Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [149]
Cambodia
Take several dozen locust adults, preferably females, slit the abdomen lengthwise, and stuff a peanut inside. Then lightly grill the locusts in a wok or hot frying pan, adding a little oil and salt to taste. Be careful not to overcook or burn them.
Barbecue (grilled)
Prepare the embers or charcoal. Place about one dozen locusts on a skewer, stabbing each through the centre of the abdomen. If you only want to eat the abdomen, then you may want to take off the legs or wings either before or after cooking. Several skewers of locusts may be required for each person. Place the skewers above the hot embers and grill while turning continuously to avoid burning the locusts until they become golden brown.
Locust Bisque, serves 6
1 gallon locust shells
2 onions, roughly chopped
1 clove garlic, chopped
1 celery stalk
2 carrots
½ tsp. powdered mace
1 cup whipping cream
salt and pepper to taste
Put all ingredients except whipping cream into a large stew pot, and fill with water. Bring to the boil, reduce heat, and simmer for three hours. Process in blender or food processor in batches, and strain before returning to clean pot. Add whipping cream, being sure not to allow it to boil. Serve with animal crackers.
My dad writes from Vermont immediately, asking for a recipe for beetles, too. “They’re ruining Mom’s garden. She wants to bite back.”
WHILE I HAVE MINIMAL CURIOSITY about the taste of locust, I’ve become obsessed with pomegranates (romaan in Arabic). I eat at least three a day. Unlike the small, red pomegranates for sale in New York, Yemeni pomegranates are yellowish green and the size of grapefruits. But their seeds are crimson and swollen with sweet, addictive nectar. An inconvenient fruit, they require such intense effort to peel and open that it is impossible to do anything else while dismembering one. I’ve learned how to run a knife along the rind, weakening it just enough so that I can pry it apart with my fingers, sending ruby-red seeds spraying across my desk. Rarely do I bother anymore to pick the seeds out one by one. Rather, I break the fruit apart and gnaw on the berries inside, red juice dripping down my chin and often onto my shirt. Pomegranates are directly responsible for the slow start to my days my last few months, and for the dire condition of my blouses.
The proliferation of brides also takes a toll on work. Most of my reporters are either preparing for weddings or attending them. Everyone is rushing to get hitched before Ramadan. From nearly every house emanate the yodels of Yemeni women celebrating a bride-to-be. Several parties precede the actual wedding, parties during which brides are painted with whirly designs, decked in traditional gowns, and feted with sweet tea and biscuits.
Wedding sites in the Old City are marked by strands of bright white bulbs strung along streets and across alleyways. Under the bright glare of these lights, men dance outside to deafening music blared through stat-icky loudspeakers and climb into a nearby tent to chew qat. I grow to dread seeing these lights near my house, as weddings often go on until the following morning, meaning no one nearby can sleep.
Women gather indoors to celebrate, away from the male eyes. It never ceases to feel odd that the bride and groom rarely meet. It’s a stark example of the gender segregation that is so integral to Yemeni life. What’s the fun of a wedding if you cannot dance with your loved one? What is the fun of a wedding devoid of flirting and champagne? Yet for Yemeni women, it is enough to look pretty for each other, to move their hips on the dance floor with a freedom they don’t have in front of men, to drink tea and gossip.
In mid-August, Noor invites me to a pre-wedding party for her sister Rasha. It’s a nagsh party, at which a local artist paints the assembled women with intricate botanical-looking designs in an inky black dye. These designs, a traditional