A sunny day in May and I'm only too well aware how short lived this burst of summer is likely to be. Any opportunity I get in Upper Norwood to stage an Arabic Barbie, I do so with gusto. With the fragile promise of a baking hot summer ahead of us I thought it prudent to share in the highs and lows of a Sawalha Barbie.
You see, very few culinary events in our household escape the antennae of relatives from Streatham all the way down to Taunton. In fact it wouldn't suprise me one jot if, the very moment the letters BBQ emerge from my mouth, a peculiarly succulent call to prayer goes out on the mosque Tannoys of Amman in Jordan.
More often than not, within minutes of having decided to opt for an outdoor meal, somehow the sizzling message of impending meat descending onto red hot coals, spreads through the extended family like wild fire. No sooner is my husband dragging the 3 tonne 'portable' barbecue from my mother's garden next door onto our patio, than the house phone, my mobile phone, and my mother's collection of approximately eight different types of phone, all start pinging and chiming with the texts and voice messages of nephews, cousins, uncles, even cousins of cousins we've never met before.
It's the tribe thing you see. And when you mix Bedouin with nearly Croydon ... Well ... It's a heady mix of culinary fanaticism. It's so extreme, that I've often thought for an Arab to light a barbecue, is tantamount to sending tantalising aromatic smoke signals across London calling all other Bedouins to SE19.
Within minutes, what was planned as a manageable lunch has ballooned into a veritable celebration of all that is great about being Jordanian. Cousin such-and-such decides to bring his new bride to be; somewhere there's a new baby who "must smell and taste the delights of the charcoal"; wandering up Beulah Hill is a procession of 2nd cousins bringing baklava sweets and bottles of Arak. I'm almost certain I've seen a camel on Biggin Hill once.
But, somewhat strangely, in my immediate family, those who are most excited are NOT the men! In fact, things couldn't be further from the Aussie stereotype of various fellas fanning the flames with a can of lager and skewer in each hand expounding on the virtues of having an Easterly wind to fan the coals and not overwhelm the meat. No. In my household the barbie fanatics are ALL women (with the one exception of my nephew Zak).
Whilst for the various women of the family the three letters BBQ promises the delectable smokey delights of lamb, chicken, peppers, homemade burgers and sometimes fish - for the men in the family (most notably my father and my husband) - the phrase "We are having a barbecue" is tantamount to some form of culinary verbal abuse. No sooner is the food circus in motion, the garden now a mirage of desert luxuriousness, than they are both trying to create their excuses and effectively do a runner!
As me, my daughters, my mother and even my vegan little sister go into overdrive sourcing the fuel, preparing the skewers, washing the veg and generally stage managing an afternoon of fun in the sun, for some reason Dad and Mark both huff and puff, complain of the impending smoke, are suddenly fretful about all their clothes smelling of charcoal, feign asthma attacks, and generally exclaim that all you ever taste is the fire - not the meat.
Sad though it is, as the party starts to swing, and the delights of the grill are consumed with ever increasing joy and noise, neither Dad nor Mark are to be seen anywhere near the food.
Strangely though, as the sun sets, and the last embers of the grill glow their last reddy charcoaly grins - the circus starts to dissipate, the mirage starts to fade, the bright colours begin to melt away. As the final relatives depart with various bits of food in their hair and the waft of a charcoaled afternoon in their clothes the garden sinks into silence.
As we women continue the gossip at the kitchen table, we hear the mutterings of what sound like two small feral animals outside. Grabbing the half empty bottle of Prosecco we head to the lounge to investigate.
Out of sight (or so they think) are my father and husband fiddling around with the barbecue grill. As things clatter and hiss - one of us accidentally knocks over a glass of fizz. Wheeling round on the spot the two most anti-BBQ-ers in the world have meat juice all over their faces, and a look of utter childish guilt.
My father (ever the speedy on the spot actor) proudly exclaims ; "this would be even better with some chutney!" As he looks at Mark for moral support, my husband knows the value of silence having already started to drag the 'portable' barbecue back to my mother's.
