to find a "small" bag of sugar in the stores here considering the vats they go through daily just in tea).

Abu Anas also showed us how we should prep our fresh olives for curing by smashing them open with a rock. He'd set up two stations, with boards covered in plastic wrap, and nice flat rocks at the ready, but I opted to just take our jars home and smash the olives there (I also opted for the side of a knife instead of a rock, so ours might not taste as authentic). The recipe then requires you to fill the jars of squished olives with fresh water and leave them for three days. Then you change the fresh water and let them sit another three days. At this point you take them out, toss them with salt, lemon slices, and optional olive oil or green chili, then reseal with fresh water and let them sit for a month. Then enjoy! (We'll let you know in a month how they turned out and whether I wished I'd used the rock.)

The ride home was far less tense, as we felt we could dawdle a little once we were through the small towns and back on the main road that would lead us directly into Amman.

The roads led us from the bottom of the valleys to the tops of the hills gazing across for miles. It's such beautiful scenery I couldn't stop commenting on, or photographing, it; though I did take breaks to capture the road-side fun as well, including some now-appreciated olive stands.

So, in the span of just two weeks, we had been thoroughly educated in all things olive (yes, for those type-As out there, I know we didn't actually see the olive oil process, but hey, it's also on the "visit here" list). So, if you just happen to be in the neighborhood in a month, swing by for a taste of some genuine Abu Anas olives and come admire our beautiful salad servers and we promise to tell you all about "all things olive."

All Things Olive, part 1

Jordan's relationship with the olive is one that cannot be overstated. History shows that for 6,000 years (nope, not a typo) olive trees have dotted these rolling hills. And over a two-week period recently, we got to pick them, cure them, and even witness their prunings being turned into beautiful figurines. It really is amazing to see all that the little unassuming olive has to offer. Our first "all things olive" adventure, took us to a modest little workshop in western Amman. It was wedged in the back alley of an industrial neighborhood amongst dusty marble and wood workshops. (It actually brought back fond memories of Cairo's alley explorations with shopping guru, Francine.)

Glad Tidings Holy Land Designs (www.holylanddesigns.net) specializes in olive wood products. They have a small display shop in their workshop, but rely mostly on craft fairs and bazaars and Internet sales for their business. They've been in operation over twelve years and primarily make ornamental figurines, such as camels, angels, nativity sets, etc., as well as some jewelry, and household items like salad servers and small bowls.

They use only the trimmings from olive trees, and with the end of the harvesting season approaching, they will soon fill up their warehouse entirely with cuttings from the post-harvest prunings. They make everything right there in their workshop, where they have specialized machines and saws and some employees who've been working with olive wood for over thirty years. They have over twenty employees currently and the pieces start with the men carving out the basic shape of the camel, angel, spoon, or whatever, using electric saws and machines.

Then the women (who are the majority of the employees), take on the task of sanding down each item by hand revealing details and the intricate wood patterns each piece holds. The random patterns in the wood are what give olive wood pieces their stunning beauty and distinction. The pieces are all sanded five times, ensuring a smooth, almost satin-like, surface. Then they're allowed to rest, letting the wood settle and finish drying out. If any cracks appear, they are filled carefully with an epoxy before one final sanding. The final step is the veneer coating which helps bring out the wood grain designs. For most pieces, the process takes at least a month for completion.

On our tour, we were shown all the steps. From seeing the piles of olive wood cuttings stacked up to the ceiling, to watching a gentleman effortlessly carve a spiral spoon out of a block of wood, to watching a man use a jigsaw to cut out pieces of a 3-D nativity ornament, to seeing how the women sand and sand and sand the pieces until they're completely smooth.

It was an impressive set-up, but even more impressive were the final products. There's something about seeing exactly how something is made, and what goes into it, that gives you a whole new appreciation. My husband was so taken with the man who carved the salad spoon that he said he thought we could use a set. Personally, I was eyeing the camels, but I'll always say yes to a beautiful set of salad servers, so we added it to our basket.

By the end, we had a nice little assortment of their products, and not one gift among them. I figured we'd be back before the holiday rush, and by then I'd have my complete list of camel receivers versus angel receivers versus salad server recipients.

(See "All Things Olive, part 2" next)