Recently, my family and I marked the end of the Islamic month of Ramadan with a celebratory meal together on Eid. Ramadan done right is extraordinarily fulfilling! I try to do the things I struggle with the rest of the year – making a conscientious effort to read the whole Quran; rolling with the little and big mishaps; choosing words of kindness and patience with others despite inner cursing and exasperation egged on by lack of sleep, food, and water; and not missing a prayer during its appointed time.

You can see why Ramadan is, therefore, simultaneously exhausting! It’s every observant Muslim’s edict from God to be their best self for 30 days concurrently without slipping up. By the time most of us get to Eid, our bodies have finally gotten into the right fasting rhythm, but we’re either breaking on the inside or have climbed and remained on a new plateau of spiritual piety and patience! (Usually, I’m the former because patience never came easy to me.)

This year was a banner Ramadan for me, with the successful completion of at least one whole Quran and all 30 fasts! So, I was particularly excited about our mealtime conversation during our Thanksgiving cultural equivalent. Like Thanksgiving, Eid also brings together the mix of easygoing, quirky, gossipy, and/or judgy relatives all at one table. My table was going to be festive and harmonious because of the banner month I’d had, and because of the food coma I fully intended to give my table guests.

A few days before Eid, I  called up my neighborhood market to place my meat order. Owned and run by a Pakistani-American family, it’s known for selling high quality halal beef, chicken, and other meats. In a time of instant delivery via Instacart, Uber Eats, and Amazon, this store maintains the nostalgia of grocery shopping in South Asia. The owners get to know their customers personally, take orders by phone, and deliver the goods to your door! Knowing I’m blind and don’t drive, the staff save me the hassle of coming inside while my driver waits and provide me with curbside pickup.

I planned to place an order for brisket with which I was going to make the juiciest pot roast. In the past, the brisket from this store has been outstanding – melt-in-your-mouth delicious when cooked—so I was confident that this order would go routinely.

“Do you have brisket in stock?” I inquired over the phone.

“I don’t know – let me see…” said the owner’s relative who helps run the store on the other end of the line. “it’s Sunday, and we don’t have it on the weekends usually. You may have to wait until Tuesday.”

I explained how I was trying to cook it in time for Eid, and marinating meat on Tuesday might be too late.

“Oh, okay,” and then I listened as he hollered out to someone in the meat department. “Do we have cow shoulder?… Okay Mariyam, we have it. How many pounds do you need?”

So, on that Sunday before Eid, I eagerly went to the store – less than a mile away from home – and received what I thought was three fat slabs of brisket. I came home and started lathering and poking the meat with a host of sweet and savory seasonings, salivating during my fast over how delectable this Eid dinner was going to be. I then lovingly arranged the meat into a baking dish and into my refrigerator to marinate for four nights.

On Wednesday night, I finally placed the meat in my crockpot over various vegetables to make a brisket pot roast. The house grew more aromatic every minute that the meat cooked in the kitchen. Minutes became hours, and hours became nearly a day, when I finally stuck a fork in what I thought should be slow cooked brisket to pull it apart – and it didn’t budge.

“You guys, something’s wrong!” I yelled to my husband and sister. “The meat is still too tough,” I explained.

After trying to doctor the cooking meat and some pondering, one of them finally said, “Are you sure you actually got brisket?”

“Wait, exactly what part of the cow is brisket?” the other asked, only to receive flummoxed silence from all of us.

When in doubt, we do what others do: ask Alexa.

“Alexa, what’s brisket?” Although I didn’t know where brisket came from, it had never occurred to me to ask this question before. The store clerk’s confirmation to me that the store had brisket after asking his staff for cow shoulder didn’t strike me as odd, and I’d never had an issue getting juicy, delicious brisket from them before.

Clearly my folly, as I should have checked with Alexa before I placed an order for six pounds of meat. “Brisket is a cut of meat from the breast or lower chest of beef or veal. It is one of the 9 primal cuts…” the AI helpfully lectured me.

“No wonder this isn’t done cooking!” my sister groaned. “Just keep it in the crockpot and keep it going low and slow. Who knows how long it will take to become tender?”

Luckily, I had marinated early and had the luxury of time. By Friday evening, when the pot roast had to be served, it was significantly tender, and the flavor of all the spices that had simmered in over two days was terrific! We ended up having a wonderful meal.

“We thought we were getting brisket, and they told us it’s brisket, but I realize now that even the grocery store butchers don’t know what cut of meat brisket is, so we got the wrong cut of meat,” I told my visiting parents over Eid dinner as we regaled them with the story of our cooking process for the roast. “We’re going to need to be more mindful next time, but at least now we know what cut to ask for!” 

At that point, we thought (as funny as it was) the brisket experience was done and over… Or was it?

A few days later, my 76-year-old dad – who looks like Santa Claus with his twinkly eyes, his cherubic cheeks and his long, white beard – went into the grocery store with my mom.

“Who’s your owner?” he asked.

When someone pointed out the gentleman, my dad went up to the owner, and according to my mom, said, “My daughters are blind, and they shop at your store. Sometimes, they get the wrong cut of meat, and they can’t see the meat, so they don’t know what they’re getting. So your butchers need to understand what they’re asking for, and make sure they get what they ask for instead of the incorrect cuts. Here’s a picture of my daughters, in case they come in, so you know who to look for.”

As my mom relayed this story to all of us that night, my husband was mortified. My sister and I were just resigned. “Oh goodness, that’s just so Dad!”

“You guys aren’t upset! I mean…the photo!” My husband – very Caucasian in looks and culture at times – was incredulous. He was trying to articulate what we know intrinsically: that we are perfectly capable of speaking up for ourselves when needed. And this was not a time when we needed to say anything since we hadn’t figured out what brisket was in the first place.

“No. That’s just Desi parenting and fighting a battle that wasn’t really a battle at all, let alone his battle to fight. Nothing we can do about that,” I responded.

 “It doesn’t matter what we tell him; he’s going to do it anyway,” my sister remarked, equally matter of fact about the whole thing. “It’s actually sort of cute.” I agreed, chuckling.

My mother had a somewhat unexpected reaction, reflecting in the moment on what she had observed. “Only he can do it. No one else would have the guts to tell the owner anything or say his butchers are doing something wrong.” Interesting – she sees a hero!

Looking back a couple weeks later, I find the episode hilarious. What about you? Have you had someone fight a battle for you that didn’t need to be fought? What’s your funny kitchen story of the year thus far? Tell me in the comments and on my social media, and I will talk to you again next week!