My grandma loved to drink; she loved to pray, too. For her, there was no reason why the two wouldn’t be compatible with each other. Raki, our national Turkish drink was her favorite. Raki and prayers. She just loved them both, what would be wrong with it? She was a woman of controversies, beautiful ones. She was modern and traditional, open minded and conservative, adventurous and cautious.

I remember her prayers five times a day. Not everyday; she would go on for several months and then take a break according to her moods. She would never skip the Ramadan though, the holy month was her non-negotiable. During that month she would pray five times a day, fast and never drink a sip of alcohol. I remember how tired she would become during that month.

I didn’t like the Ramadans, they took my grandma away from me. She didn’t have the energy to talk to me or be present with me, she would fall asleep several times during the day. She had to cook as well for the evening and then later for early morning, when the last meal had to be taken before the next fasting day started. I remember that she would make me taste the food she cooked, if it was too salty or spicy, as she wasn’t able to taste it herself. I would feel the important responsibility I was trusted with; her cooking was her pride. I loved her food, everyone in our family loved her food. Being a Bosniak, a descendant of the Muslims in today’s Bosnia-Herzegovina, she had her unique creation of Bosnian and Turkish dishes; “Kolac”, ” Hurmitsa”, “Sogan Dolmasi”, “Papara”, I loved them all. Hence, during the Ramadan, I was gifted with the privilege of their quality control.

She tried to teach me how to pray five times a day because I was so curious to learn. I would watch her sit on her small carpet, bend back and forth, utter words that I was unable to understand and feel as if she had access to some sort of mystery I wasn’t part of. She would cover her head with a long scarf, wear her special clothes and house shoes. I was so curious to learn all of it. After a few attempts though my enthusiasm turned into disappointment. First of all nothing in that unspeakable language gave me any connection with the mystery I imagined and second I couldn’t coordinate the body movements with the prayers. It was too complicated and without the feelings it was plain boring. I stopped trying and she never insisted. My grandma never insisted on anything; she would say one thing once or twice and then leave it there.

The Ramadans were followed by our “Bayrams”, a few days of celebration to mark the end of the Holy Month. Those days were a giant feast. All families would cook, eat, drink and invite friends and other family members for dinners, lunches, breakfasts as if they wanted to cover up for all the food they didn’t eat during the previous month.

Those were the days of my grandma’s grand tables. There would be so many diverse dishes that it was almost impossible to fit them all on the table; we had to take turns. Finish one dish, make space on the table, bring the next one. On and on would it continue for hours and hours. This whole festivity was accompanied by our most favorite Raki. We all loved it and drank it in various ways. Some of us liked to mix it with water, some with both water and ice, some without anything and some in two separate glasses; one for the water and one for the drink. Ten or twelve of us would be around the table, happily eating, cheering with the full Raki glasses and emptying one bottle after the other. My grandma was the queen; of our table and our home.

At those tables she would always tell us once she is gone, she wanted all of us to remember her this way. Eating, drinking and celebrating this beautiful life because it is the most precious gift we all have. She would tell us to continue our celebration at her grave, don’t shed tears and feel peaceceful that she lived her life exactly the way she wanted. A life full of life.

We continued her legacy. My mom set those tables, my aunts set those tables and I set those tables. We ate and drank and celebrated her and the precious life that we all share. I have never learned the Bosniak dishes, maybe because I secretly feared that mine would never be as delicious as hers. I wanted to keep the memory of the taste she offered instead of the possible disappointment mine would have.

I have more tables to set for you grandma, I am not done. I don’t have your prayers, I have my own. I know that you listen to them carefully from where you are. I know you know how much I miss you with all your controversies. You will always be the queen of our tables and our home.