Dear Lovely Readers, Thank you for your readership over the past few years and for all the support.

I wanted to wish you all a Happy New Year- I hope that you had a fun and relaxing holiday.

Many of you have kindly written, asking if I have stopped blogging- oh dear, that is most definitely not the case. I am still going to blog- to cook, to write, to photograph- do all things which I adore; I hope to resume blogging again in a few weeks.

x shayma

MY COOKERY WORKSHOP- FOOD IS LOVE:

For my Canadian readers- I will be teaching a ‘cocktail party workshop’ at Evergreen Brickworks on February 9th, entitled: FOOD IS LOVE- based on my childhood memories. I’ll be teaching you how to create small Persian- and Pakistani-spiced plates, (a mix of vegetarian and non-vegetarian) influenced by the recipes I have inherited from the women in my family, while giving them a modern twist. Preparing Persian or Pakistani dishes can seem time-consuming and challenging, but they are not. Come and join us to prepare small plates using ingredients from our farmer’s market. I will also be preparing a fancy-coloured cocktail to pair with the treats.

On the cocktail menu, there will be the following, for example:

Pomegranate & Rosewater Essence Sparkling Wine Cocktail

Saffron Chicken and Roasted Red Bell Pepper Brochette with a Cucumber Yoghurt Dip

Farmer’s Cheese, Dried Cranberry, Walnut and Tarragon Tartine

This is the link to sign up for my workshop.

Lahore. The city of my birth. The city of the humble samosa. That flaky, deep-fried triangular parcel stuffed with cumin-laced, spicy potatoes you buy from the dhaba; kiosk, from that little alley behind Liberty Market, where they sell glass bangles, twirled and twisted organza scarves and sparkly rhinestone-studded sandals. Greasy and stuffed into a khaki paper bag, you bring the samosas home and eat them hot, dipping them in a red, tangy-tart chili garlic sauce which comes out of that famous Mitchell’s glass bottle. And after that first bite, you slip your finger tips into the handle of your teacup and take a sip of cardamom-fragranced milky tea, to wash it all down. With each sip, the tannins burn your mouth even more.

That is my high.

And then we have Karachi. The city where they refer to the street hawker’s ‘pappu burger‘ with a more classy name- the ‘bun kebab‘. Us Lahoris know that it is essentially the same thing- a shami kebab tucked between two soft, pillowy buns, slathered with mint chutney, tomatoes, cucumbers for textural crunch and some onions thrown in for that extra edge.

Us Lahoris are quite particular about the provenance of our dishes, but we’ll let Karachi have their ‘bun kebab‘.

As long as they don’t call it a ‘pappu burger‘.

But more importantly, Karachi is the city where they whip up the best prawn masala. Prawns are flash-fried in an orb-like steel karahi with a heady punch of ginger and garlic; then they add tomatoes, stirring it all till they become sticky and jammy and start to cling to the glossy surface of the prawns; and finally, a pinch or two or three of secret spices.

This is the prawn masala from BBQ Tonight -pardon the cheesy website, it doesn’t reflect on the ‘I-want-to-eat-my-fingers-this-is-so-good’ quality of their dishes.

I don’t think it is possible to perfectly replicate BBQ Tonight‘s prawn masala. I think it has less to do with the saltiness of the ocean near Karachi’s border which seeps into the prawns; or the tartness of the tomatoes in Pakistan and more to do with the fact that I always have this dish when I land in Karachi at my sister’s home, surrounded by my family and friends. Scooping it up with a chewy, crackly paratha, I chatter away in my jet-lagged state with my sister, brother-in-law and best friends, AJ and KH, who gather around the table to meet me upon my arrival.

My fingertips all greasy from the paratha and spicy prawns, chugging  it down with some Diet Coke, I know and feel that I am home.

