Lunch with His Excellency

Lunch with His Excellency

I’ve just returned from another trip to the United Arab Emirates, this time to visit the Dubai Medical College for Girls. On this trip we (the accreditation team) did not meet with the Minister of Education in his palace as we did on our first visit.

But I did meet a billionaire 90-something traditional Arab with 4 months of formal schooling who founded a medical college for girls so that girls would have more equality in the society. And he shook my hand to boot (a no-no for conservative Muslims). He gave a "luncheon" for the accreditation team--5 of us--that turned out to be a royal feast at which I was the only one in attendance without a Y chomosome. And His Excellency Sheik Saeed something something something Lootah ate his food with his fingers instead of utensils. But hey, it was his house.

One member of our team, John, was a Canadian physician who has lived and worked in the UAE for the past eleven years, and he told us after the “luncheon” (really a feast) that he’s been to a number of these “do’s” and never before was there any conversation or discussion during the actual meal. Typically, talking to one another and to His Excellency occurs before and after the meal, in the “receiving” room adjacent to the dining room. Which is what occurred on our visit as well, except that conversation continued through the eating phase of the luncheon. John thought that the Sheik was honoring the American tradition of talking during meals. Maybe so.

Anyhow, old man Lootah, whose house, schools, institutes, comprise “Lootah City”, a neighborhood in Dubai, was gracious and hospitable, using two of his sons—the ones who are carrying on his businesses and foundations, as interpreters. He spoke only Arabic, and we, as you’ve probably suspected, spoke only English. I’m assuming that the sons translated accurately, as I didn’t see any eyebrows shooting up around the table. HE (His Excellency—how do they get these titles?) told us about his philosophy of education and the place of women in society—which is that they are the most important gender, as they hold the destiny of the next generation. But, according to him, Arab society has not done right by females, and they have not had opportunities for education adequate to the task (of raising an improved next generation). So he has founded this medical school (and a pharmacy school) so the country will have more doctors for women (who also don’t get adequate health care). I murmured appreciatively.

Most of the guests ate European style with knives and forks, but His Excellency ate with his fingers, old-fashioned style. In a bow to modernization, he wiped his hands on a moist towelette at the end of the meal, before moving to the semi-hidden row of washbowls to properly cleanse his hands. Nobody told me not to, so I went right in to the wash-up area myself and washed my hands. Again, nobody blinked, so I guess it was OK!

But, before the hand-washing, what a meal! The long banquet table probably seated 40 people (and we filled it up with our group, some male faculty from the Medical College, and the old man’s male family members and entourage.) There were no introductions made, except for the five of us, and the two sons who translated. Huge platters of food were spread out on the table in-between the place settings, and male servers would pick up the platters and serve you individually. There were platters of lamb, of chicken, of mutton, of beef, and fish, each surrounded by rice or couscous, or something unidentifiable by me, but delicious. According to the “manager”, HE serves only food that he grows. I don’t know whether he’s concerned about freshness or poisoning! There wasn’t much in the way of vegetables. One dish that was offered by so many so many times that I finally tried it was sort of a pasty whitish porridge with brownish flecks that was, according to Samrendra Singh, our host from the Commission on Accreditation, reputed to be an aphrodisiac. Luckily, I ate only a few bites, so I can’t attest to its effectiveness.

Given that the School is hoping for accreditation (and will surely get it, after complying with numerous recommendations from our team), the Lootah family were all smiles, gracious hosts, and putting their best foot forward. Tempting though it was to offer my own opinions, I carefully avoided being branded as a pushy American female, only responding to questions or comments directed my way. I was already “pushing the envelope” just by being there.

I’ll give the old guy a lot of credit. In his 90+ years, his world has changed enough to be the equivalent of space travel, and he’s been a part of the changes himself. Savvy and sophisticated, he’s not your everyday senior citizen. And despite his wealth and the deference displayed by his sons and everyone else, he lives relatively modestly.

And to show what a small world this is, on the flight home from Dubai to Amsterdam, I sat next to a youngish man who turned out to be Saudi Arabian, in the oil and gas business (what else) who was visibly impressed that I had met Sheik Lootah. “A very good man,” he said, “I have met him.”

It’ll Never Be the Same

It’ll Never Be the Same

New Orleans will surely never be the same, no matter how hard they try.

How will they re-create the dark, dirty, crumbling hideaways where the voodoo queens dispense their spells and potions and charms and curses? Their unpainted shelves on concrete walls holding glass apothecary bottles with handwritten labels all lined up, alphabetized just like in a pharmacy. Powders of Black Cat Bone Lucky 13, Break Up Love, Dragon’s Blood, Fast Luck, and Love Everlasting.

Places where you go in private and pour out your worries and fears and desires to the dark priestess, who listens and nods and prescribes, and never ever judges. She knows that life is not all sweetness and light and clean and sanitized. Sometimes life is sour and dark and dirty and smelly and has to be approached from the nether side. So she prepares a personal package for you, in an unmarked envelope, measuring out from her jars—a pinch of Evil Weed, a smidge of Troubled Times, a toss of Unlucky in Love, with instructions to use it wisely and sparingly and secretly.

Yes, New Orleans will never be the same.

Smith Brothers Cough Drops

Smith Brothers Cough Drops

Smith Brothers Cough Drops, Wild Cherry flavored. I always bought them when I had a cold or sore throat. My mother preferred that I use Luden’s cough drops, but they tasted medicin-y, and so when I got old enough to buy my own cough drops with my babysitting money, I went for the candy-flavored Smith Brothers. My mother wasn’t convinced that anything that tasted good would possibly have medicinal value, but she mostly kept that opinion to herself since I wasn’t spending her money. Maybe she was right, though, because the other kids at school were always wanting to bum a Smith Brothers cough drop and no one ever asked for a Luden’s. So my brand-new box that I’d bring to homeroom would be gone by sixth period and I would have only used two.

I don’t see kids sucking on cough drops any more. They still sell cough drops in drugstores, but I think it’s only we 60-somethings who buy them. Cough drops can’t compare with the intense flavors of the new brands of candy—Skittles, and Mike & Ikes, and Jolly Ranchers.

I think I feel a Smith Brothers sore throat coming on.

The Cooking Pot

The Cooking Pot

For the longest time after she died, I kept my mother’s cooking pot—the one in which for 50 years she made roast beef, or boiled ham, or stewed chicken. It was oval in shape, heavy as a cannon ball, and dull gray on the outside. It’s hard to way what the inside color was. No particular color really, more like the absence of color—sort of a blackish, brownish, navy-ish, absorption of light. The lid, also heavy and made of the same material, have a smooth curvy shape, like one of the paper-mache hills you make in third grade, with a perfect finger hole at the very top.

By the time I inherited the pot, parts of the bottom inside surface had been eaten away, either by vigorous stirring and jabbing over the years or maybe by chemical decomposition from the flavorful broths that simmered there. Because of that, I was never willing to use the pot as it was intended, but for a long time I used the bottom as a holder for some artificial ivy that I had covering a bare corner in my dining room.

When I moved here, though, I gave the pot to Goodwill. It was hard to part with something that was my mother’s, but I have so many other things that were hers, it isn’t like I have lost all my memory triggers.

And yet, that cooking pot lingers in my memory. It has come to symbolize so much that was my mother. The way she never replaced anything until it was truly broken or worn out. Buying something just to have a new version was beyond her comprehension. Having more than one of anything was wasteful to her. And replacing an old and cherished utensil with one that had no memories would have seemed to her like burying a piece of her past. So, for the entire lifetime we spent together on this Earth, that cooking pot was THE cooking pot used in Mama’s kitchen.