A Big Cook and Taste of Afghanistan

by Clint Keels

Travelers Rest in South Carolina extends a big handshake for those hunting social engagement, entertainment, and much more. The farmer’s market held in one of the town’s cornerstone spaces, Trailblazer Park, is put together with just that in mind. It’s an inviting, well-used tract of dirt. Bright and colorful sidewalk murals artfully remind observers of the detriment pollution can push through waterways, like the Reedy River (one of the filthiest rivers in the region).

A community garden plot encourages nearby and willing residents to break a sweat with an involved sense of communal labor and then enjoy its fruits. Growers and makers from around the upstate and beyond begin organizing the first week of May each year in and around these covered and open-air spaces providing visitors with unique wares and regional harvests. That first Saturday in May, my family and I were part of that convened mass when market coordinator Maranda Williams approached me with an unexpected opportunity.

Williams and a dedicated team of facilitators tend to outdo themselves each year with new features and additions. Whether it’s acquiring new vendors, enlisting a variety of musicians, or creating fun and engaging themes for attendees to experience while cruising the options, their efforts at sustaining a memorable market experience are easily noticed and tastefully done. One of those concepts recurring weekly is the Market Cooks space. Market Cooks provides an individual or group the opportunity to prepare and share something special with coming and going guests. 

The landscape for it is as wide or narrow as the vision of the participant. When Williams approached me that morning about coming out one Saturday to give it a try, I immediately obliged her request without fully knowing what I’d find myself in. Cooking for folks is a beloved hobby of mine and something I am good at. However, I have zero knowledge of anything remotely service industry-related or about customer service. Figuring how I’d bring it up to scale didn’t register until well after my “yes” and a small leak of intimidation started creeping into my head.

A month slipped passed me with still no idea of what I’d do. Two more weeks passed with nothing coming to mind. A whole pig would be a “no” for something like this considering the time, space, and logistics. I thought of doing tomato pies surfaced for a taste of old-school Timmonsville up here in the foothills, but that wasn’t going to happen either. Our tomato plants were just beginning to push out the tiny, visible fruits from the bottom of their blooms. The distance between a decision and myself was closing and I needed to squeeze the trigger. Then, one night at the table with my girls, I landed on mantu.

I became acquainted with this simple, hearty dumpling-style dish going back and forth between home and Afghanistan for nearly four years. Crisscrossing all regions of the country during my trips, I developed a love for the preparation, the taste, and fellowship when the opportunity to learn the dish came along in Kandahar. The following day, I messaged Williams with the idea and then got to work lining out what the process of preparing close to one hundred samples for market visitors would look like.

Travel has certainly expanded my love for food and has given me a tangible way to take some of the pieces of these places with me when I leave them. Even if it ignites a random moment of thought detached from the experience of physically being there, it is an open channel when I need it to be.  Bringing recipes like mantu home to my family and loved ones helps to preserve a wide bank of invaluable memories. Observing and living with other cultures is the big needle on my compass. I put effort into letting it guide me through the human experience of living and feeling.

The Friday night prior to the market in our home kitchen, I obsessed over the portion sizes, focused on the uniformity of folds and pinches on each individual meat pillow while drinking a few beers. My own quasi-laboratory of real-time R&D for a large crowd food prep was in full swing powered by the sounds of Judas Priest and Blue Oyster Cult. Each tiny dumpling was stuffed with a beef and lamb mixture spiced with lemon zest, fresh garlic, pepper, freshly chopped parsley, and a dash of salt. A traditional rendering of washed chickpeas stewed down in oil, onions, coriander, tomato, and salt cooked low through the evening. This process weaves a deep and rich flavor as a complement to the dumpling. 

The third, final, and personal favorite palate dancer is a concoction of thinned yogurt. Combining a slurry of garlic with tons of fresh chopped mint, pepper, salt, lemon zest, and a little water to thin it out creates a unique flavor tying the dish together with a drizzle over them. In a cheating fashion, I have found using a microplane to break down the raw garlic cloves instead of a fine chop by knife is a time saver while also lending a more pleasing texture. It incorporates better, too.

I treated that Saturday morning like I was going to work. I got up early, did my morning thing around the house then went to town. By 7:30, vendors were dragging up coolers, arranging products, and preparing to greet the slam of morning guests. It was cool to take a peek at what goes into making the wheel turn. It’s certainly more than I imagined. Shortly after 9:00, I had my first samples coming out of the steamer and onto sample plates. My wife and child arrived about 30 minutes before that to help arrange a display of the origins of the dish and a few pictures. My Mama and Stepdad even drove up to hang out and then shopped around the vendors for themselves. I found my stroke by the third round and finally began to engage inquiring folks about the lovely cuisine and culture of a place that I possess a very complex, yet abundant love for. 

The last sample of mantu was gone a little before 11:00 that morning. Shoppers came and went while some even circled back to converse again. Market Cooks was a cool way to share with my community what’s typically publicized as just some inconvenient war, a side to pick to signal your side, or a question mark of sorts in the mainstream American conversation. 

It was a platform offering an opportunity to bring home a different shard of a shadowed culture. After all, I’d consider it quite the foolish act not bringing these elements home to secure posterity for my own as mine did for me with rites like cooking hogs and frying seafood. Food has a way to transcend general gripes, differences, and barriers of entry – it opens us up, often speaking the words we can not but the ones that we do understand. Maybe it’s the calming of the primal parts in our heads, something affirming that calories will soon be processed while slowing one of our many need drives. Whatever it is, I tend to free myself up, be better as a person, and listen a whole lot more when food is involved.

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Clint Keels served an enlistment in the United States Army with 3rd Battalion 15th Infantry. After completing a 13-month deployment as a machine gunner/rifleman in 2005 to Sadr City, Iraq, he honorably separated from service. Upon ETS’ing he traveled the U.S. and worked a myriad of jobs for six years before taking up employment as a contractor until 2022. He enjoys running, spending time in the woods and on the water with his family, cooking, and writing. He resides somewhere near the mountains of South Carolina.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.