Serves 2-3 with rice or bread and a side dish

Ingredients:
*2 tbsp corn oil (or any other neutral oil)
*2 garlic cloves, sliced finely width-wise
*500g raw prawns, de-veined, shells and tails removed
*¼ tsp haldi (turmeric powder)
*1 tsp zeera (cumin) powder
*1 tsp sukha dhania (ground coriander) powder
*½ tsp red chili powder (or add more, to taste)
*2 medium-sized tomatoes, de-seeded and diced (1cm)- try to find tomatoes which are a bit firm
*2 tbsp chopped fresh coriander leaves and stalks

Preparation:
*Place a medium-size wok, or a 25cm (approximately 10 in) frying pan on medium heat.
*Add oil and garlic and sauté for two minutes, till fragrant. The garlic should not darken in colour.
*Add prawns, haldi, zeera powder, sukha dhania powder, salt and red chili powder and continue to sauté for three more minutes till the prawns turn opaque.
*Turn heat to medium-high and add tomatoes. Give the prawns a whirl with your spatula, and after one minute, turn the heat off. You don’t want to overcook the tomatoes, the skin should remain almost in tact.
*Sprinkle with coriander stalks and leaves and serve with crusty bread or steamed basmati.

Honestly, I understand the sentiment, but what was the hotel thinking when they put a 20cm sparkler on my birthday cake? At midnight on Friday, my husband almost set the bed on fire, and no, I am not talking dirty on my blog. I mean literally, as in potential flames with smoke. Just back in our hotel room after a lovely bistro dinner, he lit the sparkler and it started spitting out sparks (erm, that’s what it is supposed to do, we realise that). Thankfully, Z quickly moved it to the table, averting a fire. Since we were too busy laughing our arses off, I forgot to make a wish, but the important bit is that we both ate a large chunk of that sludgy, dark chocolate cake with sweet, tart raspberry compote on the side. And that’s how our less-than-48hour-weekend began.

The weekend was full of sugary, airy, custard-rich pastries (mille feuille, a childhood fave of mine and Ami’s) with bowls of creamy café au lait and fragrant jasmine green tea for breakfast; brown butter sautéed chanterelles and fried eggs with wobbly yolks sitting atop toasted soda bread for brunch; crumpets with puddles of butter, slathered with berry jam; and rich, indulgent confit de canard and lamb sirloin with feta mousse at a local bistro for dinner.

Oh, and there was chocolate during tea-time. Lots of chocolate. Molten chocolate in brandy glasses at Juliette et Chocolate.

In between meals there were honey-licked, pillowy bagels at St. Viateur, where the gracious proprietors gifted the ‘Pakistani couple visiting Montreal from Toronto‘, a bag of bagels. The soft texture reminded me of sesame-flecked naans straight off the tandoor back home in Lahore.

All of this was interspersed with walks in the Mile-End; winter boots shopping (best waterproof boots, for those who don’t want to compromise on that sleek look); art gallery and museum hopping- don’t miss the John Currin exhibit -it was delightfully kitsch- or the Québécoise Triennale at the Contemporary Art Museum.

On our last night, we had dinner at a raucous, rustic-chic restaurant in the middle of Old Montreal. The food wasn’t as good as expected- sadly, my foie gras tasted like a slab of unsalted, tasteless butter and my medium-rare steak came out ‘well-done’ the first time, then ‘medium’ the next- (I ate it, nevertheless)- but the service was impeccable and the atmosphere truly unforgettable.

A huge thanks to my friends:  S, who writes this incredible Montreal-based blog and to Nadia, who knows everything there is to know about the bistro and cafe scene in Montreal.

But thank you most of all to my husband, Z, for organising a properly amazing trip to Montreal. After so much gluttony, it is back to egg white omelettess for weekday breakfasts.

Well, at least we have the black truffle salt and grainy bread from ACE Bakery to go with it. And on weekends, we can indulge in my husband’s farmer’s omelettes.

That coral pink sludge we used to buy from the Sainsbury’s closest to our dorm was usually scooped up with salt and vinegar crisps. Taramosalata it was called. My Greek friend MM had introduced me to it, but I am sure it was quite different than the real stuff she was eating back home in Athens. We all loved it, we thought we were the ultimate gourmandes, eating in the common room together, bitching about that Italian Econometrics professor who didn’t really know what that damn Monte Carlo algorithm test was- and neither did we.

Then there was tzatziki, a Greek yoghurt and cucumber dip, also bought at Sainsbury’s. It was probably thickened with gelatin and how they kept the cucumbers ‘fresh and crunchy’ for so many days, well, that would be thanks to the chemistry of preservatives galore. Anyway, we ate that, too. We were proper gourmandes, after all. And with the salt and vinegar crisps to go with the dips, we were really on to something new.

