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Product Description
"Matthew's presence transports me back to the Cairo kitchen, where I am tasting the ful that Ahmet, the cook, prepared and helping Grandmaman Marguerite mix dough while she sings songs to me in Arabic. Her family pride was profoundly linked to the kitchen, so when I attempted to make sambousek once for my friends
and did not follow her recipe for this cheese-filled golden dough faithfully, she was outraged. "This recipe is at least
hundreds of years old. You do not change it!" she shouted. I see her standing at the stove, a diminutive woman
usually dressed in black. Her thick, curly, henna-dyed hair was pulled upward in a large chignon; there was always
a lock of hair escaping that she would try, again and again and without success, to push back into her chignon. My daughter Marianne, who looks like her, has the same gesture of trying to push a lock of curly dark hair behind her ear. I smile as I watch the curl fall down in front of her eyes."
From Memories of a Lost Egypt
Amazon.com Review
Colette Rossant's privileged childhood was marked by tragedy and dislocation. Her father, the Egyptian descendant of Sephardic Jews who eventually settled in Cairo, met her French mother in Paris, where he was the European buyer for his father's department store. He died in 1939 when Colette was only 7, and her mother then left her in Cairo with her grandparents. She returned three years later to enroll Colette in a convent school in the hope that her daughter would convert to Catholicism, much to the chagrin of her in-laws. Although Rossant's memoir of these wrenching events is often sad, it's leavened by a wonderfully sensuous evocation of Middle Eastern life in the 1930s and '40s, including recipes for the savory foods that nurtured her childhood: semits (soft pretzels with a sesame seed crust), ful medamas (a fava bean stew), and sambousek (a golden, cheese-filled pastry). The warmth of her grandparents and their Arab servants softened the impact of her thorny relationship with an often capricious mother, whose sharp edges Rossant does not sentimentalize, even in the chapter about her dying days. Returning to Cairo in 1997, the author realizes that, despite the absence of her mother during those crucial girlhood years, she had been blessed by "a city and a family that nurtured me and gave me a strong identity." --Wendy Smith
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