Salmagundi*

I am reposting this story on immigrants and our country. It was originally written in August of 2016, but it’s even more relevant now in 2025 as we hear news of immigrants being detained and even flown illegally to Salvadorean slave prisons. Stories of tourists from other countries being detained for no reason. Stories of children here for medical treatment being sent back. Lord have mercy…

As I was making tabouleh (or tabouli) today for dinner, chopping cucumbers, tomatoes, a green pepper, green onions, parsley, and mint, my mind wandered back to the first time I was introduced to this delicious salad. I was about ten years old; it was a summer family picnic and Aunt Ethel had brought some stuff in a bowl that didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen before. Mom asked me to carry it in and put it on the table. I whispered to her, “Do I have to try this?” She smiled and shook her head. Much to my embarrassment, Aunt Ethel heard. Or maybe she just knew it wasn’t typical fare in our family. She smiled and said, “It’s your Uncle Abe’s favorite dish. He’d be glad to have it all for himself.”

Old folks at the cottage

A few months ago, I wrote a post with this photo in it. I labeled it Old Folks at the Cottage. My grandmother Carrie is on the left. See her sister on the far right next to her little boy? Her name is Ethel and sometime in the 1920s she married her own Syrian refugee, my Uncle Abe.

A large man with a white crewcut and wire-rimmed glasses, I remember him always wearing a suit — even to summer family picnics. He had a soft voice and a melodic accent, and he would stand in our living room and hold out his arms. We kids would race toward him and he would catch us and throw us up in the air. His deep-throated he-he-he would make us laugh even more. As a kid, I didn’t think much about his history, but I’d heard the stories: his parents sent him over on a boat around 1904 as a ten-year-old with ten cents in his pocket and instructions to find a relative in New York City.

As a grown up, I looked back on that and wondered what could have been happening in Syria to make parents put their ten-year-old son on a boat and send him off to another world, probably to never see him again…

So I looked it up. In 1904, the Ottoman Empire was crumbling fast. The Turks were conscripting young Syrian Christian boys for the army. And Armenian and Greek Christians were being killed at an alarming rate. Wikipedia even uses the word Genocide.

Abe eventually made his way to Southwestern Pennsylvania, where he found work in a mine. There he met my Uncle Leslie, who introduced him to his pretty, shy sister, Ethel. Not all the family was happy. Marrying an immigrant wasn’t common practice in the hills of Greene County. Though there were plenty of immigrants working in the coal mines, they were mostly Italian and Slovak. Certainly not Arabs…even Christian Arabs. (Leslie eventually married his own immigrant wife, Mary — whose naturalization papers from Italy I have — and who was one of the women who lived here at the cottage.)

I’ve finished making the Tabouleh for tonight’s dinner. (Recipe follows.) But I’m not finished thinking about how much our American culture has been shaped by immigrants. In fact, according to the U.S. Census of 2010, 2.9 million Americans identify themselves as solely Native American.  The population of this country is approximately 320 million. That makes about 317 million of us who are descended from immigrants. We are a country of those who left. Has it been so long ago that we have forgotten?

Think on this: What would it take for you to leave your place, on foot, with your family, with no clear idea of where you are going or if you will be safe. It would have to be pretty bad, eh? Who are we, as a nation, that we cannot bring these immigrants/refugees to this country, feed them, clothe them, give them shelter, dignity, and a life free from constant war or poverty?

After the VietNam War, the U.S. took in 2 million Vietnamese refugees. When it became evident that there were thousands of “boat people” being rejected by other countries…

…President Jimmy Carter responded by ordering the 7th Fleet to seek out vessels in distress in the South China Sea. His Secretary of State, Cyrus Vance, told Congress in July 1979 that: We are a nation of refugees. Most of us can trace our presence here to the turmoil or oppression of another time and another place. Our nation has been immeasurably enriched by this continuing process. We will not turn our backs on our traditions. We must meet the commitments we have made to other nations and to those who are suffering. In doing so, we will also be renewing our commitments to our ideals. 

Look back at your family tree. My grandma Carrie was a card-carrying member of the DAR (I don’t admit that too often) yet still, I’ve had plenty of immigrants in my extended family. Welsh miners, Mennonite preachers, Syrian boys, Italian girls, Irish farmers, Czech steel workers, French Huguenots, Spanish son-in-laws… Even the English and Scottish ancestors came from, well, England and Scotland — there’s not a Native American in our branches, that I can find.

I am praying things will change; hoping talks of walls and closed borders and the unjust actions of ICE will go the way of the dinosaur; hoping that we remember those ideals. A verse from the Bible keeps going around in my brain. Jesus wept.

And today, in 2025, I’m adding another verse from the Bible: This one is from Matthew 25:40 and Jesus said it. “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”


Here’s the delicious recipe for Tabouleh. While you are chopping vegetables for it, think of the wonderful mixture it is. And how it is better with more variety. Colorful and tangy, every bite is different.

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Tabouli (serves 6-8)

1 cup bulgur wheat, couscous, or quinoa, cooked (Bulgur is traditional.)
1 t. salt
1/4 c. lemon juice
1/4 c. olive oil
1-2 cloves crushed garlic
Cook the grains as directed. While warm mix in the next 4 ingredients (through garlic) and refrigerate for a couple of hours.