Ah, life in our twenties, when we were so easily pleased. A trip to London on the train to have a coffee at Cafe Nero (ultimate symbol of cool-ness), a meal at some shady Chinese restaurant in Soho where noodle dishes were ample and the stir-fried beef was questionable. Sugared melon juice at a Lebanese place on the Edgware Road and a carb-laden-oily dim sum at Poon’s. A walk through the Covent Garden and finally a film in Leicester Square before taking the train back to our uni town, whilst eating packets of Quavers (don’t judge, please) or some other delectably greasy bag of crisps.

I miss those days not because I yearn for that tzatziki or that awful packaged taramosalata, but because it took so little to make us deliriously happy.

My husband is taking me to Montreal this weekend to celebrate my birthday, and we plan to walk around the alleys of the city, visiting the Montreal bagel bakeries and lazing around at bistros sipping wine. To be deliriously happy with the simplest of pleasures in life.

For those of you who like to work in cups, my recipe is in print in Edible Toronto, here.

Serves 4-6 as an hors d’oeuvre with bread or crisps

Ingredients:
*500g full-fat yoghurt (Greek-style or Balkan-style)
*2 English cucumbers (small cucumbers), peeled and diced into small pieces
*50g chopped walnuts
*1 clove garlic, minced
*1 tbsp dried mint, plus extra for garnish
*salt of your choice to taste (I use fleur de sel or maldon)
*dried rose petals, optional, available in Persian grocery stores
*extra virgin olive oil for drizzling

Preparation:
*In a medium bowl, add yoghurt, cucumber, walnuts, garlic, mint and salt. Stir well to combine. Transfer the mixture to a serving dish. Lightly sprinkle with dried mint and dried rose petals (if using). Drizzle with your best extra virgin olive oil.

NOTE: When preparing this recipe in advance, do not add cucumbers to the yoghurt. Keep the diced cucumber and the yoghurt mixture in separate containers, covered, in the refrigerator. Drain the cucumbers in a sieve prior to stirring the solids into the yoghurt mixture.

I can’t understand why I never tried a Reese’s Pieces when I was a child, maybe because the epic joy of having a jolly rancher with its neon watermelon and green apple flavours seemed more interesting than a boring, drab and round chocolate cup. On Halloween there were Nerds to be had, those tiny, hot pink sweet and sour candies you poured into your hand out of a pocket-size box and ate till your tongue turned a scary purple and pink. Then there were American Smarties- small pastel coloured discs which made your mouth pucker up from their tartness. I never touched any of the chocolate in my Halloween basket, maybe because I was also a snob, used to eating chocolate my Baba brought back for us from the UK and France.

I adore Reese’s Pieces now, especially the dark chocolate version. A Reese’s recreated into a dessert, this double-chocolate peanut butter pie is just the ticket if you love that combination of sweet, salty and rich. You get an extra punch of chocolate in the base with the addition of molten chocolate and buttery goodness, and then in the middle is the filling- rich, creamy, salty-sweet with just a little bit of crunch from the peanuts. And to top it all off, a thick slathering of dark chocolate ganache to balance out the sweet richness of the filling.

After dinner, you just need one slice.

Or two, if you’re my husband with a sweet tooth.

I have rewritten a recipe by Chef Vitaly Paley which I found in Food and Wine magazine. The character of the final product is still the same, so the credit for this recipe goes to Chef Paley. But I have changed almost all of the proportions of ingredients; added an ingredient (sour cream) and omitted two ingredients (roasted peanuts and salt).

I find it hard to work in cups, so everything in my adapted recipe is in grams and millilitres.

My changes/additions:

*In the original recipe, Chef Paley calls for 8oz (227g) of cream cheese. I used 200g of cream cheese and added sour cream.
*I increased the amount of sugar from approximately 100g (1/2 cup) to 150g (3/4 cup) to counterbalance the tartness from the sour cream.
*I decreased the amount of heavy cream and peanut butter.
*I added sour cream.
*I omitted roasted peanuts and salt.
*I did not whip the heavy cream separately and fold it in (as per Chef Paley’s recipe) as I wanted a more dense cake. I simply added the heavy cream, unwhipped, to all the filling ingredients.
*I have added corn syrup to the chocolate ganache and changed its preparation method.

Here is the original recipe by Chef Paley.