Here's some of the dishes they missed out on; A
sunny day in May and I'm only too well aware how short lived this burst of summer is likely to be. Any opportunity I get in Upper Norwood to stage an Arabic Barbie, I do so with gusto. With the fragile promise of a baking hot summer ahead of us I thought it prudent to share in the highs and lows of a Sawalha Barbie.
You see, very few culinary events in our household escape the antennae of relatives from Streatham all the way down to Taunton. In fact it wouldn't suprise me one jot if, the very moment the letters BBQ emerge from my mouth, a peculiarly succulent call to prayer goes out on the mosque Tannoys of Amman in Jordan.
More often than not, within minutes of having decided to opt for an outdoor meal, somehow the sizzling message of impending meat descending onto red hot coals, spreads through the extended family like wild fire. No sooner is my husband dragging the 3 tonne 'portable' barbecue from my mother's garden next door onto our patio, than the house phone, my mobile phone, and my mother's collection of approximately eight different types of phone, all start pinging and chiming with the texts and voice messages of nephews, cousins, uncles, even cousins of cousins we've never met before.
It's the tribe thing you see. And when you mix Bedouin with nearly Croydon ... Well ... It's a heady mix of culinary fanaticism. It's so extreme, that I've often thought for an Arab to light a barbecue, is tantamount to sending tantalising aromatic smoke signals across London calling all other Bedouins to SE19.
Within minutes, what was planned as a manageable lunch has ballooned into a veritable celebration of all that is great about being Jordanian. Cousin such-and-such decides to bring his new bride to be; somewhere there's a new baby who "must smell and taste the delights of the charcoal"; wandering up Beulah Hill is a procession of 2nd cousins bringing baklava sweets and bottles of Arak. I'm almost certain I've seen a camel on Biggin Hill once.
But, somewhat strangely, in my immediate family, those who are most excited are NOT the men! In fact, things couldn't be further from the Aussie stereotype of various fellas fanning the flames with a can of lager and skewer in each hand expounding on the virtues of having an Easterly wind to fan the coals and not overwhelm the meat. No. In my household the barbie fanatics are ALL women (with the one exception of my nephew Zak).
Whilst for the various women of the family the three letters BBQ promises the delectable smokey delights of lamb, chicken, peppers, homemade burgers and sometimes fish - for the men in the family (most notably my father and my husband) - the phrase "We are having a barbecue" is tantamount to some form of culinary verbal abuse. No sooner is the food circus in motion, the garden now a mirage of desert luxuriousness, than they are both trying to create their excuses and effectively do a runner!
As me, my daughters, my mother and even my vegan little sister go into overdrive sourcing the fuel, preparing the skewers, washing the veg and generally stage managing an afternoon of fun in the sun, for some reason Dad and Mark both huff and puff, complain of the impending smoke, are suddenly fretful about all their clothes smelling of charcoal, feign asthma attacks, and generally exclaim that all you ever taste is the fire - not the meat.
Sad though it is, as the party starts to swing, and the delights of the grill are consumed with ever increasing joy and noise, neither Dad nor Mark are to be seen anywhere near the food.
Strangely though, as the sun sets, and the last embers of the grill glow their last reddy charcoaly grins - the circus starts to dissipate, the mirage starts to fade, the bright colours begin to melt away. As the final relatives depart with various bits of food in their hair and the waft of a charcoaled afternoon in their clothes the garden sinks into silence.
As we women continue the gossip at the kitchen table, we hear the mutterings of what sound like two small feral animals outside. Grabbing the half empty bottle of Prosecco we head to the lounge to investigate.
Out of sight (or so they think) are my father and husband fiddling around with the barbecue grill. As things clatter and hiss - one of us accidentally knocks over a glass of fizz. Wheeling round on the spot the two most anti-BBQ-ers in the world have meat juice all over their faces, and a look of utter childish guilt.
