Diana Abu-Jaber is the author of Crescent, which was awarded the 2004 PEN Center USA Award for Literary Fiction and the Before Columbus Foundation's American Book Award and was named one of the twenty best novels of 2003 by The Christian Science Monitor, and Arabian Jazz, which won the 1994 Oregon Book Award and was nominated for the PEN/Faulkner Award. She teaches at Portland State University and divides her time between Portland and Miami.

Felicia C. Sullivan: Although many memoirs emphasize the need to keep their native culture and tradition vividly alive through food, memory, and language, The Language of Baklava takes that theme a step further – evoking home through ingredients, methods of preparation. For you and your family, food and the ritual of its preparation and consumption is a celebration, moments to be savored – how memories are truly and inevitably forged. The comforting and sometimes funny recipes are selected with care and accompany each section. Can you talk a little bit more about why you elected to include recipes in the memoir as well as your heartfelt affection for food?

Diana Abu-Jaber: I was reading How to Cook a Wolf and The Joy of Cooking, and other similar texts, and became fascinated by these books—both memoirs and cookbooks-- that combined stories and recipes. It seemed like a perfect, natural, and very organic union to me. I was also intrigued by the possibility of a “three dimensional” narrative—one that seems to step off the narrative page. By giving the reader recipes, it provides an important additional step—not only are people reading the stories, if they try the recipes they're also able to enjoy tasting, smelling, and touching alongside the writer. It's a uniquely sensuous and inclusive experience, and seems to offer more than what a simple story can.

FS: What I found fascinating was your story in particular – a girl with fair coloring who could have fooled Jordanians that she was white (in Jordan, a British kid vehemently cries out against race mixing when you ventured off to play with the local kids – No in-betweens! It's not allowed!), purely American, but was perceived here, in the states, as foreigner. Did it make straddling these two distinct worlds that much more difficult?

DAJ: Sometimes it was insanely confusing. My Arab aunties used to praise fair skin and they proclaimed that a pale complexion was somehow prettier and more of an advantage for a woman. They used to admonish my little sisters to stay out of the sun and they referred to me as “the American,” as if I were some sort of exotic tourist who was had just dropped into the family for a visit. Back in the States, though, I was considered this oddball with the weirdo name and the lunch boxes that reeked of garlic and lamb. So I grew up with a powerful feeling of being a sort of invisible imposter, not quite sufficiently anything, not “authentically” belonging anywhere. Which is why identity politics and the modern obsession with race makes me so crazy. What happens if your identity isn't quite visible?

A recent review of The Language of Baklava in a national paper tore into me accusing me of all sorts of odd, nitpicky crimes against “accuracy,” which, in my case usually translates to an idea of “authenticity.” It's very exhausting sometimes.

FS: I'm quite fond of the title, The Language of Baklava, which for me, details how food can be perceived as a language – a method of communicating to one another. A language that supercedes cultural barriers and stereotypes. How did you come to choose such a wonderful title?

DAJ: Thank you! That's exactly the notion I was trying to work with. Generally, I have a devil of a time with titles—I find them often very daunting and elusive, (and I'm really struggling to name a new book I'm working on.) But for some reason, The Language of Baklava revealed itself fairly easily—I'd originally thought of calling it “The Logic of Baklava” and then my agent mistakenly referred to it as The Language of Baklava and I realized that was a better title and it stuck!

FS: What was the impetus for starting this new project? Why did you want to tell this story – your story?

DAJ: I have to confess, I never expected to write a memoir. I thought that was only the sort of thing that people like Ulysses S. Grant did; it sounded much too important (or perhaps self-important) to me. But then, I'd just published my second novel, Crescent, which was set in a Middle Eastern restaurant with an Iraqi-American chef, and I'd done tons of research on Arab-American dishes, and there I was surrounded by recipes. My editor at the time said, well, you've done the work and you've got this crazy, food-obsessed family, and all these wonderful stories—why don't you just tell them? And I realized that's exactly what I wanted to do—I wanted to preserve these wonderful meals and methods and these funny, moving people behind the food.

FS: There are so many wonderfully colorful, richly developed characters in your book – the strong-willed Aunt Aya, the “poet”, relatives who are rumored to harbor a disabled screaming grandchild in their home, the thieves, the flirts, the bachelors, the swindlers – but still the family is resilient, still they gather and call one another brother – a testament to the strength of family. Did you feel supported writing this book although some characters and their actions may have appeared in less than a positive light?