My Version
Serves 8-10

Ingredients:
Chocolate Base:
*100g dark chocolate broken into small pieces- I used Lindt 85%
*100g unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
*300g chocolate wafer biscuits / cookies, finely ground

Peanut Butter Filling:
*200g cream cheese, softened
*2 heaped tablespoons of sour cream (You could substitute with crème fraîche, but bear in mind that it is less tangy than sour cream and more dense. If either of the two ingredients are not available in your country they can be omitted- they are there to add tang to the filling)
*230g chunky peanut butter
*150g sugar
*2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
*200ml well-chilled heavy cream

Chocolate Ganache
*100g dark chocolate broken into small pieces- I used Lindt 85%
*100ml heavy cream
*1 tablespoon light corn syrup (optional)

Prepare the chocolate base:
*Preheat the oven to 190C / 375F.
*Combine chocolate and butter in a small sauce pan and place on low heat. Stir till butter and chocolate have melted and come together.
*Pour butter and chocolate mixture over biscuit crumbs, mix till it is fully incorporated.
*Press the biscuit crumbs into the bottom of a 25cm (9.5in) springform pan and 3cm up the side.
*Bake the crust for 10 minutes, or until set; the crust will continue to firm up as it cools.

Prepare the peanut butter filling:
*In a large bowl, using an electric mixer, beat the cream cheese and sour cream with peanut butter, sugar, vanilla extract and whipped cream until blended and fluffy.
*Spoon the filling into the crust, smoothing the surface with a spatula.
*Refrigerate until set, about 3 hours.
*Once the peanut butter filling has set, you can start to prepare the chocolate ganache.

Prepare the chocolate ganache:
*Place the chocolate in a metal or heatproof glass bowl.
*Place cream in a small saucepan over medium heat, and bring it to just a boil. Pour over chocolate. Let it sit undisturbed for 5 minutes.
*Stir the chocolate and cream and add corn syrup and stir until smooth. Do not whip as it will create bubbles.
*Spread the chocolate ganache over the pie filling and refrigerate for an hour till firm.

The pie can be covered and refrigerated overnight.
Serve the pie chilled or slightly cooler than room temperature.

I loved those kaanch ki churiyaan; glass bangles you’d find right before Eid at the Anarkali Bazaar in Lahore’s Old City. The vendors had every colour you could imagine- neon lemon, bubble-gum pink, dark and light violets and shimmery silver ones like mother-of-pearl. I loved going to the Anarkali Bazaar with my Nani Ami to buy my Eid outfit with matching churiyaan. Of course I had to buy the dull bangles, the plastic ones, which didn’t even make that all important ‘clink clink’ sound with every hand movement. Unlike the glass ones, you could easily stuff your hand into them. Glass bangles were supposed to be slipped on after lathering up your hands with soap and water so they would slide on effortlessly. I spent most of my childhood in envy of my cousins who wore glass bangles every Eid. But then again, I had slit my wrist at the age of three after taking a fall whilst wearing them. I even have the scar of five stitches to prove it. So as a child, I just had to lump it and wear the plastic ones.

After churiyaan shopping I would grasp my grandmother’s hand and walk towards the sandal shop, passing the fruit chaat kiosk on the way. On a counter sat the fruit vendors, their hands ‘bloodied’ by juicing garnet-red pomegranates almost the size of my 6-year old head, and the man next to him chopping creamy textured guavas and tossing them in a large bowl with jewel-like pomegranate seeds, sliced bananas, coral-hued peaches and red orb-like apples. And then, adding with his fingertips, a generous dusting of chaat masala- that wonderfully tangy, earthy, hot, and salty spice concoction. In the end he’d add squirts of fresh lime juice to bind it all together.

It was that addictive and perfect combination of sweet, spicy, salty and sour that I craved.

But did I mention that I wasn’t allowed to eat that? Apparently, that kiosk had questionable hygiene conditions and I could get food poisoning, or typhoid, or some other disease which I thought Nani Ami was just making up. After all, there were ladies sitting there on the stools with their khaki bags of Eid shopping resting at their feet, whilst they ate their fruit chaat in glass bowls to take some respite from shopping, and ‘they didn’t seem to have typhoid’, I thought to myself. I wanted that chaat almost as desperately as I wanted those kaanch ki churiyaan.

