thirty sunsets and a moon

a collaborative project by Ashley J. May and Jessica Lewis Stevens

Updates are added to the archive at the top, scroll down for a full survey of the project.

When the pantry is also a home

Ramadan 1445 / April 2024

A while ago, I told a friend of mine: “if ever there is a time that I might miss Los Angeles, it would definitely be spring.”  And, right on schedule, I woke up to mother spring’s first morning craving Grandmother’s wild rice and chicken, to taking stock of my kitchen and her cupboard, to wondering what the citrus trees were looking like back home. A lovely red maple tree blooms just outside my living room window, but I am longing for home. 

Back home, the citrus trees offer us the gift of fragrant juice and moonlit blossoms twice per year, late winter/early spring and then again in the middle of the summer.  If you have volume one of the zine, then you’re familiar with just how special those oranges have been to our spring Ramadans.  And, the same goes for those lemons and the slow summer days of Dhul Hijjah in Grandmother’s courtyard.  This year marks the last Ramadan moon that will bathe these spring blossoms for quite some time.  And, I believe I must be feeling that deep down in my soul.

Truth be told, I would rather be back home right now.  And, that is not possible.  So, I am making back home in every corner of this here place.   I am filling this pantry [that’s been screaming for some attention] with all the things that will make me feel at home during this last spring Ramadan for a little while.  I am stocking up for early summer’s Dhul Hijjah too, which is sure to be busy as I prepare to leave the country for preliminary research.  I want to spend these days making that tea of fresh picked berry leaves little Sam loves so much.  By the way, I am Sam and everything he does in his grandpa’s garden is exactly what I did.  I want to mix cake batter by hand and bake it until it's golden and the house smells like oranges and vanilla.  I want to go back to stuffing my pastries with cheese and herbs, this time plucking earth’s bounty from our neighborhood sharing garden.  I want to find the sunrise that washes over the red maple blossoms in our big bay window.  Truth be told, I still want to be back home.  

When the full moon rose over this last springtime Ramadan for a little while, I learned that my big sister was in the hospital, again.  Perhaps alongside that tug for home that came with this Ramadan moon was my sister’s spirit pulling on me. She had been fighting the good fight for quite some time–a breast cancer warrior, indeed.  And, just before I left for Rhode Island, I held her hand in the hospital.  And, she told me she did not want to die.  I held back tears while placing one of those baby quilts from our healing care baskets project on her lap.  Trying desperately to make a place for hope, and life, and fight in that cold place.  She got the quilt named Minnie’s Flower Crown, a story I was not prepared to share with her then.  Perhaps, soon will be the time.  Because it seems that it is time for the warrior to rest her feet.

For the last week, I have been having a good cry while pushing myself to wrap up work that waits for no one.  I have been living life and mourning the imminence of my big sister’s last breath.  I lay the Nikki Quilt on my lap to keep warm in my office.  If you remember, Jessica finished this one for me last winter in her window–while I waited patiently under my mid-city Orange tree, back home.  A quilt named in honor of Nikki Giovanni and one particular poem, Connie, that my youngest baby read every morning that winter. Every morning, he pointed to Connie's face and called her auntie.  It wasn’t long before I realized that Connie, with her short gray hair, reminded him of his auntie Nickie whose silky brown locks were long gone, now a sea of tiny gray strands painted her scalp.  By Thursday, I learned my sister was in hospice.  And, that her days left here were unknown to us, but written. SubhanAllah.  I couldn’t get much done besides looking for that orange blossom I pressed last winter so I could send it to Jessica.  A quilt is a kind of call and response in material form.  I am here holding Jessica’s hand stitched call on my lap.  And, I am responding to that call with this old pressed orange blossom: asking her to make a home for it, to remember that winter, those stitches, this sisterhood, and my sister, too.

In the darkness of the early morning, on the last Friday in Ramadan, I prepared my body and limbs for prayer.  I soon spun into another fit of gagging and grief.  But, there were no tears this time, just the water from my suhoor violently expelling from my body.  I washed up.  I prayed.  Then, I sat at my window.  The sun rose and placed its morning sunshine on my wall, again, after so long.  So, I held last winter’s pressed orange blossom there.  And, I found a butterfly in its custard yellow shadows.  Later that morning, I learned that my big sister returned to her Lord while she slept.  I had been praying so hard for her to find some rest from this battle.  In that, I hope she finds joy and delight.  May Allah reunite us in the next life.  May my prayers keep us close.  Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un 🌞 amīn.

“It is related that the gifts of alms, prayers, and Qur’anic recitation sent by the living to the dead reach them carried by the angels on plates of light, and adorned with silk handkerchiefs, and they say to them: ‘This gift is from so-and-so,’ and in this way they find joy and delight”

- Imam Al Haddad 

The Lives of Man

I am still dreaming of being back home.  And, it seems like I will be there sooner than I had originally imagined.  As I get these unexpected travel plans in order, I return to the pages of our first zine.  And, especially to that story The Butterfly Moon.  From under my Nikki Quilt, me and my two boys read this sweet spring story in Grandpa’s garden.  I am remembering the way my big sister and I found wonder, love, hand peeled apples, watermelons, berry bushes and home there, too.  This morning Sumaya, dear friend and contributor to volume two, reminded me of the hadith (sayings of the prophet) that honors the maternal aunt with the same status as the mother.  And so, I am grateful for the time I had to write my children into our story, now four Ramadan’s ago.  

Seems like just yesterday, I spoke to my sister.  She could hear me, but she could not respond with her voice.  I let her know we would be breaking our fast with a big pot of chili, and a pan of Grandpa’s cornbread too.  Many moons ago, my big sister collected Grandpa’s recipe and shared it with the family.  And, just the other day, I found it in a stack of papers that have made the journey here from Los Angeles.  In the face of this ocean of emotions, I must keep taking care, keep minding this pantry–making sure that it is always, also a home for me too.  To help me on my way, Jessica and I have made a good old pantry list.  One that makes sure I can make that cornbread.  One that will carry me through this spring, early summer, this longing for home, this digging deep into the memories that fill the pages of our first zine baby.  And, as always, we are sharing it here with you alongside last season’s invitation to make a little springtime joy! 

Download here: When the Pantry is Also a Home / Spring Pantry List 2024

A Litany for Survival: The Life and Work of Audre Lorde. Directed by Gay Griffin Ada and Michelle Parkerson. Third World Newsreel, 1996.

On Surrendering to the journey and other wisdom I carry with me

8 Dhul Hijjah 1444

“The flock took a rest, after many days in flight, on a tree overlooking the glistening ocean. ‘Take a look over there, you see our goal, just beyond the mountain top. We’ve got to keep on moving. We mustn't stop!’ The quail gasped ‘how much farther must we travel, dear hoopoe, my friend? It’s become too much, I can’t make it to the end.’ The hoopoe replied ‘keep on going my friend; surrender your heart to the journey. You know how! Tomorrow’s not guaranteed; our only promise is now.’ The quail closed his eyes, his renewed will carrying him along. And, he soared and soared through the sky.”

Excerpt from “The Birds, the Old Fig Tree, and the Great Soul Journey”

Thirty Sunsets and a Moon: Volume One

I can not help but to keep on pinching myself. Just a pinch here and there making sure our time gathering together under a big green tree and summer's first good sunshine wasn't just a dream. That we were in fact there in that place crafting a sweet memory. Carving out a beginning, together, that I hope to return to. You see, this is the first time I have returned to this place to gather with children and their kin since the summer of 2019 when I began to write the above story. And, it has taken an entire soul journey to get here to this moment.  A journey that has unfolded in such a special way with each volume of our zine, with rest, and with dreaming.  All of which take time.  Alhamdulilah for time.  I am so proud to see the ways in which I have healed, we have healed, and continue to heal, through this work.  Healing does not happen in isolation.

To pull at this thread a little bit, I will say that I am so grateful for the work of doing the Healing Care Baskets Project. An effort born out of this zine project with Jessica and my last year of working in child care subsidy research and advocacy.  I am thankful for the folks that contributed time, resources, and care to help make this moment happen--a healing care forest circle for Black mamas and babies in our place, at the top of the world. Rather, floating on top of the grassy, wild flower painted hillsides of Kenneth Hahn State Recreation Area.  A place we seem to be working hard to reclaim as ours, running along La Cienega Blvd between Stocker Ave. and Obama Blvd. A place that for the record is most definitely not the Westside or Culver City. But more on that soon.  

