Ingrid Ascencio walks down an aisle of spices in Nayab Market on Chicago’s Devon Avenue. The wall is lined with large packets of green, orange and brown powders. She runs her hand along the printed label of a bag -- its contents fiery red. “I wish they would write this in English instead of just Urdu,” she says. “I don’t know if it’s paprika or chili powder.”
Raised in Mexico, Ingrid, 31, is married to a Muslim, Pakistani man. She grew up Catholic and converted to Islam in 2001. He proposed to her the same day she changed her faith. They are different in many ways, Ingrid says, but they share one fundamental trait: their faith.
“We believe our marriage has worked because we have the same base in Islam,” Ingrid says. “We will not argue, ‘This is the Mexican way, this is the Pakistani way.’”
With religion as their relationship’s foundation, Ingrid and Mohammad’s cultures blend seamlessly.
In her kitchen Ingrid reaches with her right hand into the cupboard beside her. She grabs a large Mason jar filled with cumin seeds and adds it to her onions, sautéing in a thick cast-iron skillet. Next comes turmeric, garlic and ginger. The aroma of garlic drifts out of the pot, cumin follows. In a matter of seconds a scent all its own fills the air.
“The spices in Mexico are very similar to the Pakistani spices,” Ingrid says. “We just have different ways of using them.” Ingrid’s mother-in-law is teaching her how to cook Pakistani style. Sometimes Ingrid’s dishes are a hit -- the family loves her Aloo Keema, a mixture of ground meat and potatoes. Others are a miss. Her biryani, a meat and vegetable dish layered with basmati rice, was so badly ruined her mother-in-law had to come to her rescue and remake the dish.
“It takes you a blink of an eye to mess up a recipe like that,” says Ingrid who watches the Food Network often to get ideas, but relies on her mother-in-law for tips and advice. Ingrid, a former aerospace engineer with a master’s degree in biomedical engineering from Texas A&M University, is more confident with her kitchen skills every day. But there are still nights she questions her talent. She knows with time and practice she will get it right.
But pleasing an unfamiliar palate is not the only thing Ingrid has struggled with.
Born in the border state of Tamaulipas, Mexico, Ingrid attended church regularly and led religious youth groups. But some of Catholicism’s basic principles didn’t sit right with her. “At the end of the day, it all boiled down to the Trinity -- and I never believed in that,” Ingrid says. “In my head when I had a really bad problem -- like when I would pray -- I would not see Jesus. I would be talking right to the Creator.” In Ingrid’s eyes there was always just one God.In 2001 Ingrid met Mohammad, her future husband, who was also an aerospace engineer, while at Texas A&M. “I met him and my priorities changed,” she says. But at the time she was barely familiar with the concept of Islam. “[When] I met my husband, he said, ‘I am a Muslim.’ And I said, ‘Oh cool, I am Mexican.’ And he said, ‘No, sweetie, it’s not a country, it’s a religion.’”
Ingrid became curious about the faith. She liked Islam because unlike in Catholicism -- where she felt everything boiled down to blind faith -- Mohammad was not afraid to admit when he didn’t know the answer to her questions about Islam. “I had had never had that happen in a discussion about religion,” she says, “I admired that.”Ingrid decided to convert. She had found in Islam all the things Christianity lacked -- among them was Allah.
At 5 p.m. on Sept. 8, 2001 Ingrid took her
Shahada -- a testimony of the Muslim faith. Sixty three hours later, American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the World Trade Center’s North Tower in New York. For Ingrid, this was a test. She believed God was asking her:
What are the choices you are going to make, even if they are not what society says is right?
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To prepare the skillet in which she will sauté cumin and garlic for her lentils, Ingrid gets eye level with the stove’s burner. She strikes a match and timidly places it close to the gas, where it ignites into a small flame. She always does this with the greatest of care -- her mother was once badly burned while lighting a boiler’s pilot light.
But Ingrid knows firsthand bad friends can burn you worse than fire.
