I have spent the past few weekends spending some much needed quality time with my cousins, who I had not seen in a while. My cousins and I share Venezuelan and Syrian roots, so after a long day of going to the Orlando theme parks, we decided to go to a Middle Eastern restaurant that we had heard of but never had the time to try before. We went to CAVA. The best way I can describe it is that it’s a Middle Eastern version of Chipotle. I promise that this isn’t a paid advertisement, but I have to name drop it because of how amazing it was. We each made our own bowls – I personally loaded it with almost all the options available: arugula, saffron basmati rice, harissa, grilled chicken, falafel, traditional hummus, baba ganoush, fire-roasted corn, fattoush, kalamata olives, crumbled feta, avocado, lemon herb tahini, and balsamic date vinaigrette. You may have noticed a certain lack of the title character of this article. Don’t worry, I’m getting there.
In between breaths of devouring our meal, we discussed our Middle Eastern roots, which often get overlooked due to our Venezuelan roots uniting us mostly because unlike my cousins, I am not fluent in Arabic. After reminiscing over family gatherings filled with good music, food, dance, and stories, we arrived at the topic which is always bittersweet to talk about: my maternal grandfather, who I always called, in my broken Arabic, Jadudah. The correct way to say grandfather in Arabic is Jd (جد), but these differences in language, apart from differences in our geographical upbringing, with me growing up in the U.S. and my cousins growing up in Venezuela, always made me feel somewhat like an outsider in my own family.
I felt that I had to constantly prove that I was proud and connected to my roots, both sides of them. With my grandfather, however, I never felt that need. My most vivid memories of visiting Venezuela are precisely all with him. He always welcomed me with the brightest smile and the biggest hug, making it known that I had an unconditional place in his heart. I remember my grandparents’ apartment perfectly because of the steps it took from the door, to him, and then to his rocking chair. I would sit on his lap, he’d put cartoons on the TV, and he would offer me his favorite snack: pistachios.
As I peacefully reclined on his chest rocking back and forth, we sat munching on pistachios while watching whatever cartoon was on. After his death, I found out that I was the only grandchild that he ever did this with and it was the only time he would ever watch anything on TV that wasn’t the news. While with others, something as simple as a warm embrace, a rocking chair, pistachios, and cartoons wouldn’t be enough to make a long-lasting memory, these memories of my grandfather and I are some of the most precious moments of my life. Without fail, whenever I eat a pistachio, I think of my Jadudah. Tears inevitably come to my eyes, and while I can’t recreate those memories with him now, he and pistachios will always hold a place in my heart as my principal connection to my extended family and my multi-cultural background.
Beyond pistachios, cultural food spots like CAVA are so significant for my, and other people’s, family dynamics due to the power it has in severing interpersonal barriers and in reminding oneself of home. This is merely an example of the influence food has on our lives, uniting each and every one of us through a single bite.