Erin E. Moulton

I made Mrs. Abalon Haddad’s Ghorabie the day I got my Covid shot. That was waaaay back in April. And then life got crazy… Since then, great Aunt Maggie passed away, our smaller dog injured his second ACL of he pandemic, I finished my board certification portfolio for genealogy, and the kid ended school and started a crazy summer schedule. That was on top of the regularly scheduled programming. I made these slow baked cookies on an early, spring day, and the research, just like the cookies, took some time. And reminded me I don’t have it tough, not even with the curveballs, not even a little.

The Recipe

This recipe comes from the International Institute Cookbook (1938 edition) out of Lawrence, Massachusetts. I found it at the Lawrence History Center, an archive I’m rather fond of. I was really excited about this cookbook because it reflects Lawrence’s diverse background. Known as Immigrant City, Lawrence has a rich history of exciting food and culture. I’d never heard of Ghorabie, which was tucked in the “Syrian” section of this small collection. Check it.

I began by blanching the almonds. Have you ever blanched almonds? It was new to me, though I’d blanched other things. I found the whole experience satisfying. Straight from the plunkplokplunk as they spilled into boiling water to the ease with which the skins came off.

I pulled the other ingredients together quickly, piling in portions of flour and sugar to warm melted butter, just as suggested by Mrs. Haddad. With a quarter of a cup of dry ingredients still in the bowl, the dough seemed to be coming together well and I began to worry that if I kept adding it would get too dry. I stopped and I scooped one tablespoon into the palm of my hand, rolled it into a ball and pressed it flat.

I repeated 12 times and then stuck those cookies into the 250F degree oven. I sat down and wondered how long I would have to leave them in. I’ve never baked a cookie at 250F. That seemed rather low. About 10 minutes later, I snuck a peek only to see them flattening, stretching and oozing melted butter toward the center of the pan, making a small wading pool of fry-fat for the middle cookie. In theory, it sounds lovely to have a fried cookie, but in reality, it was already split and ruined.

I grabbed the lid of a mason jar and carefully swirled the remaining ones back into position, determined to salvage their circular shapes. I needed to do this a few times throughout the process.

She said “do not let them brown,” and I am all for trying, so I reshaped them one last time and took them out after about 30 minutes. They were together. They were circular. They were pale.

I’ll admit my expectations were fairly low.

The cookies looked…well, plain. So much so, that for the second batch I added a little dark chocolate and apricots into the center just to jazz things up a bit. If you have this same urge, stop yourself. I should have listened to Mrs. Haddad. In fact, the cookies were delightfully chewy, but tasted like shortbread–pull apart buttery goodness–and the blanched almond at center delivered a lovely pop. They were fine and simple.

It took no time for the news of their arrival to reach the other rooms in the house, and they were enjoyed by all present. I hoarded one (or more) to have with a cappuccino and have zero regrets.

With cookie in hand I headed to the archives (this is a phrase I hope to always be able to say).

Mrs. Abalon Haddad

Mrs. Haddad was born Annie Skeirik/Squeirig abt. 1887 in Qob Elias Lebanon. She came to America at the turn of the century and lived with her brother, Mike, at 308 Elm Street in Lawrence, Massachusetts. During this time, the pull to come to America would likely have been in the form of job prospects. Flyers were sent abroad, proclaiming ample work opportunity in the New World. Immigrants, from what was then known as Syria, would heed the call only to arrive and find work in factories and housing in tenements. Lawrence and Worcester, Massachusetts, were both early magnets for immigration since they had large factories as well as immigrant communities. People would settle, find work and then send back money for passage for other family members. In Lawrence, a variety of cultural groups clustered in various areas of the city, and where Annie lived– on Elm, and later Oak Street– was dubbed “Little Syria.” The map below, circa 1910, shows some nationalities that were represented in Lawrence at the time.

“Little Syria” was a part of town where Annie could have spoken in her native tongue and perhaps felt at home despite the tight/horrible living conditions. There was a Syrian newspaper that circulated that may have been an interesting read for Annie. The paper was called Al -Wafa, which I believe means The Faithful.

This area was occupied mostly by immigrant families working in textile factories. Annie was surrounded by fillers, lasters, weavers and washers. The factory work, at the time, was extremely dangerous. Not only were the workers in tight quarters, but the environments were dark, dusty and damp. Given the conditions, when a virus struck, it would run rampant, leading to early deaths of vast amounts of employees. While I didn’t locate evidence of Annie working in factories, herself, it’s hard to imagine life at home being any better.

The pictures below show Annie’s neighborhood on Elm Street just prior to the buildings’ destruction during the Urban Renewal Project of 1957-1977. Annie would have been among these buildings when they were closer to their original construction date, but despite the exterior perhaps looking more welcoming, the fact remains that they were always bursting at the gills and quickly deteriorated.

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Neighbors were practically on top of one another and if one section of the building became ill, just like in the factories, the other would soon follow. This was termed “huddle fever” and Annie was right in the middle of it as she grew into a young woman, got married, became pregnant and had children.

Speaking of marriage, in 1908, Annie married Abalon Haddad. Abalon was an operator at the woolen mills and was also from Qob Elias. Abalon worked in the mills his entire life. Both Annie and Abalon would have witnessed, first hand–and perhaps been part of –the Bread and Roses Strike of 1912. Annie had her first child, Habeeb, by this point and the actions and results of the strike, likely, impacted her. The textile workers (primarily immigrant workers) took to the streets to demand a living wage and food options that weren’t overpriced. A call to action echoed around Lawrence and beyond….

