There are Rivers in the Sky
Elif Shafak
“Sitting under a tree whose pomegranates droop ripe and rubicund above their heads, after a stroll through the souks in the medina, they look carelessly happy, spent and sunburnt.” p. 187
“The old woman has been frantically preparing food for the road. This morning she stuffed vine leaves with rice, spices and currants, and now she making borek—crispy pastry filled with spinach and feta cheese.” p. 234
“Ushered to the sheikh’s house, they are first offered goat’s milk and dried figs, and then a sumptuous dinner of rice with pomegranate syrup, chicken biryani, date cake and kubba Mosul, a rich meat pie made of bulgur dough, stuffed with ground lamb, pine nuts and almonds.” p. 294
“In honor of the guests, breakfast is a feast today: fried green peppers with yogurt sauce, sour-cherry jam, sweet-chili marmalade, glazed halloumi and dried figs, bulgur-stuffed aubergines with tamarind, currants and pine nuts, pistachio tahini halva, hummus with flatbread, scrambled eggs with red pepper, cheese with wild garlic, and the first batch of honey from the beehive, topped with clotted cream…” p. 131
“Baba ghanoush, tabbouleh, falafel, pita chips, rice and lentils. She has used paper plates and wooden spoons, recycled and biodegradable, instead of proper ones, knowing that Nen won’t mind.” p. 368
“The Thames—’Tamesis,’ ‘Tess,’ ‘Tamara,’ ‘the dark one’—though once famous for its fresh water and fine salmon, nowadays runs a dirty, murky brown.” p. 19
“Uncle Malek’s eyebrows shoot up but he says nothing—until he takes a gulp of wine.” p. 301
“Stacked inside are gingerbread biscuits shaped like miniature Mesopotamian tablets, each marked with a different sign in cuneiform.” p. 251
“Not knowing how to respond to that, Zaleekhah takes a quick sip of her coffee. Strong and rich but not bitter, with a hint of something she can’t immediately identify.
‘Lavender,” says New, watching her reaction. “We put dried lavender flowers in our coffee. Balances out the caffiene, make you calmly awake.’” p. 222
“Inside, arranged in perfect lines, are pink jellied cubes, dusted with sugar.
Arthur’s eyes grow wide. ‘What is it, sir?’
‘They are lumps of delight,” Dickens replies with a lightness that belies his expression. ‘Brough over from Ottoman lands—a delicacy cherished by the rich and not so rich alike. Come on, try one.’” p. 163