So very important to me, and to Maryam, and to Tenille this offering aligned itself with the first ten days of the month of Dhul Hijjah–the most blessed days in the Islamic calendar.  To borrow Tenille’s words: it was most definitely that Blackest sadaqa–rather, a gesture of care and solidarity steeped in traditions that we, as Black folks across the diaspora, carry with/in us.  You know, like stories about flying pools and summer peaches and recipes with missing steps and the sound, taste, touch, and feel of care.  I’m just saying.  So, on this 8th day of Dhul Hijjah, I pray that the Most Merciful, the Opener, the Sustainer showers us all with blessings and makes this effort one that continues to give beyond our time on earth.  Say ameen!

Alongside this work, a group text with Maryam, Tenille, Ashley, and Farai served as a site of restorative care and kinship. Here, we talked about our kitchen memories with a side of status updates and everyday chit chat. These sista friends became a part of an extended network of kinship and care that would carry me through this work on the ground. And Maryam, who I met while hand delivering care baskets to a local birthing center in 2021, ended up being the connector to the assemblage of mothers, other mothers, and babies that filled my heart with joy on that sweet summer afternoon under the trees.

Somewhere in between this kitchen talk and care basket talk, we found time to dream together. I asked my sisters in the work two questions, one I will save for another moment in time. Now, I hope I am not giving too much away about volume three, but I will say thinking about moving onto the next phase in my journey as an Anthropologist and moving away from home has me thinking about the things we carry with us. And, as I prepared to make notes on the final pantry basket to be gathered with the funds raised from volume two of the zine, I asked them one of my favorite questions:

What pantry staples do you keep in the cupboard that, no matter where you are in the world, remind you home?

They met this provocation with so much love and reflection. Tears were involved. And, it served as a site4 for call and response as one's pantry list would inspire another to remember something.

Stay with me now, I am getting somewhere with all of this. You see, at the close of our healing care forest circle in June, the mothers were overheard saying how good it felt to be held in this way. With nothing expected in return.  And, how they could not wait to do it again. For some reason, I never expected to hear that. But, it was meant for my ears. So, we will gather again, just one more time this summer before I leave for Rhode Island. And perhaps, the invitation to sit with each other will remain open each summer when I return to my home town. In fact, I pray that it will.

Now for the good news:  one slow and sweet sunny day this July, we'll be mobilizing the vision of my food justice project Grandmother's Cupboard and the contributions from Thirty Sunsets and a Moon: Volume Two. We will hold a healing care forest circle with an offering to fill the mama's pantries with goods that might just remind them of home, and, I hope, will remind them of this time together.

As I dream up this next gathering, I am hanging up our Recipe for Slow n' Sweet Summer Days on all the walls and knocking off a few items in the meantime. Starting with a picnic lunch in the garden, on the occasion Eid al Adha, fresh churned peach ice cream delivered by another sister friend in this food justice work who I hope to continue collaborating with, Dorothy Pirtle.

And, I am slowly building the pantry basket offerings using this list compiled together with Maryam, Tenille, Ashley, and Farai. If you'd like to join us in spirit, you can download them right here. In the meantime, we wish you gentle days, rest, and restoration this summer.

Download here: A Well-Stocked Pantry for Slow n’ Sweet Summer Days

Download here: A Recipe for Slow n’ Sweet Summer Days

Coming Together, Again:  The Healing Care Baskets Project Reimagined

Ramadan 2023

“Can I say again how alive your being alive makes me feel!?!”

-Barbara Christian’s loving words to Audre Lorde (1978)*

As the 27th sunset of Ramadan finds its rest on the horizon, my heart fills with gratitude for all the blessings I have lived to witness, yet still longs for a better world.  A place where Black children can live luscious, full, and joyful lives in the company of their kin.   If you’ve sat down with any of our zines, then you have held in your hands an archive of the work of  imagining otherwise.  And, if you’ve been following this project archive for a while now, you must know a little something about the Healing Care Baskets project.  A collaborative effort of the Grassroots Morning Garden project (that’s me) and Sugarhouse Workshop (my good friend Jessica) grounded in our collective wish that Black mothers and their little ones feel supported during this conjecture. Rather, a disastrous convergence of global pandemics–anti Black racism, state violence, and Covid 19.

Since our first launch in February of 2021, this work has remained rooted in Ashley’s own embodiment of loving care practices, as a Black woman, mother, and survivor of obstetric racism.  And, as an extension of our collaborative zine work, Thirty Sunsets and a Moon, we envision a healing care baskets project that builds community and kinship around the need for restorative, meaningful rituals during this time, and the deep knowing that one doesn't have to speak about their grief to release it.  There is healing all around us. 

The Healing Care Baskets project has returned this year in hyper local, grassroots form, centering Black mothers and babies in so-called South Los Angeles–the ancestral, unceded territory of the Tongva people.  Together with a community of folks who reached out to us eager to support the work after witnessing the 2021 iteration of this project, we’ll be filling our healing care baskets with goods curated specifically to meet the needs of maternal caregivers and little ones during the first year or so after those sweet babies have made it earthside.  A gesture of care to hold them in our embrace far beyond the first 40 days, and deep into that sweet spot when they often need loving care and community the most.  

Inspired by the mother and child healing circles Ashley held space for in the forests of South Los Angeles, each care basket will be filled with the following items hand picked with love:

Handwoven palm leaf baskets by artisan AbdLatif sourced in Marrakech by SaraJane Bizzou of  @ansmoon.co

Baby quilts for play and rest by Tenille Fatimah of @Quilted_Salah

Calendula salve by Farai Harreld of @TheHillbillyAfrican

Native CA common yarrow seeds for planting healing futures by Nicholas Hummingbird of @california_native_plants

Hand sewn tea mat pattern and materials by Jessica Lewis Stevens of @SugarhouseWorkshop

Plant dyed play silks by Cam Kennedy of @SameSameGeneralStore

Tiny mugs for little hands thrown by Laura Brown of @Mender.Maker

Healing crystals + affirmation cards by Ashley Causey-Golden  of @Afrocentric.Montessori

A vintage book for Black little ones + sunkissed oranges from the family tree of Ashley J. May @GrassrootsMorning

Garden fresh greens + mother’s wellness tea blend by Maryam Abdul Karim @DivineTouchDoulaCare

Summer stone fruit by Dorothy Pirtle of Lily of the Valley @Dorothy.Faye

How to Contribute

Thank you for your generous contributions towards sourcing baskets to fill, vintage baby book fund, handmade tea mat materials, and shipping reimbursement as needed.  All funds in excess of our needs for the Healing Care Baskets will be redistributed at the close of the project in June 2023 to support Black children and their families who wish to enjoy slow and sweet summer days in nature in community with Amanah Outsiders Summer Camp.

*Barbara Christian wrote to poet Audre Lorde after Lorde’s presentation at the 1978 MLA convention:

Winter, you’re so good to me

April 2023

“Quiet…like the sound of a cumulus cloud floating by…or a butterfly fluttering its wings…no sound…just a casual patience…a waiting for the pie to come from the oven…the cream to peak at its whipping…the idea that will make it all right…”

–An excerpt from the poem “Connie” by Nikki Giovanni from The Sun is So Quiet (1998)

Winter was so good to me.  It took hold of my hands and together we buried the rush of time under deep dark soil.  It anchored me and my body deep down in my homeplace. For rest and recovery.  And, quiet. It invited me to smell the citrus blossoms from my kitchen window and remember them as a sign of winter’s fruit to come.  To find warmth in reading old cookbooks like literature.  Finding nudges towards Mama’s words on what her grandmother’s bread pudding was and was not.  Sweet cream buttered slices of bread.  Custard stirred on the stove.  And with all due respect to Mrs. Leah Chase—the bread was sliced, never torn.  It taught me to appreciate Mama Sudie’s wise words more than ever, now: you can’t have too many cooks in the kitchen.

Winter invited me to cherish time witnessing a friend craft a gesture of handmade love.  An archive of kinship across time and place.  A soon to be quilt, then, that now warms my body under another name.  An archive of an almost decade long conversation between two hearts and homes and what we know to be the last winter under a mid city orange tree.  I’m now tilling the soil and tossing yarrow seeds into the earth so that it remembers how we healed here together in this place.  And I’m reading stories about butterflies and crescent moons, eating buttered bread pudding, and sipping milky sweet spiced tea at sundown under this tree.  As you see, it’s become sort of a whole thing for me to make the best of my final moments here.  And, I give thanks to Jessica and to my sister friend Farai, for helping me make meaning, ceremony, and memory from this long goodbye.  Our conversations are captured in what we’re calling A Recipe for Some Springtime Joy.  Let’s just say it's a collection of soul nourishing gestures and gentle nudges to lean into the beauty of this and all seasons of renewal.  Grab yourself a copy in case you’d like to do the same.

