Weekly extended family lunches in Oman are practically sacred, especially for the head of the family, which, in my case, is my mother‑in‑law. Almost every Friday or Saturday, it is in with the dining table, which by now nearly stretches the length of its room, and out with the occasional, slightly shameful weekday habit of eating main meals on the sofa. This is when my husband’s family, from grandmother, her children and their spouses to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, gathers around the table to share food and love, creating moments that intend to strengthen our bonds despite our different characters and lifestyles.
With the matriarch sitting at its head, the large table always groans with abundance, many pots sitting on its top while their lids tightly hide the surprise of what the week’s signature dishes will be. Although there is almost always steaming fragrant rice, every weekend the menu is different: one day grilled snapper, samosas (fried and filled pastries), shrimp, curry, vegetables, and biryani; the next week, mishkaki (marinated, skewered meat) from the barbecue, lentils, beetroot salad, and countless other local dishes whose original names I still forget. Shame on me.
My late father, while visiting us in Oman from the Netherlands, would always claim that the food my family prepared was the best he tasted in town. One of my personal favourites, especially when I am feeling a bit under the weather, is the Omani fish soup, Paplou, which I pronounce “Bablo,” as in Pablo Escobar. Apart from fish, it features lime, ginger, potatoes, and turmeric. In fact, I love almost every traditional dish, except for Shuwa (meat slowly cooked underground) and Halwa (traditional sweets). Please do not tell anyone, as I am still unsure what friendly Omanis offering any of these two foods think of me when I respectfully decline.
All the while, my sister-in-law, if she is that week’s family lunch host, instead of enjoying her own food, usually frets over whether we are eating enough, sends everyone home with leftovers, and makes sure both the chefs and the stray cats, dogs, and birds outside are fed. When it comes to food, nothing goes to waste, and my in-laws always take a Bismillah moment to count their blessings in the face of such abundance - that ethos extends far beyond Ramadan.
For me, these weekly gatherings also involve navigating the quiet tension between belonging and carrying the roots of a world apart woven into one’s being. For example, and unlike the French and Italian way of eating, a style we adopted at our home in the Netherlands, here in Oman we do not really use the time spent at the dining table to share funny stories or even worries and complaints. Those conversations come afterwards, over coffee or tea, with some fruits or sweets, while sitting on a sofa or, during the mild Omani winters, on huge carpets outside in the garden.
Also, you may understand that if you are not coming to that sacred weekend lunch with your family in Oman, you better have a really good reason. In the Netherlands, we may get away with a simple “I am sorry, I cannot attend,” as directness is a cultural norm for Dutch people. Here in Oman, however, a lone sentence like that could be taken as rude or insensitive. True, Omani people are usually too polite to say so to your face, but trust me, they take note.
Whenever I did not attend these extended family lunches because of work or my occasional einzelgänger (lone wolf) mode, my smart mother-in-law would simply ask my husband about my whereabouts and makes sure he said Salaam to me from her. Indeed, this has always been her way of gently reminding me that there is nothing like fresh food on the big table to round off a week’s work and other commitments, and, of course, to remind me that the best and most important part is the company of a loving family.
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