But both were verboten. And because I loved my grandmother too much, I didn’t utter a word in response. My Ami would surely have gotten some foot stomping action from me with an, ‘It’s not fair!’, followed by a lot of endless whinging. But grandmothers? They are never mean and are always fair.

I suppose once we got to the sandal store, none of that fruit chaat business mattered anymore. Lined up against the wall were sandals with rhinestones and others with hand embroidery and some with glittery beads. But I knew exactly the kainchi chappal; thong sandals, that I wanted- they had two thin straps with a silver mini-pom pom to go with the Eid outfit Nani Ami had chosen for me.

When a little girl has her Eid ka kurta shalwar, silver shoes and bangles- fruit chaat sort of becomes less important.

Though now I think I may just choose fruit chaat over shoes. Especially the one Nani Ami made for me, with her homemade chaat masala.

My grandmother used to make a great chaat masala that really packed a punch, but I am still in the midst of finding that recipe from someone in my family who remembers the proportions of spices Nani Ami used.

So in the meantime, I make a fruit chaat of my own, with just a bit of chilli, salt and lime. If the fruit you use isn’t sweet enough, add some brown sugar to taste.

I am honoured to have been interviewed by one of Pakistan’s most prestigious and widely-read English-language magazines for their September issue. Here is the link to the three-page feature.

It looked like a tangled mess, those sawayyan; vermicelli, lying in a mound in the silver-gilt rim white porcelain dish on Eid morning in Nani Ami’s home. Next to it lay dainty matching bowls with silver spoons, a large carafe of fresh, raw milk, a sugar bowl and several bowls of dried nuts, slivered, whole and crushed to a dust-something for everyone’s preferences in the family.

My maternal grandparents- Nani Ami and Daddy

As soon as my maternal Uncles and grandfather returned from their Eid prayers it was time for tucking into Nani Ami’s sawayyan- a vermicelli pudding typically made in many households in Pakistan to celebrate the end of Ramadan.

Nani Ami would scoop up the sawayyan with her fork and plonk them into my bowl.

Then she’d add some of that warm, raw milk- the smell of which is undeniably creamy and fresh. And the tangles of vermicelli would come undone, mingling with the milk. When it was time to add the sugar, I had to take over from Nani Ami. I’d sprinkle the sawayyan with one, two, three teaspoons of sugar, and then twirl my spoon in it and watch the sugar melt into the warm milk.

The best part was dusting the sawayyan with neon-green crushed pistachios and adding pinches of crunchy almond slivers.

That amorphous mass of vermicelli was transformed, as if by alchemy, into a creamy, carb-rich, sweet pudding. This was the taste of Eid in my grandmother’s home. I still remember those days in Lahore, in the dining room, sitting around the table with my Ami and the rest of the family, watching my Uncles and grandfather in their perfectly starched white kameez shalwars, slurping the sawayyan down, just like me. Except I am pretty sure I was the only one who had sweetened milk running down my chin with each greedy bite.

Last night, for Eid, Ami prepared her version of Afghan sawayyan, similar to the way they are prepared in my Baba’s home.

Afghan version of sawayyan with chandi ka varak; edible silver leaf- Shir Khurma

But today we were missing my Nani Ami and craving her Punjabi-version of the same dish. We called my maternal Uncle, Mamoo M, (aka, ‘Bruto’- I am ‘Bruta’ to him) in Pakistan at 1am. We needed to know how Nani Ami made this dish, we had already failed with one batch of vermicelli. Half-asleep, he relayed the recipe to us- and Ami got it just right. My Unc’ really is the best.

Spoonfuls of it transported me right back to that dining room in Lahore at my Nani Ami’s home on Sunderdas Road, near the canal with the weeping willow trees.

As soon as my husband comes home from work, we’ll be devouring both versions of the dish- my Nani Ami’s and Mader’s. What better Eid can there be with two puddings, made in honour of my two grandmothers?

Eid Mubarik to everyone.

Serves 8-10
There really isn’t a set recipe for this- you should add as much milk and sugar to the dish as you like, and then adorn it with the dried nuts you love.

Ingredients:
*1 packet 120g sawayyan or vermicelli bought in a Pakistani or Indian grocery store
*water
*milk, warm or cold- suited to your taste
*sugar
*dried, unsalted nuts of your choice
*crushed cardamom seeds

Preparation:
*Place a large pot of water on the stove and when it comes to a boil, add vermicelli (don’t add in stages, it must all cook together).
*Remove after 20 seconds (test for doneness first) and strain immediately.
*Transfer to a dish.
*Serve alongside warm or cold milk with sugar on the side, crushed nuts and cardamom seed powder.

