I love lahmajun.

My mom’s lahmajun is currently one of the best I have ever eaten – her cooking in everything is always the best, really. Mama knows what kind of spices to use, how much to use and she puts her heart and soul into everything she bakes and cooks. You can taste that.

Then there was the lahmajun in Yerevan. How exciting it was to discover that restaurant where I would buy those delicious Armenian pizzas as people call them… in Yerevan, the lahmajun dough was paper thin – I wasn’t used to this difference – and the pizzas would usually fall apart by the time I started eating them… but it was all mouth watering yumminess nonetheless.

Ah, but my grandpa’s lahmajun… well, that was something else entirely.

When I was a little girl, Grandpa would come over to our home to make lahmajun with my mom. I loved those days. He would come over, roll up his sleeves, and with those capable, gentle, yet rugged hands, roll out the dough, pita, after pita spread all over the kitchen table, all over the counter tops… and then, go to each individual pita and pat on the delicious ingredients, the toppings… I remember his hands as he delicately, expertly patted on the sauces, with extra spices, of course… Grandpa worked quickly… Mama working along side him, and me, watching closely… listening to them talk, anticipating tasting the lahmajun once out of the oven, piping hot…

I love my grandpa’s hands. Those hands that carefully fashioned each lahmajun so perfectly for us to enjoy. The same hands that held mine as we walked home from school when he would come to pick me up. The hands that would clap and clap and clap for me after I would sing for him. My little concerts usually ended up having many encores because Grandpa was such a great audience member. I would sing, he would clap, I would bow and curtsey, and he would continue to clap jubilantly… and I would enthusiastically sing some more with my comb as a microphone. The same hands that played dumbec when he was a young man, and then years later, would tap out a rhythm on the window sill, a faraway look in his eyes as he sang Armenian folk songs to himself… not aware that I was listening…

I remember the taste of the lahmajuns Grandpa made for us. Tomatoes, meat, spices… the dough, not paper thin, but not too thick… just right… squeezing a bit of lemon on top before I rolled it up or folded the pita in half and ate… a bit of sauce dripping down my chin….

Tags: Armenian folk songs, Armenian pizza, dumbec, grandpa, lahmajun, mom, Sing