-Ashley (2023)

“I’m very gracious and tender with myself in terms of like how slow I need to move, which is not something that I give myself very much other times of the year…We’re still always grinding in capitalism, but yeah, just really allowing for that space to like sit in that rich dark earth and, and kind of start planting seeds, even if they feel impossible for the year to come.”

-Vadi (April 2021)

Download here: A Recipe for some Springtime Joy

We invite you to build community with us by tagging your springtime joy with #ThirtySunsetsAndAMoon.  And, for our Wild Little Seekers out there celebrating Ramadan, add a note on the gem from Quran or Hadith that you believe is hidden in the moment of joy you pick.  I recommend using a resource such as Forty Green Hadith: Sayings of the Prophet Muhammad صلى الله عليه وسلم on Environmental Justice & Sustainability by another sister Kori Majeed and her collaborator Saarah Yasmin Latif. 

A Little Bit of Sweetness in the Cupboard Goes a Long Way

February 2023

“...so sweet is mothering and nourishment. And so, when you think about a culture that has a sugar addiction and feels uncared for, you can see what that correlation is.  When you think about sugar and what that traces back to in the legacies, you know, you're like, okay, well, it makes sense that we are where we are with this, because such a little, like in a culture that is deeply traumatized, a little bit of sweetness goes a long way.  A little bit of care goes a long way.”

Vadi Erdal

3 April 2021

Thirty Sunsets and a Moon: Volume Two - Oral History Project

After the push of our autumn release, I took respite in my mother’s home.  Together with my children–in the care of my mother and my mother’s mother–I prepared my body, mind, and soul to face a surgery that I have needed since yesterday.  And when the storm was over, I returned to my mother’s bed to recover on Sunday’s collard greens, spoons of golden butter swimming in salt and pepper grits, and slow readings of vintage cookbooks with Grandmother.  

By early winter, I was released from medical leave and could carry on with my normal daily activities.  But, what is normal in the afterlife of Black maternal near death?  Perhaps that is a question for another volume.  Anyhow, I took my doctor’s recommendation as an invitation to stay here for a while in the fold of my new normal.  To extend our time together in this period of rest, healing, and kinship–my family and me.  Not quite ready to start packing pantry baskets, but yearning for conversation about how we heal our hearts and bodies through food, I posed a question to my co-dreamers for this project in an Instagram group chat.  I asked them:  “What are the pantry staples that remind you of home? Or, make you feel at home? And I would like to focus on the simple items—these are things that could sustain you, body and soul, in times of precarity.” 

With their permission, as always, I share excerpts below of our early winter conversation with you.  As of the moment I write this today, on the new moon of Sha’ban, I have dropped off two pantry baskets in the community this winter.  One went to the Inglewood Community Table and another to the Watts Community Fridge as promised in the pages of our zine.  And, because we just love thinking about setting up a good pantry, we created a list for folks to print and use.  All good items to keep on hand based on our collective reflections, emphasizing nourishing whole foods with sweet healing energies according to traditional healing modalities and rooted in the ancestral ways of our contributors.  We hope this list will help you to put a little sweetness in your cupboard this season.  And, inspire you to fill your neighbor’s cupboard, too.

Download Here: A Soul Nourishing Winter Pantry PDF

Thirty Sunsets + a Moon: v2 - Food Pantry Questions

Instagram Group Chat / December 2022

“So beautiful! I would say rice, chickpeas, fava beans, vermicelli noodles, tomato paste!”

-Banah

“tinned red kidney beans, cinnamon sticks, tomato passata, dried mint/basil/ parsley /rosemary, rice, black tea bags,  rainbow cardamom milk (I’ll have to explain this one)*

*I have mama buy it from this specific desi store in Nottingham (Uk) I haven’t been able to find it anywhere else! But also haven’t looked too hard as it’s so special that mama sends over 16 mini cans that we carefully try to last, and then we have to wait for the next time 🥰 Also my mum would never ship these to me she waits till she’s coming or someone else is coming to visit.”

-Sumaya

“Love this question! I’d say: spices (cumin, paprika, cinnamon, dried mint, Chinese star anise), Turkish capsicum paste & tomato paste, Brown sugar, Walnuts in shell, Green and red lentils, Dried jujube/red dates.”

-Saltanat

“Salams Ashley, I wanted to share pantry staples that remind me of home. The most comforting pantry staples in my life are: Red Split Lentils, Yellow Chana Lentils, Basmati Rice, Fine Semolina, Cane Sugar, Raw Almonds, both whole and sliced, Ghee, Mustard Oil, Tinned Chickpeas, Chickpea Flour, Whole Wheat Pastry Flour, Evaporated Milk, Jello Instant Pudding, Frozen Chopped Spinach, Tomato Paste

And Spices (in both whole and ground forms): Cumin, Coriander, Turmeric, Chilli Powder, Asafoetida, Ginger, Amchur (Mango Powder), Star Anise, Cinnamon, Cardamom, Saffron, Nutmeg.”

-Aiysha

“Vermicelli for frying into rice, rice in general (always have a basmati AND a shorter grain like baldo or jasmine), dates, garlic & onions forever, pomegranate / persimmon whenever in season, sour plums / green almonds when in season, fresh herbs like dill / mint / parsley, a good jar of za’atar, FULL FAT YOGURT, chickpea candies (leblebi), sheep ghee*, way too much olive oil (gotta stock up), tahini + grape or carob molasses (Pekmez), hazelnuts / almonds / walnuts.

The brand for the ghee is merve! It's expensive to make your own but I do when I get good deals on good butter…I buy [it] at [an] iraqi market in town. But it’s from Anatolia.” 

-Vadi

Love like Salt: A Kashmiri Tale

Retold by Sumaya Teli

December 2022

Through the work of the oral history project, our co-creators were invited to reflect on their childhoods and to remember the moments when they felt most cared for.  They were asked: what did these moments of care feel, taste, and sound like? Who was there holding you?  What traditional stories were you told?  And, what were the songs of your childhood? 

In response to our provocation, folks offered up rich childhood memories, sweet tales, and beautiful songs.  You will find some of these offerings within the pages of the zine, but there were two that needed just a little more room to breathe.  Our first story and reflection in this series was retold to us by Sumaya Teli.  We thank Sumaya for trusting us with this memory.  It’s the perfect tale for these deep, dark winter nights.  The kind of tale  that makes you want to build a fire and gather with your loved ones under a warm blanket.

Sumaya Teli

5 October 2021

“The story is about a King as stories often are, and in this story the King has three daughters as kings in such stories often do. My first memory of this story is Papa sitting under a furry blanket, with his own three daughters surrounding him listening with rapture. These blankets, commonly seen in most immigrant households - usually would have a garish floral motif on a brown or blue background but this one was different. It had a winter scene on it, of a forest and snow and a golden sun on the horizon. I would love to sit under the blanket with my dad and brush the plush fabric this way and that, making it look as though there was shade on the snow one second and sunshine the next. 

I never asked Papa where the story came from, not until I was much older. As a child with my Eurocentric lens I imagined the princess in a velvet ball gown lined with fur, banished through a snowy forest like the one on the blanket… little did I realise the images my father would have had in his mind while Boaba, my grandmother would tell him the same story, of a different kind of princess - one wearing a velvet Pheran embroidered with spools of gold thread  and walking through the Himalayas.

By the time he told us this story I was already aware of the three sisters trope in fairytales. Being the eldest I held a secret grudge about this. How come it was always the third and youngest sister who turned out to be the best, most beautiful, most kind and most humble? How come she was the only one who got to live happily ever after? I never said anything though lest it confirm any ‘mean eldest sister streak’ inside me. So I remained silent and listened ~ because one of the things about Papa was that he really was a wonderful storyteller.”

Once upon a time there was a King who had three daughters. One day, he threw a grand party.  And, while he had the attention of all his courtiers and important ambassadors and governors of this land or another, he couldn't help but show off a little. He quietened everyone, then asked his eldest “daughter, daughter dear, tell me, how much do you love me?”  She was taken aback by the question.  But, she knew what her father wanted to hear.  “I love you so much dear father.  I love you more than all the gold on this earth.”

