Unable to speak the same language, Leila Gamaz and her Algerian grandmother communicated through food. Here, Gamaz remembers their time cooking together and the meals savoured by all the family.
My Algerian grandmother (Mani) died during Ramadan on the night of Laylat al-Qadr – a timing believed to send her straight to heaven. It was also during the pandemic, leaving us unable to visit and grieve. In my restlessness I began making her favourite dishes, culminating in a meal at Eid El Fitr (the smaller Eid): thick chorba soup, olive zeytoun, and fragrant orange blossom and semolina cakes. Eid is a time when the dead are honoured; with Mani already in our thoughts we laid out photographs and objects in her memory. We shared stories and sat in silence, reliving them in our minds.
Mani and I didn’t speak the same language, but we did cook together. The last time we did so was Eid Al Adah (the greater Eid). When cooking, all the women in my family work as a team to prepare the meal. Someone would keep an eye on the simmering pots whilst the rest of us would sit on low stools in corners of the house, charring peppers on an open flame, folding crescent moon-shaped cakes, and stitching together sections of sheep’s stomach filled with mincemeat, chickpeas and spices. Mani and I would sit in the central courtyard, a thoroughfare for the rest of the house. We would peel onions with a knife and let the skins drop into buckets between our legs. Mani would split her attention between this and everyone else, poised and ready to receive the questions which would inevitably come. When a dish was nearly ready we would be beckoned to the kitchen. Hunched over the table, we’d spoon samples into a bowl and mop up the sauce with bread, suggesting a pinch of salt or a squeeze of lemon. These meals would come together collaboratively, especially during celebrations (we fed couscous to 200 people for my cousin’s wedding). It’s also common to have huge numbers at the table as family often arrive unannounced with nothing but a toothbrush, staying a day or a week. They slip seamlessly into the preparations and are handed a mattress at bedtime.
Up until Mani’s generation, my family were illiterate – a consequence of the French occupiers denying Algerians access to education – so recipes were never written down. Many days and nights huddled around the stove has kept them alive. I tried to document them for the first time, yet often found myself just watching. When adding seasoning, Mani counts as her sprinkling fingers circle the pot; 3 circles of salt, 2 circles of pepper. She places an index finger some way between her wrist and forearm to indicate the amount of ginger or the length of an aubergine. When the spice mix Ras El Hanout is presented from a sealed bag, she pinches her fingers to her pursed lips. Regions and sometimes families have their own recipe for this mix used across North Africa, which can contain up to 80 different spices.
In the hours before the Eid meal is served, djellabas are changed and my grandfather puts on his camel hair cloak. Children are dressed in new clothing, with fresh haircuts, and the courtyard is hosed down. Plastic tables are pushed together and laid with bowls of sliced lemons, salads, and baguettes are placed directly onto the tablecloth. A bowl of chillies is put at Mani’s seat for eating whole alongside the dishes. Chairs shuffle and voices hush, and when everyone is seated we whisper Bismillah and begin. There is a great feeling of satisfaction in this moment of completion and togetherness, yet in some ways I find the preparations more memorable than the food itself.
These memories feel far from the meal we’re sharing in Bristol, prepared by me alone in my kitchen. I check my phone and see a message from my cousin: a photo of the plastic chair Mani used to sit in at the dinner table, empty, along with a stream of crying emojis. Although eating my grandmother’s dishes helps us feel connected to her, there are so many other layers of experience that are absent and lost forever.
After the meal, we drink sweet mint tea alongside Kalb El Louz, an almond based cake steeped in orange blossom. We paint a circle of henna on our palms which will turn a deep orange the next day. As is tradition, 40 days after Mani’s death, we will come together and do the same again.
About Leila Gamaz
Leila Gamaz is an Algerian-English writer exploring untold stories, ritual, and sisterhood. You can read some of her work at Vittles, Azeema magazine, Shado magazine & Dardishi zine. Visit her website leilagamaz.com and follow Leila on Instagram: @leilagamaz