DAJ: Oh, it was impossibly scary for me to write this book. When I first started, my agent called me and said, okay, now this is a very nice, polite tribute to your relatives, but you've got to start telling the whole truth! At the time, there was a trend of these sorts of hair-raising, tell-all confessional books coming out about the most hellacious childhoods imaginable. And that was obviously not my experience, but I wasn't sure where to find the truth between being diplomacy and grotesquerie. And then for me I always struggle with the question of how much portrayal seems to be a kind of betrayal—like photography—as if writing about someone is somehow akin to stealing something from them (like their souls.) Finally, though, my wonderful mother talked me through it and said, in her very kind, soft-spoken voice: oh honey… fuck em! And after I felt like I had that permission, it became a lot easier for me to write it.

FS: There is a moving moment in TLOB when you see an almost imperceptible shift in your father's national identity. Throughout the book, whether it be upstate New York or in Jordan, your father always dreamed of opening a restaurant of his own – a place where he could desperately hold on to his family while celebrating the food he loved and known as a boy. When that dream comes to pass and he opens the “Fun Center”, after only two summers, he passes the business on. “With his instinct to serve, to cook, to talk, to welcome, he had no way to ever close his doors, no way to every say no. Through it was filled with Americans, the shack resembled an overcrowded, talk-heavy Jordanian coffeehouse. But Bud is no longer – not entirely – Jordanian”. Throughout the book, Bud had always appeared steadfast of his heritage, ensuring that his girls were not like the American girls, going out with boys, disobeying their parents, frequent visits to Jordan which somehow always soured – but finally, we see a turning point, him finally admitting that like you, he too, straddled both cultures – perhaps he was less vocal? That Jordan came down from its high pedestal? Can you expand on this perhaps?

DAJ: It's always been very difficult for my father to “own” his American-ness, even though it's undeniably a huge part of his personality by now. After all, he lived in Jordan for twenty-one years but in America for almost fifty. But I think any admission he makes to being an American can feel terribly confusing, especially when there's so few positive images of Arab people in the United States. It's almost as if by living here, there's this pressure to repudiate this whole other part of himself that was so important and crucial to his sense of identity. Add to that the fact that his children turned out to not even speak his language or share his value system and I think that at times he feels very lonely and stranded—like so many immigrants.

FS: In the Foreword to TLOB and recently in the panel “Memoirs: Family Matters”, your remark rather honestly about the fusion of memoir and fiction. Personally, I feel that all memoirs are the truth as how it is perceived by the author, that there is some shaping and molding to execute a good story that is honest to the author's intention. No one can ever recall lengthy scenes of dialogue, so scenes and words are recreated, I think, but in the spirit of the characters you want to evoke. Which makes me think of that infamous New Yorker cartoon where a man is standing in a bookstore in which the sections are marked “Memoirish” and “Fictionish,” as opposed to “Memoir” and “Fiction." Can you talk a little bit more about this – this fusion and how it influenced your new work?

DAJ: Oh yes, I've often wanted to called my new book a memvel, or a noivoir, because it really didn't seem to fall along whatever the perceived lines are for writing within traditional genre lines. I combined two characters into one, I changed locations and elaborated conversations, even though these stories are all based on very true events. But of course, as you say, even those writers who make claims to the coldest of “facts,” (i.e. New York Times reporters, among others) have their moments of imagination and fantasy, which we view as errors, or worse, because we depend on such people to uphold the notion that there is one reality—this is something that's very hard to question—the notion of multiple realities, of subjective memories. But beyond this, I feel quite strongly that there is a powerful emotional truth that exists separately from what we call fact, and sometimes it requires the curve of the narrative arc in order for such personal truth to reveal itself.

FS: You've mentioned that when your debut novel, Arabian Jazz, was published, it was met with some scathing criticism from the Arab community. In TLOB, you call some of the lamenters “The Betrayed”, ones who felt their unique stories ignored, others felt you were the “disappointing American child – the one who didn't speak Arabic, who didn't sound or dress or behave in any ways as an Arab is supposed to”. Are you still seeing this resistance with the publication of your memoir? Do you feel the criticism is somewhat justified?