The king was pleased and asked his second daughter, “how much do you love me?”  She replied, “I love you more than all the diamonds and precious stones on earth.”

The third daughter knew her turn was coming. She truly did love her father and wondered what she might say that she loved him more than, just as her sisters had done.  But she did not love any of those things.  “One could quite happily,” she thought, “live without many of them at all.”

“And what of you my dear?” asked the King to his youngest and most beloved daughter. The youngest princess replied “nuūn” , the Kashmiri word for salt.  Sure he had misheard her, the king replied “what do you say my dear? Did you say zūun?  you love me more than the moon itself!? Wah wah!”  She then answered “no, I said nuun”  she replied.  “I love you more than salt.”  

Upon hearing this, all the courtiers started laughing. Even the court jester was in tears of mirth, “Salt! She said salt! Her father is loved more than salt!”  Angered and ashamed by this answer, the King grew red in his face. How dare his own daughter make fun of him in front of the whole court. “Get out!” he said, “and never come back again. You are not my daughter anymore.”  

With no mother to plead on her behalf, as she had passed away when the princess was still a baby. And, two older sisters secretly delighted that their youngest goody two shoes sister had finally seemed to do something wrong and was being punished for it.  The Princess left the warm palace in the cold winds of the forest wearing only the clothes she had on her back and a big shawl passed down by her mother.  She traveled for many days. The tops of the mountains looked like they had been sprinkled with salt from the heavens and down below the wind whipped her salty tears across her cheeks but she kept going until she reached the other side of the mountain in search of her fortune far away from her father and his daughters. 

Many years passed. The King missed his daughter very much but felt too proud to admit it. He covered his sadness by hosting lavish parties full of pomp and good food.  But, one day on a hunting expedition, he became lost and ended up on the other side of the mountain. As he was wandering around, he was captured by soldiers and taken to their Queen.  Watching from her private balcony, she saw him being brought inside, and wondered about this old hungry, tired man who had lost his way.

The Queen ordered the finest feast be prepared in honor of this new guest, with all the best wazas, or cooks, to get their fires ready for a banquet.  And what a banquet it was! Nine courses were prepared, each one more lavish than the other.  Except for the ninth one which was a simple dish of fenugreek greens-so simple and small that the king didn't even notice it.  Each goshtaba, a lavish meatball, was as big as a football.  Saffron Kehwa poured like gold from heavy silver lidded samovars, while pink tea flowed like fragrant rivers from heavy copper samovars. 

Tired and hungry, the King was amazed by the feast! He felt almost as if he was home. When all were seated for the feast, the King took a much awaited bite, but nothing. He tried the rogan josh. And, nothing.  He took a bite of the crispy tabak maaz. Nothing. He tried the raas of the yakhnie again and again, and nothing!

“Surely,” he thought, “the pink tea will rinse my palette of anything untoward.” It was his favorite. He always preferred the salty pink tea over the sweet, honey saffron version.  But, today even that tasted of nothing but bitter tea leaves. Dismayed, he realised that although all the food looked and smelled like the most beautiful feast one could have, he just couldn't taste anything! 

The only thing he hadn’t tried yet was the simple dish of fenugreek greens. His hosts were watching him and to be a gracious guest he tried that dish too expecting it to taste of nothing much at all like the others.  But, to his surprise, it tasted so delicious that he was moved to tears. And, he suddenly realised what was missing in all the other dishes. Without salt the most grand of dishes was tasteless.  But, with salt, the simplest of greens transformed into delight. 

At this point he remembered his daughter. Who had told him she loved him more than salt itself. And he began to cry, lamenting out loud to the whole party around him: “oh how I had misunderstood the daughter that loved me most!”  He cried “I wish that I had one more chance to see her, I would ask for her forgiveness.”  He then raised his hands to the heavens and pleaded with God to bring her to him.  

Overhearing this, the Queen knew her clever plan had worked.  “Salaam father,” she said, “Allah has answered your prayer.”  To his surprise, this Queen was his little Princess, who loved him more than salt itself.  All grown up now.  A kind, wise leader reunited with her father.

A Gathering of Memories

Thirty Sunsets and a Moon: volume 2 Oral History Project

December 2022

Over the course of 2021, five folks honored us with their time and personal histories through intimate oral history interviews via Zoom.  Their stories bridge together memories of displacement with reimaginings of home, place, and care.  And today, with their permission, we are sharing their beautiful reflections on childhood, home/lands, and seasonal traditions.  We hope that their words inspire others to gather their own memories and strive toward building ties of kinship across differences–to live the futures we imagine, now.

Ashley, Jessica & Nama

Vadi

They/Their/Theirs

3 April 2021

“Our porridges. So we ate porridges a lot, growing up as a comfort food for when we were feeling like upset or whatever, you know, I feel like my mom would always make either like with rice flour or semolina and milk, like, it was always the combination of the hot calming milk, the spices, and then the grain. And I just like would eat from the outside, circling towards the center. She would put it on a plate. So it would be cool enough for us to eat it real quickly. And so that texture, like, anytime I feeling like I need a little extra care, like I'll make myself some kind of a warm porridge. That's very like soft and melts in your mouth. And when I eat that, like, that's the sensation of that is so deeply comforting.”

“The rice pudding, especially that it's like the sweetness and I, you know, in traditional herbalism and medicine systems, like whether it's Ayurveda or it's our traditional Islamic medicine, Chinese medicine, it's, uh, you know, like African traditional medicine, like this, those, the flavors all correlating to, um, like an emotional seat as well. And so sweet is mothering and nourishment. And so when you think about a culture that has a sugar addiction and feels uncared for, you can see what that correlation is, but sweetness is yeah. Just associated with mothering and nourishment and like being kind to yourself essentially. And, and look at, you know, like when you think about sugar and what that traces back to in the legacies, you know, you're like, okay, well, it makes sense that we are where we are with this, because such a little, like in a culture that isn't deeply traumatized, a little bit of sweetness goes a long way.  A little bit of care goes a long way, but we're like so deeply traumatized and so deeply cared for especially Black and Brown communities, especially those displaced and in diaspora, it's like, we can't get enough sweetness to you know like sweeten the wounds. Right?”

Saltanat

she/her/hers

20 April 2021

“I only visited my homeland once, when I was 4 years old. My memories of my time there are vivid, but few. Due to this, my connection to my homeland as a place was weak. It was the traditional foods that my mother cooked everyday at home that tethered me to my culture. It served the purpose of creating a sense of community as well, because every family/community gathering had the same staple foods; polu (a fried rice with lamb, carrots and onion), nan (traditional bread) and kawap (lamb skewers cooked on a traditional bbq stove). These foods are a core element of Uyghur culture. They represent the wisdom of our culture, as polu is considered to be a one pot meal that has health benefits, and is cooked by everyone in the Uyghur community. It is present at every event in an Uyghur's life; weddings, births and funerals. No community event is complete without it.  Nan- the traditional round bread cooked in a handmade brick oven over firewood- is cooked every few months by the whole family. I have memories of spending the entire day at my aunt's house, with every family member taking part in the, the process of cooking this bread. From making the dough, to shaping it, dotting the surface with traditional patterns to then cooking it outside in the oven, to then being given the bread- hot, fresh with butter melted over it. I had the sense that these same actions occurred in my homeland, and it gave me an inkling of what being Uyghur meant.”

“Growing up, I knew that being Uyghur meant being mostly invisible. Nobody knew who the Uyghur's were. I couldn't point to a map and show them where my country was- it didn't exist as a separate nation. It was renamed "Xinjiang". To Uyghur's, it is "East Turkestan". As a people we were classified as Chinese. Nobody could do a Google search and read up about Uyghur's because there was no internet in the 90s. The most important point of connection for me to my culture, one that occurred daily, was food. My mother made traditional broths, handmade pulled noodles called "laghman" and dumplings called "chuchure" or "su manta". The fried rice, polu, was very different to traditional Chinese fried rice. It wasn't spicy and filled with many vegetables. It has 4 ingredients in total; it was simple but wholesome. There is not one Uyghur child who doesn't love Polu. For breakfast we had traditional nan, not white toast with jam. Every barbecue we had with family featured our traditional lamb skewers, seasoned with salt, cumin and chilli. We ate them on the long, metal skewers they were cooked on. Looking around, nobody else ate food like this. We couldn't go out and buy it anywhere. It was always handmade, from scratch- a labour of love, of memory of a homeland that my parents had been forced out of.”