The Bullying. Stratford Landing Elementary School, Grade 2. In a suburb of Washington DC.

Ami used to make me sandwiches for lunch so I wouldn’t have to eat the horrid spaghetti in bolognese sauce from the school cafeteria. This “Italian” dish was usually made with meat which looked more like cat food, straight out of a tin. All the other children used to bring soft sandwiches smeared with peanut butter and grape jelly, and even though I pleaded for those sarnies, Ami said no. It wasn’t good for you- all that sugar and carbs.

So I’d come to school, carrying my red tupperware lunchbox with Ami’s Pakistani-styled sarnies. Some days there was a pulled-chicken toasted sandwich, layered with tomatoes and cucumbers, made from last night’s leftover murghi ka saalan; curry and other days Ami would make me kebabs and tuck them into pita bread. In all my sandwiches there would be a smothering of fresh mint and coriander chutney. There you had it- carbs, protein, and spicy tartness all wrapped into one.

Except the kids, egged on by the popular red-head in our class, used to sit miles away from me in the cafeteria, making faces at my food, and asking me, Is that green stuff shit your mom makes? or Are you eating mould? or Stay away, we might catch the foreign mould, they’d say. I was one of the only foreigners in the school. I didn’t have a heavy American accent, I didn’t celebrate Christmas and I didn’t go to the community pool during the summer. My family and I would travel to new countries for a portion of the summer and then spend the rest of it at home in Lahore or with our family in London.

Yes, I was different, I was weird. I didn’t eat peanut butter and jelly sarnies for lunch.

Saddened by the ridiculing, some days I’d eat in the library, behind the bookshelves, so as not to suffer the wrath of the kids. After all, I was eating foreign food. Plus, I spoke with an accent. Apparently, if one didn’t speak in an American accent, one had an accent. That one, I could never get my head around.

I still remember those years from Elementary School, and I know that if I had to do it all over again, go back in time, I would still ask my Ami to make those scrumptious chutney and kebab sarnies for me. And I would ask her to give me some extra chutney on the side.

I have no regrets about the Pakistani girl my parents brought me up as- eating kebabs, spending summers with cousins in Lahore, trying to knock down that raw mango from the tree to eat with lime and salt and chili pepper, learning Urdu calligraphy on Sundays when all I really wanted to do was read my Grimms Brothers Fairy Tales- and I thank both my Ami and Baba for that.

Ami’s chutney was a green one, but this is a chutney my paternal grandmother, Mader used to make, which I loved and is summer appropriate. Ami’s chutney recipe shall be “forthcoming, Fall 2011″.

This keeps for 2-3 weeks in the fridge
The texture is dense, but liquid-like.

Ingredients:
*4 large red capsicum / bell peppers
*4 garlic cloves (if you are using large cloves, use 2)
*4 tbsp (approximately 60 ml) white vinegar or you can use apple cider vinegar, too
*3 tbsp sugar (approximately 40g)
*2 small fresh, hot red chillies
*salt to taste

Preparation:
*De-seed and chop capsicum into small cubes (these are going into the blender so the size does not matter).
*Chop garlic into small pieces (this is also going into the blender so the size does not matter).
*Transfer capsicum, garlic, vinegar and sugar into the blender.
*Add one chilli by chopping it with kitchen shears directly into the blender. Test for level of heat. If you are ok with it, add second chilli.
*Add salt to taste.
*Pulse in the blender till everything is minced, you want it to look slightly chunky, you dont want it to be completely smooth.
*Serve with kebabs, rice, smear on bread for a sarnie, or enjoy atop your favourite cheese and crackers.

Toot toot! That is the sound of my horn, and I hope you don’t mind the sound of it, because The Spice Spoon was featured in The Independent as 50 of the world’s best food websites.

‘Stunning photography, beautiful food and evocative writing, Shayma Saadat’s Pakistani/ Afghan/Persian blog is a treat,’ says Nick. ‘Very original recipes from a blogger who is keen to offer a much-needed dose of humanity and romanticism to the countries of her heritage.’