DAJ: Well, I suppose all children grow up to sort of repudiate their parents—we have to! Was it Freud who said, you must kill the father? I think that's especially true for someone like me—a girl growing up in a hugely traditional, patriarchal family. There was nothing in my upbringing to encourage me to be a writer or an artist, to “claim” my voice or my authority or any of those groovy empowerment things. And I do think you can make an argument that the Arab people have been uniquely targeted and villainized in the American media as terrorists and madmen-- as if such sorts of insane people didn't exist in the States as well. For me to write in English and have such an American identity can feel very much like an abandonment I think. I'll never forget one woman who wrote to me after my first novel, Arabian Jazz, came out; she said, “You naughty naughty girl, do your parents know you wrote this book?”

FS: Any interesting or odd tour stories you'd like to share with our readers?

DAJ: Funnily enough, I did write some tour entries for Ron Hogan at Beatrice.com. The fact is I'm a big book tour weenie—I spend much of the time feeling lonely and missing my husband and friends. But somehow this seemed like an unusually sweet and warm-hearted tour. Several of the bookstores I read at actually served baklava! One of my favorite experiences was when I read at the Jordanian Embassy in Washington D.C. I finished reading about an especially difficult period when my Dad and I were constantly clashing. And a Greek Orthodox priest stood up and said, “What advice do you have for all us poor immigrant parents out there who're always fighting with our wild American children?” And the audience started laughing—children of immigrants, immigrant parents and children—everyone started comparing experiences—it didn't matter what culture you were from, we could all identify.

FS: Many of our readers are first-time authors or aspiring authors. From creating a website to touring, can you shed some light on how you've marketed your book? Any creative methods used?

DAJ: My so-called marketing attempts have been so lame and limited, I hesitate to say anything in case I might discourage someone from really going out there and doing something proactive. Essentially, I did two things. First, my husband and I threw a book party at our favorite Miami bookstore, Books & Books. There was a lovely crowd of friends and readers and it was a magical night—people absolutely devoured the food, which I love to see. The other thing was that I hired this genius, Michael Borum, at Etherweave.com to build a website for me, www.dianaabujaber.com (please go visit it and write something under “dinner conversation”!) Apparently now it is very popular to email your whole address book about your various events and books; the problem of course is that we already are so inundated with all our fellow-writers emailing about their books that it sometimes feels now like even our friends are spamming us. The nice thing about a website is that there's a place where people can deliberately sign up if they want to be on a mailing list and hear about new books and events. I can't promise I'll actually follow through and mail out anything, though.

FS: What authors are your bookshelf mainstays? Any new discoveries?

DAJ: I'm pretty transparent—if you look at the dedications in my books, you'll see all my friends who also happen to be among my favorite writers. I read very widely and eclectically and I tend to be drawn to writers from other cultural perspectives, like Arundhati Roy, Michael Ondaatje, Milan Kundera, Louise Erdrich; I love classics like Virginia Woolf, George Eliot, Tolstoy, Hemingway; contemporary Americans like Richard Ford, Norman Rush, Lorrie Moore. My new current obsession is The Master by Colm Toibin; I'm forcing myself to read it slowly, I'm enjoying it so much.

FS: Your ideal meal – combining your favorite American & Arab foods – what would it be? And your ideal dining companions – what writers/artists alive or passed would you love to serve your meal to, spend time chatting with?

DAJ: Mmm…I used to love our big, crazy fusion holidays, like at Thanksgiving when my parents would stuff a roasted turkey with ground lamb and onions. But then I'd also have to have a full mezzah course with all my favorite small plates and dips like hummus, smoky baba ganouj, muhammara, tabbouli, fattoush salad, etc. I'd finish with my favorite desserts, knaffea and (of course) baklava. And naturally, I'd invite all the above writers as well as all my up-and-coming writer friends, plus lots of journalists, filmmakers and actors—of course, I'd have to have Isabella Rosellini, Ingrid Bergman, Antonioni, Sam Shepard Gus Van Sant, Truffaut, Gregory Peck, Benecio Del Toro, Owen Wilson, Charlie Kaufman…oh, I gotta just stop, this could go on for hours…

FS: Anything new on the horizon?

DAJ: Always. Right now I'm working on something that's a real departure for me. A new novel without any elements of specific cultural background, Arab or otherwise. It has elements of the mystery genre—inspired by some of my favorite film thrillers-- though it's very much a literary novel. It's scary and deeply exciting to be working on something that feels like such new terrain.