Banah

zhe/zher/zhers

29 May 2021

“…whenever I'm visiting my family members, especially when I was younger, I think of this photo that my mom like printed out and made really big. Cause she was like, this just exemplifies like, you know, our culture so well is—all like just generations sitting on the floor together, the old and the young and everyone's hands, everyone eating with their hands. And like that's a very village culture thing and like just serving each other food and you see all the, like things of food and the kids are holding other kids who are younger than them. Like I'm like nine and I'm holding like a three-year-old and I'm feeding them and the person next to me is doing the same.” 

“...last summer during quarantine, I was interning at this curandera's farm place in Arkansas. And, she challenged me to like forage from the forest and make an ancestral food from the forest. So I found wild grapes, just wild grape leaves. You'll often find them. And, those big tubes, like wooden tubes that just hang through those lush forest areas in the south. And, I called my grandma and I was like, how do you do the wild ones? Cause they're different from the domesticated.  Of course she knew. And, she was like, you just have to boil it, you know, for like three hours. So it becomes tender. So, I made the grape leaves out of foraged leaves and that was really cool. It made me feel like, okay, I can do this anywhere.”

Aiysha

she/her/hers

7 August 2021

“I feel like when it comes to fall, you just wanna, it's like, you wanna be grounded and you wanna be in the earth and everything is falling to the earth and you are taking from the earth. There's a lot of earthiness in fall. And I feel like in our traditions, at home, in my own home, that deal with like, especially around the food, like we just live off soups for a long time, and they're not really the hearty soups of winter, they're soups of fall, which are basically single vegetable soups, maybe two or three, and always with bread and cheese. And you're just so happy. Um, and everything is, is really simple, but then food is always really simple for me. And in terms of artistic practices, of course, we gather all the leaves and we do leaf rubbings and we try waxing the leaf that doesn't always work, but we do those things where you press them between wax paper, with crayon shavings, and you make sun catchers.”

“But I think personally, another sustaining practice in fall, it does come from my childhood because it started then and I still do it every year. And I'm like 40...42 now is when we pick the perfect maple leaves. He, my dad, would just put them in books, like in the biggest books we had. And so I would, we all pick leaves and then we put them in books and, and you just forget about them. Like literally we would just forget about it, and even now I'm at my parents' house, I will open some book and a leaf will fall out. I don't know how long it's been there. It's perfectly flat, perfectly crisp. I, you can't touch it. It'll fall apart and you just close the book on it. And so we do, I, I do that every year and I have books with leaves in them. I don't, I don't remember putting them in. And I it's like a surprise for yourself, in that the beauty of that dried leaf, it just makes you, me feel so happy.”

Sumaya

she/her/hers

7 August 2021

“[My mum] was somebody who would make very seasonal food. She's very much into that. So we'd, we'd like as soon as it was fall, we would have, um, all the warm foods like she, she had that connection still from Kashmir--the cold foods or warm foods. And um, one of the thing that, that, that I loved her making and now I make for my children is a, is a kidney bean, this kidney bean dal it's called rajma. And just, you know, it's that, I think a lot of South Asians make this doll and they have their own particular way of doing it. And, for us that was the taste of fall. And especially if she put turnips in it, turnips were a real fall thing. Again that rooty, earthy vegetables.”

“She would also do a lot of dried vegetables and every time anybody came from Kashmir or if we went to Kashmir and she, and the things she'd bring back from there were all very fall things because the kind of food she could bring back the things that people--that like they dry, they dry everything they can to, you know, to eat [during winters].  So there would be dried aubergine, dried tomatoes, dried zucchini like everything dried and she'd bring that back. And I just remember the smell of, like when you open the suitcase and smell, that would come out and it was this whole, it, this, this, I feel like this is what my whole life has been about this whole intermingling of, of things. And for me, physical, actual things, just like the simplest thing, like the bag that, that it was that it was in-these things are so precious to me. Like I'd put it away to smell it later because I just wanted to remember that smell.”

Thirty Sunsets and Moon: Volume Two

August 2022

Made in collaboration with Ashley J. May of the Grassroots Morning Garden Project and special guest collaborator Nama Khalil, Thirty Sunsets and a Moon: Volume Two is a handmade book archiving sweet moments gathered in community during the autumn and winter seasons of the Wild Little Seekers Project together with reflections on home, place, and care collected through the Thirty Sunsets and a Moon Oral History Project.

From Ashley’s introduction: “Through fieldnotes, foodways, folktales, and interview excerpts, we’ve documented here the ways in which we practice possibility, holding each other in radical ritual, love, and accountability…It invites us to engage in re-remembering and asks questions such as: How were we cared for as children? How did we learn to care for others? What stories were we told about ourselves? And, what were the stories we were told about others? Through these provocations, we incite movement toward collective care and the practice of building kinship across difference in order to grow new worlds together.”

The first release of Volume Two is a limited edition of 150 books. Each 40-page book features a letterpress-printed cover with hand-painted details on rich dark brown stock. The volumes are bound by hand using naturally dyed sashiko thread colored with cutch.

Volume two was first released in August 2022, with a portion of the profits from this volume redistributed to The Food Program of the Grassroots Morning Garden Project. As long as we’ve got them, we’ll be using these funds to fill, with our own hands, community fridges, and related efforts, throughout South LA, Inglewood, and Watts, California.

sunday cake

August 2021

“We came, one behind the other, to our childtimes--grandmother, mother, daughter--just three marchers in a procession that stretches long and wide […].”  (p. xi)

-Eloise Greenfield and Leslie Jones Little, Childtimes

Last summer, as Jessica and I settled into the final stages of edits on Thirty Sunsets and a Moon: Volume One, I attended a talk that would gather me in a way I could have never anticipated.  The talk, Converging Pandemics: Black Life in a State of Emergency, was so profoundly activating that it moved me right on up out of a funk I had been navigating while trying to wrap up the summer tale.  Attendees were taken through a grounding exercise, and asked which of our ancestors we’d like to carry with us on that day.

I called on Mama Sudie, my maternal great grandmother. You may remember her from the pages of Thirty Sunsets and a Moon: Volume One.  Her presence can be felt in the spring story stirring cake batter with a wooden spoon, and in the summer story cooling her cakes in the window while birds hung around on the fig tree. Well, that single act of bringing her into awareness took me on a soul journey I never want to forget.  Out of nowhere, my oldest son began to ask questions about Mama Sudie. He wanted to know all of our memories. Well, it seemed out of nowhere, but perhaps it wasn't.

Last summer, nearly every moment was spent telling my children stories about Mama Sudie. Stories crafted from old memories and told to the best of my recollection. And, when my sweet tales almost left us hanging, those of my mother and my grandmother came and walked us home towards a sweet ending.

The best of tales came from my mother’s remembering. We couldn’t get enough of her stories about long weekends in Mama Sudie’s kitchen, quietly watching her mix cake batter with a wooden spoon and waiting patiently for a chance to clean the bowl. And, by clean I mean dragging tiny fingers around the bowl to gather up batter. Cakes cooled in the window, sweet figs dropped like rain from the trees. And, birds sang in the garden as Mama Sudie cooked a sugar potion that would hold hand crushed pineapples between the layer cakes, then crack under the pressure of little fingers claiming their slice.

Now my memories, they told a different tale. There was a yard with birds. Mama Sudie always made a home for birds. There was a rose bush and a lemon tree.  And, my big cousin and I risked it all climbing up that tree just to grab some fruit. There was crisco on the countertop and Sunday dinner on the stove. Cast iron pots and sweet potato pie. A table in the kitchen nook where we sat together drinking coffee and looking out the window, or watching something on her little tabletop television.  

This summer, I still couldn’t remember her cakes. And, I sure didn’t remember that glaze my mother spoke of. Until today, as my cake cooled in the window, I flipped through vintage community cookbook recipes and finally settled on the formula:  a 1/2 cup of powdered sugar, a little butter in the pan, and some milk or lemon juice to thin it out.  As I stood at the stove hoping and praying I’d do right by Mama Sudie’s recipe, as told to me, I was transported by a wave of lemon sugar floating in the air  to my Auntie Jo’s kitchen on 74th and Gramercy Place. Just so you know, Auntie Jo is Grandmother June’s baby sister and she lived about five minutes from my childhood home. Anyhow, that moment came back to me. We were standing at the stove as she stirred sugar and lemon juice in a silver pot. The way that memory washed over me! Clear as day. I don’t know how I could have ever forgotten.

