Sumac: Recipes and stories from Syria - Anas Atassi

Sumac: Recipes and stories from Syria by Anas Atassi

Regaling us with tales from the kitchens and streets of Syria, Sumac is a visually beautiful book. Each artistically-shot photograph reminds us of what already springs to mind when we think about Middle Eastern cuisine: colour and vibrancy. Exciting spices, aromatic herbs, tangy berries. Freshness and zing alongside richness and decadence. The pictures seem to take on 3D form, as if the pages have their work cut out holding the dishes in place; as if the power of these pictures is enough to grab us by the hand and haul us (with zero resistance from us!) into a traditional Syrian kitchen.

Within the first few sentences of the introduction, it is clear that this invitation, this warmth is the thread weaving the whole book together. The meaning behind cooking for, and with, loved ones. Memories of a childhood spent sitting impatiently but safely, comfortably around laden tables, wandering winding streets, frequenting favourite market stalls. Family. Community. Sharing. Support. The expression of things unsaid, only able to be communicated through a bulging plate and a satisfied stomach. This is the power of food - sitting down to eat a meal with loved ones is never just about the food on the table. It is about the act of taking time together. Of serving with warmth, and of receiving with gratitude. Of building and maintaining ties that have lasted a lifetime. Of making memories. All through the conduit of food.
 
As Anas Atassi notes, for Syrians, the importance of celebrating these ties has taken on a more potent meaning in recent years. The ongoing war in Syria has led to the largest refugee population in the world. Families separated and strewn across the globe, no longer able to wander into each other’s kitchens and inquire “what’s for dinner?!” before being batted away, to be called back when it’s ready. Denied the opportunity to gather, in typical Syrian tradition, at a grandmother’s exquisitely-prepared table on a Friday morning. To sit with loved ones and enjoy a meal, especially with frequency, is something that so many of us take for granted. Syrian families have had to weather this loss, adapt, rebuild families and communities in countries unfamiliar to them.
 
A relationship with food is so often key to maintaining a sense of hope, a sense of something to look forward to, while also keeping the past, a history, a unique culture close to one’s heart. This book confirms this for us. Retaining a connection with traditional food, and sharing these recipes and routines in their adopted homes, has been integral to resettling and starting to rebuild from scratch for many Syrians. A culture, a way of life, can never truly be stamped out if people keep it alive, if they transport it with them and refuse to let it be usurped, or to just peter out. While this book tells the story of the recipes of Anas and his family, there can be no doubt it is a story that has resonated with many. As Anas explains, “This is why I share the stories of my family in this cookbook. They are not only my stories. They are the stories of an entire people - stories that are tied to our collective hearts, and have become all the more important because of the recent turmoil”.
 
I am conscious to word what I say next very carefully. While reading this book, I am holding close to my chest this awareness of the reality of why Syrian recipes and stories have burst onto the Western scene over the past decade. I wish our unfettered access to other cultures and cuisines wouldn’t happen for the heart-wrenching reasons that it so often does. I am not saying that the price to pay for the opportunity to learn about the importance of Syrian tablecloths, about family traditions, feasts, celebrations, ‘women only soirées’, about dishes like jallab, kaak, ouzi, is death and involuntary displacement of millions, is cities, homes and nature razed to the ground. But, another part of me, in feeling gratitude that this book exists, wondered whether this access to the foods and recipes and stories and kitchens of Syria would ever have reached us in the ways that they have. The colour and flavour and beauty and diversity are such an incredibly welcome addition to Western food culture. In cataloguing his family’s recipes, Anas introduces us to, and unapologetically insists we stock up on (or learn to make!), essential ingredients such as aleppo pepper, pomegranate molasses, za’atar, sumac (of course). Often these ingredients are local to different regions of Syria, or the same ingredient is used in vastly different ways according to the region. To learn about such ingredients, the ways in which they are traditionally used, the variations from region to region, is an exciting privilege that many of us may have had to travel to experience in the past. To experience the food of a place on the land that it comes from is an experience that can never be copied or replaced. But, if the next best thing is access to these books and restaurants, we are lucky to have them.
 
One of the most exciting things I’ve learned about Syrian cuisine through reading this book is how adaptable it is, and always was. This tendency isn’t due to the most recent war. Syrian recipes and dishes have always been ever-evolving, based on the influence of other cultures, based on preferences within individual families. To me, these are the most exciting cuisines - learn the basics, but know there is always room to tweak and play! On this note, living on such a meat and dairy-centric island, it is refreshing to learn how well one can eat as a vegetarian diving into Syrian cuisine.
 
One last thought: this book introduced me to the Syrian concept of nafas. While nafas literally translates as ‘breath’, it can be better described in this context as that indefinable element that ties a meal, a moment, an experience together, bringing it just shy of that elusive beast: perfection. How glad I was to learn a word for that essential but intangible element in any recipe, in any mealtime, in any gathering, that elevates it to new heights. It is a word we don’t have an equivalent for in English. Maybe in French we would call it that je ne sais quoi. I don’t know why, but I prefer nafas.
 
Anas memorably explains that nafas is “found in the heart of the person at the stove and in the essence of a well-prepared dish”. He tells us that his mother has nafas. His grandmother has nafas. He hopes that we, too, can find our nafas as we step into the kitchen to try to recreate some of these ancient yet new, simple yet intricate, flavours. I hope so, too.
 
Kelly Girardi
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