The World According to Abufares of Tartous

I like to think of myself as daring in love and spunky in the kitchen. That doesn’t imply that I’m terribly astir in the pursuit of either, but it does hint to a certain spasmodic talent. Or so I believe. I rose to the occasion today, well at least on the culinary front, when I found myself facing the task of preparing lunch for my daughter and myself. Like a listless airline steward, resigned to asking his trite question, I cleared my throat and marveled out loud: “What would it be Nadia, pasta or chicken?” It was perhaps the fact that she didn't actually care and that she left me to my own devices that set me on the path to prepare and cook, the perfect Broiled Syrian Chicken with Sumac. The very first time I heard that there's such an entree was in 1984 in Lafayette, Louisiana, of all places. I was driving on a side, obscure street, in the downtown area, when I saw a nondescript sign advertising Syrian Chicken. I parallel parked across from the olden structure and went i

The European Football (soccer) season came to a close at the end of May. From then until the first week of September, a 53-year-young boy would go crazy without a day-to-day sport spectacle to watch. Fortunately, there are the occasional whatchamacallit tournaments and various competitive track and field events. Yet, these competitions don’t provide a reclining-seat jockey with enough sustainable action to keep him, or his Martini glass at least, sweating. Not unless it’s women’s tennis, but alas, there’s never enough of that. This is when baseball comes to the rescue, and just in the nick of time. I’m a baseball fan, and I look forward to a long and lazy summer of idle involvement. You see, I don’t really care who wins the World Series. As long as these big overpaid athletes keep chewing and spitting, scratching themselves and hitting the occasional ball, I’m happy. I’m not absolutely certain if I’m the only one in Tartous who follows Major League Baseball on television, but it prett