As I stirred, I returned to my mother’s words, “Watch it close.  Mama Sudie never left her pot.  Once you pour it, it should set real fast.”  So I poured some and pushed it with my finger, watching for it to crack under pressure. It did.  I’d be lying if I told you I glazed that whole cake. Nope not in this house where folks prefer dipping cake in tiny cups of red tea. I took a slice for myself, cut it into two layers. Threw some hand crushed pineapple in between and set it with a little glaze. I was generous with the final touches.  A sweet layer cake with hints of lemon for the sake of remembering the trees I climbed as a child, and three rose buds—one for each transmission the story traveled through before it made its way to my kitchen.  And you should feel free to do the same.

This is the kind of thing that takes you back to some other place in time.  I'm not saying the cake is a perfect replica, nor that the work ends here.  And that’s sort of how these things ought to go. Being the keeper of the recipes is like holding stories in your hands. Tiny bits of sacred folklore, gifted over generations. The work isn’t to make your version just like such and such made it. No, no.  We have got to leave space for possibility, for imagination; space for what can grow out from our collective remembering, space for picking up where the story left off and carrying it on into its own legacy.

By the time you read this, it will be Mama Sudie’s birthday. August 24th to be exact.  While no longer with us in body, she lives on through the stories I tell my children, in the way that I braid my hair, you can even catch sight of her in my smile.  Just the other day, Grandmother June gazed at me while I combed her hair in the bathroom mirror and uttered something like “you know, you look like Sudie.”  I proudly hold her memory in all those ways and many more, like my Sunday dinner rhythm and now my Sunday cake.  Today, I’m sharing the recipe for that Sunday Cake, yes, we’ll officially call it just that. And, I think you’ll enjoy it just as much as I do.

A Recipe for Sunday Cake

This recipe makes one layer which I cut in half to make two.  If you want to make a true layer cake, I recommend preparing the recipe twice, not doubling.  Or, use your own tried and true layer cake recipe, reducing the sugar and using sour milk or buttermilk where milk or yogurt may be called for.  Mama Sudie always used cake flour, Swans Down to be exact.  I find that all purpose einkorn flour with its silky texture and fine mill works just as well.  If you use einkorn, try to go with an established recipe, then make changes as you get comfortable with it.  My recipe is adapted from a Jovial recipe.  Set out your eggs ahead of time, get your sour milk ready by adding a squeeze of lemon juice to your ½ cup of milk in a large measuring cup, and leave it out with the eggs.  Get the best crushed pineapples in juice you can find.  Or, you can stew some fresh pineapple and let it cool.  That might be lovely.  Let me know if you try it.  Lastly, thin the glaze out as much as needed.  If you find it too thick, add more milk or maybe just water, and taste.  Pour it quick, it sets up fast.  Melt your butter, preheat your oven to 350 and line the bottom of a 8 or 9 inch round pan, and bake this beauty.

Ingredients

CAKE

8 tbsp of butter, melted then cooled 

1 ½ cups of all purpose einkorn flour, measured then sifted

1 ½ tsp of baking powder

¼ tsp of baking soda

¼ tsp of sea salt

½ cup of milk soured with a squeeze of lemon juice

2 tsp of vanilla flavor (we use alcohol free, you may use regular extract if that’s your thing)

3 large eggs, at room temperature, one separated

½ cup of organic sugar

GLAZE

½ cup of powdered sugar

Juice from a small wedge of lemon

Enough milk to thin it out to your liking

Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a bowl.

In a large measuring cup, whisk together your melted butter, the vanilla, and the sour milk.

Beat two whole eggs, plus one egg yolk and the sugar on high speed in your stand mixer, or by hand.  This will take about two minutes to get right.  While this is working, whisk your egg white to soft peaks.

Sift into the egg mixture half flour mixture and fold in, then half milk mixture and fold in.  Repeat, then gently fold in the egg whites.  Don’t overmix.  Three minutes or so should do it.  

Pour the batter into your pan and bake until it’s golden brown and springs back to touch.  It all depends on your oven, but for me it takes about 30 minutes.

While your cake is cooling, get your glaze on the stove.  Mix all the ingredients and warm gently.  Keep stirring until all of the sugar is dissolved.  Spoon a little onto a small plate and test it for thickness, sweetness, and make sure that it cracks!  Adjust to your liking.

Once it's ready, go ahead and glaze your cake.  If you're making layers, have your crushed pineapple ready.  Do like Mama Sudie did, lay a little glaze down then throw those pineapples on--you gotta move fast.  Then work with the next layer.  Get fancy, lay flowers on top.  Or be simple and leave it as is.  You'll have to decide quickly as the glaze won't wait for you.  Sugared mint leaves would go well here, or fresh blackberries, or just a few dried roses. Do whatever you desire, but most importantly, make it yours!

Further Reading

Eloise Greenfield and Lessie Jones Little.  Childtimes: A Three-Generation Memoir.  New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1993.

recipe for Slow + Sweet Summer days

July 2021

An offering from us to help brighten your days and slow summer down just a little, here’s a list you can print and stick wherever you need to see it.

Download Here: Slow + Sweet Summer List

community care: healing care baskets for black mamas + CHILDREN

February 2021

Healing Care Baskets for Black Mamas/Caregivers & Little Ones

The Healing Care Baskets for Black Mamas/Caregivers and Little Ones (0 - 5 years old) is a collaborative effort of Ashley J. May and Jessica Lewis Stevens founded upon our collective wish that Black mothers* and their young children feel supported during this moment in history. Rooted in Ashley’s own embodiment of loving care practices, as a Black woman and mother, while navigating the converging pandemics of anti Black racism and Covid 19, our healing care baskets evoke the restorative nature of simple, meaningful rituals during this time and the deep knowing that one doesn't have to speak about their grief to release it; there is healing all around us. While this effort centers Black mamas and little ones in the Los Angeles area, no Black mamas/caregivers will be turned away, regardless of location, for as long as we have the resources to share.

Our definition of Black Motherwork is inclusive of: Black Cis, Femme & Trans Mothers, Gender Expansive Parents and Other Mothers. We are grateful for organizations such as Black Girl Freedom Fund and the scholarship of Patricia Hill Collins for the work they have done to help us to evoke an ethic of care that is neither confined by biology nor normative family structures.

The healing care baskets will be comprised of:

Herbal teas and elixirs from LA Herbalist Collective including Vitamin C Oxymel, Heart Tonic, Iron + Remineralization Tonic, and herbal tea blends

Healing Hand Salve by Bare Hands

Recipe card with instructions for herbal salt baths (recipe is offered below to the entire community)

Beeswax candles handmade by Nicole Laurel

Silk masks by Lucia LaFerme

Spring Scape craft kits by My Fable: includes a kit to craft a sweet spring scene from wool felt, gathered together in a plant-dyed bag made by Tuck It In

Natural pigments and earth colors gathered from the natural dye community, organized by Liz Spencer, with instructions for making tempera paints

Art print by Kirsten McCracken

Botanically dyed silk squares by Emma McCann

Paintbrush

Sketchbooks handmade by Jessica

Modeling clay

How to Contribute

The care received for this project was so overwhelming that we had enough funds to cover all expenses for the baskets and give the remainder of the donated funds to Black Farm Studio House Co.

How to Request a Basket

This form is now closed.

*Our definition of Black Motherhood is inclusive of: Black Cis, Femme, Gender Expansive & Trans Mothers. We thank Black Girl Freedom Fund for the work they have done to help us in making sure ALL mothers are held in this moment.

Evergreen Bath Salts

Materials:

epsom salt

evergreen needles from fallen pine, spruce, or fir branches (or other plant material - see below)

Chop about a cup’s worth of pine or other evergreen needles into small pieces. Other plants and herbs can be used: dried lavender or rose petals, fresh herbs from the grocery store, dried flower petals or dried herbs, teas, citrus rinds, and oats.

Into a quart-sized jar, pour about 1/2 cup of the epsom salt. Add a small portion of the evergreen needles or herbs, and continue to layer the salt with needles or herbs until the jar is full. You can also include a portion of sea salt or grey salt if you’d like. Cap the salts and allow them to infuse for at least 48 hours before using. Keeps indefinitely.