While Ingrid says she converted to Islam for herself -- not her husband -- many of her friends thought otherwise.
“[They] assumed I was brainwashed,” Ingrid says. “They thought Islamic men were wife beaters and that I was being oppressed.” One friend told her: I would rather be beaten by a Mexican than a Muslim. “I just wanted to shake her when she said that,” Ingrid says, “she was so nationalistic.” Islam became a filter -- who could see beyond her hijab?
Now married, Ingrid moved from Houston to Cincinnati and finally to Chicago where her husband’s family lives.
Returning home from a midday grocery run, Ingrid reaches to the left side of her jaw and unhooks a blue pin that secures a navy headscarf. With her right hand she unravels the fabric that frames her perfectly round, pale face. Beneath that is a black cotton tube that smoothes her hair into the nape of her neck. She gathers it into a loose bun and ties a red-and-white-striped apron around her petite waist. Inside the privacy of her own home and in the company of her family she is not required to wear the hijab.
As she begins to prepare lentils and a version of Aloo Keema -- with ground chicken and peas – Ingrid talks about her decision to stop working and stay at home. Three months ago, she left her job as an aerospace engineer. Now she fills her days cooking for her family, learning about the Quran at Chicago’s Almagrib Institute and translating literature about Islam into Spanish with a group of friends.
“There was no time to [cook] before,” says Ingrid whose daily commute totaled three hours, on top of a sometimes 12-hour workday. “I was getting physically sick. That’s why I stopped. It doesn’t make sense anymore when you’re that stressed.”
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Ingrid looks down into her pot of Aloo Keema. “There is too much water,” she chastises herself. She lets the liquid boil until there is none left. The balance has been restored.
Moving over to her lentils, Ingrid opens a different cupboard and pulls out a spice she doesn’t keep with the others – caldo de pollo, a Mexican chicken bouillon. “My mother-in-law doesn’t know I use it,” she says with a smile as she adds it to the soup. Her roots blend into the simmering broth. She opens the refrigerator to retrieve a handful of cilantro. Anytime she can work the herb into her food makes her feel more at home.
At her weekly book club Ingrid and her other Latina, Muslim friends discuss books about Islam that have been translated into English and Spanish. Right now they are reading Don’t Be Sad, a traditional guide on living a happy life as a Muslim. “[It’s like] a support group,” Ingrid says, “You can relate with people going through similar stages.” Ingrid believes that especially because hers is an interracial marriage, it is important that she and her husband can have a dialogue about their faith. “He gets it from Mars and I get it from Venus,” she jokes. “I have seen problems when a woman doesn’t take the initiative herself and instead relies on her husband.”
Ingrid also plans to take classes a few times a week with a private tutor to learn Arabic. She wants to read the Quran as it was first written.
Ingrid piles heaps of salad, rice, lentils and meat onto a plate. She tops off the dish with a dollop of plain yogurt -- in Mexico a dessert, but in Pakistani food a savory condiment. It has taken her hours to prepare the meal, she says, and the lentils are not the right consistency. But as with her faith, cooking is something that takes time, patience and willingness to learn. “It’s more about the journey than the destination,” she says. After the meal is over, Ingrid returns to the kitchen to make a customary black tea with milk that finishes many Pakistani meals. “I’m not sure if I’ll do it right,” Ingrid worries. Her mother- or sister-in-law usually prepares it. Minutes later, Ingrid’s sister-in-law, Amna, comes home.
“You’re just in time, you can help me,” Ingrid says. “How many spoonfuls of tea for three cups of water?” she asks.
“Three,” Amna replies confidently, removing her jacket.
Back at the table spoonfuls of honey are dunked into the hot, milky tea. The women sit across from one another, chatting about food, family and why Pakistanis drink tea when most Indians do not. “We have a saying in Pakistan,” Amna says, “that by the third cup of tea [with someone] you’ll be best friends.” They’ve drunk only one cup today, but it’s obvious they don’t need the other two.