From Generation to Generation (Final Draft)

One of the strongest memories I have started in my childhood and

continues to reoccur in my adult life. The memories of spending my early years in California with my grandparents, and even before those memories, I look at pictures of myself as a very hefty infant on a farm out in the desert in California. I'm being held in the arms of a very old man, a man well loved by everyone who is in the Hart family. I'm speaking of my Uncle George. Although I don't remember him

, I know from the pictures I see and the stories I hear that he loved me very much. Uncle George had leather-colored, sun-beaten skin from all his time in the desert sun. His wife, an incredibly frail but very loving woman, was of similar skin tone from all the time she spent in the sun alongside him. Everyone in the Hart family loved both of them dearly, and while they have both passed away, they left some things with us that in a sense make them live on in our lives.

Despite the long drive from the port of Los Angeles to the middle of the desert, my family did not mind at all. There was nothing like being loved on by this couple, and also, whenever we drove down the pothole littered, dusty road and all the bumps from the cracked pavement, we were not only greeted by very loving people, but by wonderful food.

Uncle George and Auntie Pauline spent a lot of time tending to their orange groves and other plants, but were phenomenal chefs. Uncle George was Armenian, and obviously being Armenian knew a lot about Middle Eastern cuisine. Falafel, Baba Ghanouj, you name it, he could make it. The one thing that everyone in the Hart family knows how to make and Uncle George is famous for even after his death, aside from himself, is his hummus. Now I can guess what most of you are thinking. You are probably thinking "Hummus? That stuff is disgusting. I tried it at Garbanzos, I tried it from Costco and the grocery store, it's all terrible." My response to those of you that feel that way is a humble: "Absolutely not."

The hummus we have here in the states from the super market is absolutely terrible compared to the authentic hummus I have known since I was able to eat. This hummus is hands down, the best I have ever had. It is so good in fact, that everyone who has tried it has not only been pleasantly surprised, but asked for the recipe to make it themselves! (Sorry, it's a rule that my grandmother has that this recipe is not to be shared with anyone who is not of Hart blood. You can try some! But don't expect us to tell you how to make it!)

To further reinforce my last claim, when I went to Israel this past summer and experienced hummus from Arabs and Jews, the hummus I enjoyed there was very similar to what I have known at my grandmother's house. You have not enjoyed hummus until you have made it from an authentic recipe. (Actually, from what I hear, not many people enjoy hummus when it is not authentic.)

The thought of my grandparents I instantly equate with memories cemented in my head. I do not know all of the names of the streets where my grandparents live, but I could drive there from memory from the countless times Southern LA has been my stomping grounds. The other memories cemented in my head involve her food. Along with her pickled vegetables, and my uncle's homemade salsa, my Uncle George's hummus is always on the same counter I have in my mind.

Back in the states, one of the first people I visited following my world travels was my grandmother. I landed at LAX, drove down the same highway I always do and got off at the San Pedro exit right by the port of Los Angeles and the Vincent Thomas bridge. I drive down the same streets I've driven down for 19 years and arrive at my grandmother's yellow stucco house. I smell the dichondria and the other vegetation my grandfather is responsible for up and down the street. The smells of these various plants is so entrenched in my brain that I can imagine it here in my living room. I hear the noisy neighbors next door and their kids screaming as they play, but smile, because I associate those noises of chaos with a sense of peace and contentment when I'm with my mom's family.

After our greetings, I am drawn to the kitchen by the familiar smells I equate with great food. I wait in the kitchen while my grandmother is preparing food on the counter. The food of the imaginary counter in my head is now on the counter in reality. My grandmother looks up from the pickled vegetables and my Uncle George's hummus she has just placed on the counter. Uncle George has lived and passed away. My grandmother has always been present in my life, but someday she too will pass away, as my mother will, and so will I. But all of those people will live on because of one thing we all had in common and was passed down the generations, and that is Uncle George's Middle Eastern cuisine.