To use, add about one cupful of the infused salts to your bath. If you add them directly to the water, make sure to have a strainer in place when you drain the bath to catch the plant material. Alternatively, use a bandana, cloth bag, or other piece of fabric to tie the salts up and add to the bath as a sachet.

A New Winter Tradition: Roz Blaban

(also known as roz bhalib; rice pudding)

December 2020

by Nama Khalil

Mama, Mama, it is snowing! Safa yelled as she ran to my room at the crack of dawn. Over night, we became surrounded by a heavy blanket of snow; our climbing tree let fall its last crimson leaves, gently landing where the slugs’ brown-bag-home used to be, Safa and Huda’s makeshift kitchen was nowhere to be found and their mud-pies turned to ice—their eyes sparkled as they got dressed for the day, a new adventure awaits. 

Safa loves the snow, Huda was about to experience it for the first time on this frosty December day. Growing up, snuggling under a blanket and drinking hot-chocolate with my sisters was our winter tradition, and I passed this on to Safa. But, on this particular winter morning, we had breakfast, layered up, and went outside with a new request: Mama can we have roz blaban after we play? In that moment, Safa named her own winter tradition: rice pudding. A cooling treat that I would enjoy during our hot summer trips to Egypt had now a warming winter treat for my daughters.

Roz blaban is part of every fleeting memory from my childhood: walking around in the city immersed by the sounds of cars honking, pop music blasting from one taxi and Quran blasting from another, the smell of cigarette smoke combined with car fumes and fried onions, swarms of people out and about, moments of laughter, moments of sadness, moments of sweat, heat, and dizziness from the sun, and moments of salt water stinging my eyes and sand staining my hair. My childhood memories with roz blaban are placed alongside memories of being in Egypt with family.

Back home, in Cleveland, Ohio, Mama makes this milky goodness anytime she wants. Roz balaban is not saved for an event, a celebration, an offering, or a ritual; it is always present, almost mundane—a quick breakfast item, snack, or dessert. During my college years, it was my go-to suhoor, especially on days when I was too tired to join my family for the predawn Ramadan meal. I would take out an individually prepared glass from the fridge and leave it near my bed, with some dates and water, for easy access, at which point I would stop eating at the sound of the fajr athan, pray, then roll back into bed. I also packed roz blaban when I spent the night, in humility, at the masjid during the last ten days of Ramadan. Roz blaban was a dependable friend, ready to fill me up and prepare me for the next day. Its everydayness made it special.  

When Ihab and I married and I moved out of my family’s home, I deeply missed roz blaban and how readily available it was. It has taken me years to figure out how to make this staple. There are plenty of versions: the traditional way, the quick way, on the stove-top way, in the oven way, the way mama makes it, the way my grandmother makes it, and then all the alterations it has experienced on its travels from Egypt to the United States. Mama makes everything look so easy, I wish I spent more time cooking alongside her, rather than constantly phoning in her aid: What is the ratio? Do I soak the rice first? What kind of milk is best? Why does it take SO long? Any tricks to make it quicker? Patience, my dear, she repeated. You shouldn’t rush rice pudding. 

Mama’s way is never quick, but I was always in a hurry, trapped in our socially mandated endless loop of constantly hopping from one thing to the next, too busy to embrace the rewarding process of daily cooking. Occasionally, I would cram in efforts to make roz blaban, rushing it and always regretting that I did: I wouldn’t cook the rice all the way out of impatience, I burnt the milk out of impatience, I boiled the milk too quickly that it escaped my pot out of impatience.  I grew frustrated with my old friend and stepped away for a while, only reuniting when I went home.

Then, I became a mother to Safa and started to slow down out of necessity to heal my body, to nourish my baby and to nourish myself. I began to reclaim our food-ways, learning how to make food that took time: grape-leaves, lamb, baamia, mousak’a, bone broth, and none other than roz blaban. Meanwhile Safa was alongside me: first watching, then measuring, then stirring, and always waiting.

Mama was right: it was only when I stopped rushing it that it would become as creamy, rich, and delightful as hers. My best versions of roz blaban are when I forgot I was making it, leaving it to simmer on the stove unattended, or when I intentionally blocked out time to do nothing else, to think of nothing else, fully present at the stove, stirring. Now, we wait. We wait for the rice to plump and release its natural starches into the milk, as the milk slowly, and gently, comes to a boil. We wait for the rice to simmer as each grain jumps, skips, and flips over the milk bubbles. We wait longer for the rice and milk to dance around each other before learning how to dance together, and the milk thickens. We wait before adding the sugar, changing the bright white milk into a natural tan of sweetness. Safa eats it immediately, warm with cinnamon on top, I wait until it cools and let it set in the fridge. 

In writing this story, I asked some relatives their memories of roz blaban, curious to learn more about this humbling Egyptian staple. Their thoughts are interwoven with the recipe below. 

Roz Blaban

3 cups of Whole Milk

1/3 cup (plus an extra tablespoon or two) of short grain rice

1 cup of heavy cream (or half and half)

7 tablespoons of sugar (white sugar, or organic cane sugar)

Toppings: raisins, cinnamon, walnuts, ice-cream (optional)

Our process: 

Add milk to a pot and warm it. I have only ever made it with cow’s milk. Ihab’s father recalls his mother only making it with buffalo milk and my father concurs, the richer the milk the better the outcome.

When the milk feels as warm as a teardrop add the rice and gently bring it to a boil. I tether between medium to medium-high heat. Stir constantly, and continue to stir as the milk comes to a boil. Allow the milk to breathe: let it rise in the pot and then stir it to deflate. Repeat this until you feel the milk starting to thicken. 

Turn down the heat to let the rice cook, stir occasionally. This is the part you should not rush. If I had to guess, try not to move onto the next step for at least thirty minutes, but probably longer. You will get a feel for the pudding. If the rice is still crunchy and the milk is thick, add more milk and stir; the more you stir the creamier it becomes. Repeat until the rice easily squishes between your fingers, only when this happens should you add the sugar and watch the subtle change in color.

It could be done at this point. But Egyptian roz blaban always has a cream-like layer that rests on top of each individually served bowl. This layer happens naturally if you get the rice-milk ratio right. We like more rice than most, it is called rice pudding after all. To achieve this layer, add the heavy cream, stir, and let it sit. Or add less rice and omit this step. Leave the pot on low as you prepare your bowls.  

Serve your roz blaban in individually portioned bowls. Dina remembers how she and her siblings would write their name with cinnamon on their bowl before putting it in the fridge. They would also inspect the pot for any caramelized milky gooeyness left behind and spoon it out, together. 

Enjoy it warm like Safa, or wait for it to set and cool (in the fridge). Safa’s grandmother remembers her aunt serving roz blaban in glass bowls and placing the bowls on a tray and under the bed to cool, hidden away until it is ready to eat.

Add toppings of your choice. Ihab adds cinnamon, raisins, and walnuts. Sherif and Ahmed claim the best rice pudding is a little corner shop in Alexandria where they add a scoop of ice cream on top.

Enjoy what Angie calls a ordinarily heartwarming dessert because although she never asks for it she will always choose it when it is around. A treat that my family agrees just happens to always be there, taken for granted, never front and center, but present in all its glory, and always with loved ones.

Thoughts on the Apple Stories We Hold & a Recipe Worth Remembering

November 2020

A is for Azadi A is for Apple

by Sumaya Teli

I am from the apple orchards in my mother’s village 

I am from the first plucked apple and it’s crisp cider bite 

I am from the Samovar my Maas’ balances on her head

I am from the place where men like my Maamjaan, sit under trees and  pack crates with the iridescent fruit.

I am from the pink nūn chai she pours for them. 

I am from the scent of apple blossom 

I am from my Boaba peeling the skin in one go with her knife 

I am from my Boaba’s Pheran. 

I am from the visits by Maamjaan, harbinger of red, gold and green globes that tumble out of burlap sacks ... 

I am from earthenware vessels and the taste of petrichor 

I am from the apples of Resistance - the ones that stayed to rot on the trees under a sky of oppression 

So the world could smell the stench even if they could not hear the cries of the people. 

I am from A for Azadi 

Stamped on the skins of my A for Apples, 

A note on ‘A is for Azadi’ : This poem is an ode to my heartland - the Valley of Kashmir, where many people’s livelihoods depend on the export of apples. The reference to the word ‘Azadi’, meaning - Freedom, being stamped on the apples is a true one.