My father (ever the speedy on the spot actor) proudly exclaims ; "this would be even better with some chutney!" As he looks at Mark for moral support, my husband knows the value of silence having already started to drag the 'portable' barbecue back to my mother's.
Here's some of the dishes they missed out on;
You see, very few culinary events in our household escape the antennae of relatives from Streatham all the way down to Taunton. In fact it wouldn't suprise me one jot if, the very moment the letters BBQ emerge from my mouth, a peculiarly succulent call to prayer goes out on the mosque Tannoys of Amman in Jordan.
More often than not, within minutes of having decided to opt for an outdoor meal, somehow the sizzling message of impending meat descending onto red hot coals, spreads through the extended family like wild fire. No sooner is my husband dragging the 3 tonne 'portable' barbecue from my mother's garden next door onto our patio, than the house phone, my mobile phone, and my mother's collection of approximately eight different types of phone, all start pinging and chiming with the texts and voice messages of nephews, cousins, uncles, even cousins of cousins we've never met before.
It's the tribe thing you see. And when you mix Bedouin with nearly Croydon ... Well ... It's a heady mix of culinary fanaticism. It's so extreme, that I've often thought for an Arab to light a barbecue, is tantamount to sending tantalising aromatic smoke signals across London calling all other Bedouins to SE19.
Within minutes, what was planned as a manageable lunch has ballooned into a veritable celebration of all that is great about being Jordanian. Cousin such-and-such decides to bring his new bride to be; somewhere there's a new baby who "must smell and taste the delights of the charcoal"; wandering up Beulah Hill is a procession of 2nd cousins bringing baklava sweets and bottles of Arak. I'm almost certain I've seen a camel on Biggin Hill once.
But, somewhat strangely, in my immediate family, those who are most excited are NOT the men! In fact, things couldn't be further from the Aussie stereotype of various fellas fanning the flames with a can of lager and skewer in each hand expounding on the virtues of having an Easterly wind to fan the coals and not overwhelm the meat. No. In my household the barbie fanatics are ALL women (with the one exception of my nephew Zak).
Whilst for the various women of the family the three letters BBQ promises the delectable smokey delights of lamb, chicken, peppers, homemade burgers and sometimes fish - for the men in the family (most notably my father and my husband) - the phrase "We are having a barbecue" is tantamount to some form of culinary verbal abuse. No sooner is the food circus in motion, the garden now a mirage of desert luxuriousness, than they are both trying to create their excuses and effectively do a runner!
As me, my daughters, my mother and even my vegan little sister go into overdrive sourcing the fuel, preparing the skewers, washing the veg and generally stage managing an afternoon of fun in the sun, for some reason Dad and Mark both huff and puff, complain of the impending smoke, are suddenly fretful about all their clothes smelling of charcoal, feign asthma attacks, and generally exclaim that all you ever taste is the fire - not the meat.
Sad though it is, as the party starts to swing, and the delights of the grill are consumed with ever increasing joy and noise, neither Dad nor Mark are to be seen anywhere near the food.
Strangely though, as the sun sets, and the last embers of the grill glow their last reddy charcoaly grins - the circus starts to dissipate, the mirage starts to fade, the bright colours begin to melt away. As the final relatives depart with various bits of food in their hair and the waft of a charcoaled afternoon in their clothes the garden sinks into silence.
As we women continue the gossip at the kitchen table, we hear the mutterings of what sound like two small feral animals outside. Grabbing the half empty bottle of Prosecco we head to the lounge to investigate.
Out of sight (or so they think) are my father and husband fiddling around with the barbecue grill. As things clatter and hiss - one of us accidentally knocks over a glass of fizz. Wheeling round on the spot the two most anti-BBQ-ers in the world have meat juice all over their faces, and a look of utter childish guilt.
My father (ever the speedy on the spot actor) proudly exclaims ; "this would be even better with some chutney!" As he looks at Mark for moral support, my husband knows the value of silence having already started to drag the 'portable' barbecue back to my mother's.