1/2 c. chopped scallions
1/2 c. chopped mint
1/2 c. chopped parsley
When the grains and dressing are cool add the above herbs. You can vary the amounts, depending on what you have on hand and how much you like them. Some tabouli is very green and herb-rich. Other tabouli has less.

The following ingredients are optional according to what you have in the fridge, or how you like it:
1/2 c. cooked garbanzo beans
1/2 c. shredded carrots
2 medium tomatoes, diced
1 c. chopped cucumbers or summer squash
1 diced green pepper

I think the more vegetables added, the better. But it’s delicious with just tomatoes and cucumbers..

You can garnish tabouli with kalamata olives and feta cheese, but it isn’t necessary.

*Salmagundi –In English culture the term does not refer to a single recipe, but describes the grand presentation of a large plated salad comprising many disparate ingredients. These can be arranged in layers or geometrical designs on a plate or mixed. The ingredients are then drizzled with a dressing. The dish aims to produce wide range of flavours and colours and textures on a single plate. (From Wikipedia)

garden treasure

Daily Gratitude: A Photo Journey

I’ve been taking photos and keeping them in a Gratitude folder. I’ve been trying to take one everyday, but honestly, some days it just doesn’t happen.

But then some days I manage more than one.

There are a lot of baked goods and a lot of cat photos and a lot of quotes—the cats make me laugh; the bakery items remind me that I’m serving my husband with love, and the quotes remind me that there is more to this life than what is happening right now.

Because what is happening right now is causing me lots of anxiety. I try not to doom scroll, but it’s so awful I can’t help it. It’s like trying to look away from a train wreck that is happening right in front of you.

There are also the obviously grateful photos— a baker is thankful for her new stand mixer, the extended warranty that was purchased on her stove, and the new Thrive food delivery service (which replaces Amazon and Whole Foods.)

Usually there are lots of nature photos in my folders, but nature hasn’t really been too cooperative lately.

Then there are small gifts from friends…

And there are my books…

There was also my winter fireplace mantle that started out being Christmas and gave me so much pleasure, I didn’t take it down until last week; and the two cats, who mostly pretend to hate each other but mostly make us laugh (except at 3 AM); and my faith, which helps to give me hope in these dark days.

I will leave you with three hopeful thoughts:

it is only 11 days until Spring begins,

people seem to be waking up to what is happening in this country,

and this lovely quote….

And yes, we need to remind ourselves every day what we are grateful for…

Thoughts on “The Stairs of Cirith Ungol”

This winter seemed an appropriate time to read (for the third time) J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.

 

The story of two brave little halflings summoning their courage and overcoming the odds to stop the all-encompassing Evil? Yes.

The story of beings of all persuasions–Elves, Dwarves, Men, Wizards, Hobbits, Ents, Trees, Eagles–uniting together despite their differences to defeat the return of evil? Yes.

The story of Evil, gathering its shadowy powers a second time, through lies, webs, and deceit? Yes, again.

I’m nearing the end of The Two Towers. If you remember, you know that this is some of the darkest of dark times. Frodo and Sam have followed Gollum up the winding, treacherous stairs of Cirith Ungol, which in Sindarin means the cleft of the spider. Even Gollum has made veiled references to the harrowing tunnel ahead. I have looked at the name of the next chapter, “Shelob’s Lair.” I know both what is immediately ahead, and further ahead. It’s the unpleasant-est of journeys.

I put the book down and wonder if I should continue reading now, or perhaps later.

My son texts me–the name of a podcast I should listen to. I text him back–I feel like we are climbing Mt. Doom with Frodo and Sam. Following after Gollum.

I close my eyes and consider. The sun is shining, but it is 18 degrees, with a wind chill of 2. Even with the sun coming through the glass, I am under a blanket on the couch. It’s only two o’clock. I will finish this chapter.

“In a dark crevice between two great piers of rocks they sat down…”
The two hobbits think perhaps it might be the last meal they share together. And then Sam begins to talk as if they were really in a story, wondering if it was a happy-ending kind of tale or a sad ending, and how the people in the tale don’t really know. And how it would be a bad story if they did know. Frodo laughs–the first laugh for many days. ‘But you didn’t put anything in about Sam,’ he says. ‘And Frodo wouldn’t have gotten very far without Sam, would he dad?’ And then Frodo says,
“You and I, Sam, are still stuck in the worst places of the story, and it is all too likely that some will say at this point: ‘Shut the book now, dad; we don’t want to read anymore.'”
Yes. That’s just how I felt.
 
In truth, it’s how I feel every day. Shut the book now, dad; we don’t want to read anymore. Turn the page, turn to the next chapter, where the villain is defeated, and the heroes are celebrating. Wounded, yes, but celebrating their bravery and courage.
 
It is true that the best stories often turn out to be the hardest of journeys.
 
But that is only if the heroes win.
 
But I can’t end there, can I? Because I believe that ultimately, heroes do win.
 
It’s just that right now, we’re in that hard part of the tale….