 In August 2019 the Valley was put under a complete communications black out by the occupying and oppressive regime - and apple farmers from Kashmir wrote pro freedom slogans and words such as ‘Azadi’ on their apples before sending them out to trade - from a place of no internet or phones - these apples were able to tell the world the plight of their homeland. 

My Apple Story

by Ashley J. May

Autumn seems to finally call us to bear witness to all its beauty by late October.  It takes just a little while longer here in Southern California, but it’s well worth the wait.  The mornings move slow, the air is cool and crisp, and the leaves begin to fall.  We pull the heavy blankets out of hiding, I dust the mantle, freshen the play silks, and gather the books that will carry us through the season. 

Each Autumn night, my oldest child patiently awaits his favorite story--a tale about a boy named September, one named Christopher, and the type of garden November dreams are made of.  Then, after his little brother has drifted off to sleep, he politely asks me to tell him a story about my childhood.  I believe that our elders speak to us through the stories we carry down, generation by generation.  So, I gladly give my son the gift of these precious moments with his elders.

We tuck ourselves in just a little bit more. I close my eyes and conjure up sweet memories of my childhood.  They are never hard to find.  A retelling of my joy begins, one that carries us both back in time.  And, it’s almost as if they’re playing right before our eyes.  As we lay nestled in his bed, I recall crisp autumn days skipping up the steps to my grandparents’ front door, just past the ivy and around the ledge, to the tune of the neighborhood ice cream truck.  Grandpa’s deep, soothing voice greets me, reminding me of who I was then and who I am now-- grandpa’s girl.   



Bright orange pumpkins greet me at the doorstep.  Grandpa dusts the nutshells from his hands and gives me kisses that smell of warm coffee and cream.  My heart tells me that there may be a pie cooling in the breeze on the back porch.  And, I know for certain that a giant wooden bowl of apples is sitting right there on the kitchen table.

I invite grandpa to share an apple with me.  Together, we pick the perfect one to carry back to his chair, stopping to grab his fruit knife from the drawer.  He always loved red delicious; I’ve grown to favor the baby fuji’s I find at the farmer’s market with the leaves and branches still holding on.  I nestle into his lap, a place that has always been a site of care for me, and watch the blade of his knife dance around the apple.  He stops to hand me a bit of the peel, my favorite part.  Then he pops a wedge of juicy apple into my hand, then into his, then back into mine, until there was nothing left but little brown seeds.  The story usually ends right here.  My baby’s heart content, far off somewhere in a dream.  

I often wonder whether I need another autumn tale for the book basket.  Perhaps that one book about an apple cake.  I really do love a good cake.  Then, I am reminded by way of this well loved tradition, by way of the memories made with my grandfather, that I have my own apple story.  And, it is the type of story that has the power to connect my babies with my own childhood joy. 

So, each autumn I start filling up my big wooden bowl with crisp apples.  And, once the weather cools just enough to turn that oven on, I take my favorite knife and twirl it around a crisp apple or two, with a boy or two on my lap, then I bake them in a warm oven until they're soft and the whole house smells of cinnamon and butter.  

They’re good just like that, the way my mama made them for me as a child.  A drizzle of creme fraiche or a scoop of vanilla ice cream doesn’t hurt either.  Just the other day though, I thought I might fold these warm, buttery apples into my good old simple yogurt and olive oil cake recipe.  I swapped the yogurt in part for a bit of sweet cream buttermilk we had hanging around and the last of that little jar of vanilla yogurt.  It is truly the kind of cake I love.  One that is forgiving and turns out just fine with whatever you have on hand.  So I’ll leave you with a recipe for a simple apple cake and a gentle nudge to tell a story or two from your heart this season.  I hope you’ll give it all a try--this cake, making magic from your memories, and telling sweet stories rooted in your childhood joy. 

Our Apple Cake

This is the type of cake that begs you to slow down.  You’ve got to bake apples in a pool of butter, sugar, and spices just to get started.  And, it’s well worth the wait.  Set your oven to 350, sit down, and hand peel a few apples while you wait for the oven to get warm. Place a pat of butter on each half, right where the seeds used to be, then dust with cardamom and cinnamon.  Pour a little water in the pan, add a swirl of lemon peel, and sprinkle the fruit with unrefined sugar such as rapadura or jaggery.  Don’t be shy with the sugar, give everyone a little something to look forward to, including the fruit. I’d say about a full hand pinch per half.  Let them get nice and soft, it will probably take about an hour or so.  About half way through, start getting your batter in order. If you’re using whole wheat einkorn, don’t forget to measure then sift it into the bowl--einkorn is funny like that sometimes.  If not, you don’t have to worry too much about it.  I’ve made this cake with all vanilla yogurt, half yogurt and buttermilk, and all buttermilk.  Of all the versions, I find the vanilla yogurt makes a lovely cake--especially if topped with a bit of honey whipped creme fraiche.  Make this cake yours, though.  Use what you have on hand.  Honestly, you really can’t go wrong.  

Note:  1 Pot = about ½ cup

4 pots of whole wheat einkorn flour, measured + sifted (Whole Wheat Pastry or White Whole Wheat work fine too)

1 ¾ teaspoons of baking powder

¼ teaspoon of baking soda

¼ teaspoon of unrefined sea salt

1 ½ pot of organic unrefined sugar (such as jaggery, rapadura, or coconut palm sugar)

1 pot of mild, fruity extra virgin olive oil

3 large eggs

1 teaspoon of alcohol free vanilla extract or vanilla powder

1 medium fuji apple, or two baby fujis, baked

1 ½ pot of european-style vanilla yogurt, buttermilk, or a mixture of both

Butter and flour an 8x3 round pan. You can line it with parchment paper, if you prefer.  While your apples are baking in the oven, bring all of your cold ingredients to room temperature.  

Sift flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt into a large mixing bowl and combine well with a whisk.

Cream the sugar + olive oil in a bowl.  Then, add eggs and vanilla.  Whisk until well combined. Pour in yogurt and mix until smooth and creamy like custard.  At this point, I like to blend in the baked apples so they’re well incorporated into the custard.

Now, make a well in the flour mix, then add your yogurt custard.  Switch to a wooden spoon or spatula and stir gently until well combined, about three minutes or so.  The trick is not to overmix the batter.  Pour batter into the prepared pan.  Bake for about 50 - 55 minutes or until it turns golden brown, the smell of the cake takes over the kitchen, and it springs back to touch.

About Thirty Sunsets and a Moon

Made in collaboration with Ashley J. May of the Grassroots Morning Garden Project, Thirty Sunsets and a Moon, Volume One is a handmade book filled with stories, recipes, handwork, and reflections honoring simple celebrations during the spring and summer festival season of the Muslim calendar, including Ramadan, Eid al Fitr, Dhul Hijjah, and Eid al Adha.

From Ashley’s introduction: “The intention of this work is to center our joy and inspire a new way of thinking around reverence for tradition and connection to nature in Muslim families. This book serves as a window into the beauty of our celebrations, through the eyes of the Muslim child, and a welcoming bridge to all families and caregivers wishing to bear witness to the joy-filled traditions Muslim families hold dear to their hearts.”

Made in a limited edition of 100, each book features a letterpress-printed cover with hand-painted moon details. The volumes are bound by hand using naturally dyed sashiko thread colored with onion skins and iron.

Volume one was released in 2020, with a portion of sales donated to The Tender Foundation.

Stories + Reflections

The volume includes Ashley’s reflections on the seasons spent facilitating the Wild Little Seekers Cooperative Forest School, notes on crafting meaningful Eid celebrations, and contributions from mothers in the group sharing traditional foodways.

Central to the collection are two stories, one for each of the Ramadan and Dhul Hijjah seasons, to share with children— rooted in meaningful connection and an oral tradition of storytelling, filled with beautiful imagery, inviting the handwork and recipes that follow.

Recipes

Recipes for Palestinian ftayer pastries, Ethiopian dabo, and Moroccan pan harcha (as well as the sourdough-raised variations created by Jessica inspired by each one). A yogurt cake and vanilla-scented sables straight from Ashley’s kitchen. Honey lemonade, herbal milk tonic, creme fraiche frosting, chamomile glaze, and a simple chocolate ganache, too.

Handwork

Projects for children and caregivers alike including full moon luminaries, clay beads and rice paste, salt dough moons, wooly butterflies, lemon bird feeders, and a special bird to fly.

Download Hoopoe template here