Workers, quit your hammers, throw down your files, let the dynamos stop, the power cease to turn the wheels and the looms, leave the machinery, bank the fires, shut the steam off, stop the engines on the tracks, tie up the plants, tie up the town.

“A Call For Action,” Political Poster, Lawrence, Massachusetts, 1912; digital images, “Bread and Roses Strike of 1912: 2 Months in Lawrence, Massachusetts that Changed Labor History,” Digital Public Library of America; citing Lawrence History Center

The progress was not instantaneous, much violence ensued, militia were called in, lives were lost, but on 12 March 1912, the American Woolen Company agreed to most of the striker’s demands. This created a wave of similar responses from various textile companies throughout New England trying to avoid similar upheaval.

Within the next few years, Annie had two more children, Nellie and Rachel. They were born while Annie and Abalon lived between Oak and Elm Street.

On the 2^nd Day of September 1916, Annie and Abalon became naturalized citizens, Abalon swearing his oath in Superior Court in Salem, Massachusetts. At that time, Annie would not have had to do a separate naturalization; she was recorded on his.

By 1920, Annie and Abalon were living with Abalon’s brother on Elm Street. It would have been massively tight quarters with 4 adults and 4 children, total. But just a few years later, they had evidently purchased a home on Bennington Street. Modest as it may be, it was a house that Annie lived in for the remainder of her life – and just like before—shared with relatives. In 1930, Abalon and Annie also housed Annie’s mother, Sadie Squeriq and Annie’s cousin, Daher Hajjar.

By 1940, Annie’s children had grown, but only Nellie had left house. Rachel and Herbert, as well as his wife Sue and son Herbert Jr, were still residing at 5 Bennington. Abalon still worked as a specker at the woolen mill, while Sue worked as a doffer (removing bobbins). Herbert worked as a laborer on the WPA project (Works Progress Administration — part of Roosevelt’s New Deal).

Sadly, In 1951, Abalon passed away. Annie, on the other hand, lived a long life. I was so very curious about what Annie’s interests may have been. I never saw any evidence of paid work or career. Perhaps she was so busy surviving and caring for her children and family that she never had time for much else. Perhaps, also, there were some notes about her life in Al-Wafa that I simply cannot read due to the language barrier. Yet, I had hoped to find out a bit more.

Sometimes obituaries have a more personal touch.

I reached out the Lawrence Public Library to see if they could pull her obit for me. They have the Lawrence Eagle Tribune on microfilm, and the reference librarian successfully located it. I had been hoping that the obituary would expound on some of her personal loves or interests, note whether she was involved with local groups like the United Syrian Charitable Society or others– but it stuck to the facts.

I do typically like to get from beginning to end with something more. So, still in search, having had no luck at obtaining her death certificate, I decided I would stop by the United Lebanese Cemetery, also known as the Syrian Cemetery, in Andover. Why? I knew Annie’s sister had been buried there and thought she may have ended up there, too. I just wanted to lay eyes on her headstone. To find a sense of closure in her story. Of course, I tried to call ahead, but this is a small cemetery and I had no luck finding anyone in the office. Why not stop by, I thought.

Wandering in cemeteries is one of my things, but so is getting lost in them, so I try not to do this too often unless I know for a fact someone is there.

The United Lebanese Cemetery, stretches for a short distance on two sides of the road, and as I pulled up, I saw some women caring for stones on my left. I almost parked with their cars, but then thought maybe I’d pull up the hill, for no particular reason except it would require less human interaction. As I drove up under a shady tree, I spotted HADDAD carved across the nearest gravestone. Haddad in a Lebanese cemetery seems a bit like a Smith in an English one, so I tried not to get my hopes up. I went to the first row and walked it, attempting to be systematic in my searching.

Right away, I ran into Annie’s brother, Jibran Skeirik. Encouraged, I continued. It was a very peaceful cemetery on a delightfully quiet road on an extremely moderate day. The sun filtered down through a few scattered trees and a wide variety of bird life tittered above as I looped my way from row to row. About 4 rows in, I came back across the Haddad stone. Tucked in the grass just next to it was a smaller one I hadn’t spotted on the ride in: Abalon. I hurried to the other side and sure enough, I found who I was looking for.

There you are, Annie, I found myself saying.

After months of trying to locate some bit of information about her, I thought this was likely as close as I would come.

In fact, upon reflection, I wonder if perhaps the avenue through food was the most personal I got. I don’t know if she liked birds or knitting, books or trinkets. But there are a few things I do know. I know she could blanch almonds and was familiar with the smell of butter and sugar. And as evidenced by her contributions in the International Institute Cookbook, she could pull together a fig conserve and other traditional Lebanese recipes.

And yet, I’m left with more questions than answers. I want to know if she ever worked in the mills when she first arrived in Lawrence. I wonder what she remembered of Qob Elias and what she remembered of the Bread and Roses Strike. I’d ask her if she had time for dreams and what they were–and if she had seen them fulfilled. I’d ask her if she’d had enough food and if she’d cooked her way through difficult times.

I’d ask her so many other questions. Ideally on a moderate day. Coffee in one hand and Ghorabie in the other.

What would you ask Annie if you had the chance?

This research and location of this recipe would not have been possible without the amazing help of the Lawrence History Center and Lawrence Public Library staff. They aided me in all ways on this post and any errors are, of course, my own.

If you try Mrs. Annie Haddad’s Ghorabie, I’d love to see a picture. Tag me on Instagram: erinemoulton and #soulspunkitchen