I spent my childhood in the kitchen watching my mother prepare Middle Eastern delicacies. Each summer, when fresh mint starts to take over her garden, Mom tosses it together with a bright confetti of bulgur wheat, parsley, green onions, cucumbers and tomatoes in a giant green plastic bowl and dresses it with a touch of lemon juice, olive oil, salt, pepper and a special Lebanese 12-spice mixture. This is tabbouleh, best eaten pinched between pita bread. When the grape leaves from the vine in my brother Louis' back yard have grown to the size of my hand, Mom plucks them by the dozen. With the leaves neatly laid out across the kitchen table, she carefully drops a spoonful of the stuffing onto each one.
Mom creates an unbelievably rich Lebanese baklava called betlawa.
In a jellyroll pan, she layers sheet after sheet of delicate phyllo dough, gently brushing each with clarified butter. Midway through, she adds a layer of ground walnuts, then tops it with more phyllo. Just before baking, she carves the whole thing into diamonds. When I try my hand at her food, I fail. The tabbouleh is bland.