Once upon a time, in a very different life, I thought I was destined to serve my country as an Airborne Cryptologic Language Analyst for the United States Air Force. My training throughout Texas and California was full of delays, trials, triumphs, and more delays. The highlights of this august journey to manhood mainly occurred on an Army post called the Presidio of Monterey. (My first linguistic lesson was that Presidio meant ‘fortress’ in Spanish.) It was here that I was enrolled into the Defense Language Institute, a strange world where refugees and the occasional war criminal would teach American warriors the means to understand and eventually infiltrate their respectibe cultures. I won’t bore you with tales of clandestine meetings betwixt future spies and past political celebrities of far away lands. I won’t sooth your imaginations to tedium with some midnight rendezvous trained agents of the U.S. government slipped past the barbed wire fences and wary eyes of our squad leaders to check out the local bar… instead, I will regale you with the tale of a far more immediate and delightful experience. I speak, dear friend, of this…
This unassuming but delightful dish is known as Kabuli palao. It is, as you no doubt surmised, a local favorite in Kabul and other parts of Afghanistan. It is a suspiciously bland concoction of rice, meat, carrot, and raisins. The recipe is so simple, you can describe it with arithmetic.
Rice + Meat + Carrot + Raisin = Some good eatin’
As any respectable artisan who is reasonably lazy knows but might not inform you, perfection is a matter of rigorous simplicity and obsessive timing, or as my Pashto teacher once said, “Only stretch your foot to the length of your blanket.” This was told to me over a steaming bowl of Kabuli palao as he explained to me what a crappy linguist I was in the thirtieth week of training. As I chewed on the strange mixture of sweetness and salted lamb, he explained to me, in no uncertain terms, that I relied far too much on the visual senses when translating. I gained most information from expressions, body language, the way a stranger approaches before a conversation. He said that while my grammar and vocabulary were impeccable, and my pronunciation and fluency more than passable, I would never succeed if I could not utilize my other senses to gather information.
Now, it must be noted, Mualim Sahib was referring to the fact I had just failed my second listening test in a row, not the explosion of taste in my mouth. Indeed, what I had eaten was a very typical dish in his household. This appetizing relic of Afghan culture had been placed before me only because I was missing lunch so I could have this esteem-killing session with my otherwise very charming and wise instructor. But hot-diggity, dear audience, was it one heck of a substitute lunch.
Today, long after I left that Institute's walls, I still make this most simple of dishes. At some point, I will surely post a cultural analysis and history of this meal... but honestly, right now, in this brief moment and precious moment, I'm just going to heat up the rice cooker and grab some Craisins from Wal-Mart before enjoying a quiet night with Kabuli Palao and some old Orson Welles movies.
Da khoday pa amaan, fellow travelers!
This unassuming but delightful dish is known as Kabuli palao. It is, as you no doubt surmised, a local favorite in Kabul and other parts of Afghanistan. It is a suspiciously bland concoction of rice, meat, carrot, and raisins. The recipe is so simple, you can describe it with arithmetic.
Rice + Meat + Carrot + Raisin = Some good eatin’
As any respectable artisan who is reasonably lazy knows but might not inform you, perfection is a matter of rigorous simplicity and obsessive timing, or as my Pashto teacher once said, “Only stretch your foot to the length of your blanket.” This was told to me over a steaming bowl of Kabuli palao as he explained to me what a crappy linguist I was in the thirtieth week of training. As I chewed on the strange mixture of sweetness and salted lamb, he explained to me, in no uncertain terms, that I relied far too much on the visual senses when translating. I gained most information from expressions, body language, the way a stranger approaches before a conversation. He said that while my grammar and vocabulary were impeccable, and my pronunciation and fluency more than passable, I would never succeed if I could not utilize my other senses to gather information.
Now, it must be noted, Mualim Sahib was referring to the fact I had just failed my second listening test in a row, not the explosion of taste in my mouth. Indeed, what I had eaten was a very typical dish in his household. This appetizing relic of Afghan culture had been placed before me only because I was missing lunch so I could have this esteem-killing session with my otherwise very charming and wise instructor. But hot-diggity, dear audience, was it one heck of a substitute lunch.
Today, long after I left that Institute's walls, I still make this most simple of dishes. At some point, I will surely post a cultural analysis and history of this meal... but honestly, right now, in this brief moment and precious moment, I'm just going to heat up the rice cooker and grab some Craisins from Wal-Mart before enjoying a quiet night with Kabuli Palao and some old Orson Welles movies.
Da khoday pa amaan, fellow travelers!