Here's some of the dishes they missed out on; A
sunny day in May and I'm only too well aware how short lived this burst of summer is likely to be. Any opportunity I get in Upper Norwood to stage an Arabic Barbie, I do so with gusto. With the fragile promise of a baking hot summer ahead of us I thought it prudent to share in the highs and lows of a Sawalha Barbie.
You see, very few culinary events in our household escape the antennae of relatives from Streatham all the way down to Taunton. In fact it wouldn't suprise me one jot if, the very moment the letters BBQ emerge from my mouth, a peculiarly succulent call to prayer goes out on the mosque Tannoys of Amman in Jordan.
More often than not, within minutes of having decided to opt for an outdoor meal, somehow the sizzling message of impending meat descending onto red hot coals, spreads through the extended family like wild fire. No sooner is my husband dragging the 3 tonne 'portable' barbecue from my mother's garden next door onto our patio, than the house phone, my mobile phone, and my mother's collection of approximately eight different types of phone, all start pinging and chiming with the texts and voice messages of nephews, cousins, uncles, even cousins of cousins we've never met before.
It's the tribe thing you see. And when you mix Bedouin with nearly Croydon ... Well ... It's a heady mix of culinary fanaticism. It's so extreme, that I've often thought for an Arab to light a barbecue, is tantamount to sending tantalising aromatic smoke signals across London calling all other Bedouins to SE19.
Within minutes, what was planned as a manageable lunch has ballooned into a veritable celebration of all that is great about being Jordanian. Cousin such-and-such decides to bring his new bride to be; somewhere there's a new baby who "must smell and taste the delights of the charcoal"; wandering up Beulah Hill is a procession of 2nd cousins bringing baklava sweets and bottles of Arak. I'm almost certain I've seen a camel on Biggin Hill once.
But, somewhat strangely, in my immediate family, those who are most excited are NOT the men! In fact, things couldn't be further from the Aussie stereotype of various fellas fanning the flames with a can of lager and skewer in each hand expounding on the virtues of having an Easterly wind to fan the coals and not overwhelm the meat. No. In my household the barbie fanatics are ALL women (with the one exception of my nephew Zak).
Whilst for the various women of the family the three letters BBQ promises the delectable smokey delights of lamb, chicken, peppers, homemade burgers and sometimes fish - for the men in the family (most notably my father and my husband) - the phrase "We are having a barbecue" is tantamount to some form of culinary verbal abuse. No sooner is the food circus in motion, the garden now a mirage of desert luxuriousness, than they are both trying to create their excuses and effectively do a runner!
As me, my daughters, my mother and even my vegan little sister go into overdrive sourcing the fuel, preparing the skewers, washing the veg and generally stage managing an afternoon of fun in the sun, for some reason Dad and Mark both huff and puff, complain of the impending smoke, are suddenly fretful about all their clothes smelling of charcoal, feign asthma attacks, and generally exclaim that all you ever taste is the fire - not the meat.
Sad though it is, as the party starts to swing, and the delights of the grill are consumed with ever increasing joy and noise, neither Dad nor Mark are to be seen anywhere near the food.
Strangely though, as the sun sets, and the last embers of the grill glow their last reddy charcoaly grins - the circus starts to dissipate, the mirage starts to fade, the bright colours begin to melt away. As the final relatives depart with various bits of food in their hair and the waft of a charcoaled afternoon in their clothes the garden sinks into silence.
As we women continue the gossip at the kitchen table, we hear the mutterings of what sound like two small feral animals outside. Grabbing the half empty bottle of Prosecco we head to the lounge to investigate.
Out of sight (or so they think) are my father and husband fiddling around with the barbecue grill. As things clatter and hiss - one of us accidentally knocks over a glass of fizz. Wheeling round on the spot the two most anti-BBQ-ers in the world have meat juice all over their faces, and a look of utter childish guilt.
My father (ever the speedy on the spot actor) proudly exclaims ; "this would be even better with some chutney!" As he looks at Mark for moral support, my husband knows the value of silence having already started to drag the 'portable' barbecue back to my mother's.
Here's some of the dishes they missed out on;
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