The Nason Smith Prize Winner: The Grape Leaves That Rise by Ameera Salamah
At the heart of every Palestinian family gathering is the food at the table. Warak Diwali, a dish beloved by every Palestinian household, means stuffed grape leaves in Arabic. It is the first dish I think of when I think of my beautiful culture. As a child, I remember gently folding the leaves and smiling with pride as my mother would tell me, “Great job!” Te filling is made of dried mint, pomegranate molasses, short-grain rice, turmeric, an onion, parsley, seven spice, black pepper, salt, and olive oil. I soaked some rice, prepared the filling, got some grape leaves, and started filling it up. Each little grape leaf requires hard work and effort; it is what Palestinians are known for. Te smell of the filling warms up any room I walk into—an amazing mix of spices that left me wanting more. I grew up having warak diwali at family gatherings, where it outshined every other food that was present. I am proud and blessed to be from the land of Palestine, where the freshest grapes and generous hearts belong.
My maternal grandma’s house in Palestine is in the West Bank; it is in a small village where I could overhear the neighbor yelling through the window in the kitchen. Te kitchen is really big and has old, light brown cabinets. Grandma asked me to grab the bag of rice. Her back is weak, so she asked me to put it on the counter. She grabbed a glass mug from the cup cabinet and scooped up five cups of rice from the rice bag. Ten Grandma poured it into a big, white bowl. She opened the faucet, let the water drown the rice, and let it soak up the rice for an hour. While my grandma strained the rice with her hands, I looked through the unnamed jars filled with spices. It
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took me three minutes to find the black pepper because it was placed in the chicken broth jar. I come from a lineage of women who are resourceful.
My grandma grabbed a handful of dried mint, so fragrant and crumbly in her hands. We gathered more ingredients, like seven spice, parsley, and diced onions. I teared up as my grandma cut the onions, and her knives were so dull they could barely poke a toddler. She is very stubborn and likes to hold onto old kitchen supplies. She picked up the onions and dumped them in the rice mix. My grandma smiled beautifully and said, “Pomegranate molasses is what brings this dish together.” Te syrup is like liquid rubies and gets poured on the rice and a variety of spices. Salt and pepper are added according to the grace of God, who comes in the way to stop you.
My grandma’s rough hands mixed up the rice, spices, and salt and generously added the special ingredient, olive oil. It is the freshest liquid gold you will find in Palestine. Her hands gently moved the fillings and combined them to create a beautiful smell. I took the biggest pot I could find and filled it with water. When it came to a roaring boil, I placed the grape leaves in the pot. Watching the leaves turn from a bright green to a depressed olive green is when I knew that the grape leaves were ready. I am reminded of the line of a poem by Mahmoud Darwish: “If the olive trees knew the hands that planted them, their oil would become tears.” I took out the sulking leaves, placed them on a big pan, and started gently unwrinkling them. My grandma got her dull knives again, and this time I stepped in and brought in some scissors. “We need to cut the stems off,” my grandma frustratingly said. Holding them like a
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