For a while, we don’t say anything. Just letting the ph? melt the cold that clung to us. I haven’t had a proper meal like this in ages. I’vebeen surviving for so long off za’atar and cheese sandwiches, I’ve forgotten what a real meal is.
I’ve been hungry for so long, and I haven’t noticed. It unlocks memories I’ve hidden away. Cooking and baking with Mama, her holding my fingers as we traced the handwritten recipes in her cookbook. Tears brim in my eyes, and I start crying right into the ph?.
“What happened?” Jamie says in alarm. He drops the chopsticks and spoon, reaching for me before taking his hands back. “Jihad?”
I don’t answer, just shoving more of the broth and the noodles into my mouth, not caring how it burns my tongue and throat. I eat until every part of me sags with relief.
Jamie watches me for a while before going back to his bowl.
I cry silently, trying not to dribble the broth onto my clothes, and Jamie pushes the napkins on the table toward me. I take them, spreading one over my lap and using another as a bib. I keep crying, but the tears slowly stop as I get fuller.
Afterward, when the bowl is wiped clean, no drop of broth left, I hiccup and dry my tears.
“Are you okay now?” Jamie asks.
I nod. “This was so delicious,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
He takes in a shaky breath and closes his eyes for a second. “I’m glad you liked it. Do you want more?”
I shake my head. My stomach has ballooned up.
“Try the bánh cu?n.” He picks one up with the chopsticks and places it on the empty plate beside me before drizzling a sauce on it. “It’s really good with nu?c ch?m. It’s fish sauce.”
I take a bite, and it’s a burst of flavor. It’s not heavy, which is a blessing for my already filled stomach. I eat one more and then one of the bánh xèo Jamie nudges toward me.
“I’m full.” With my stomach satisfied, my tears have all gone. The world around me looks laxer, the colors sweeter and hazy as if I’m waking up on a quiet Saturday morning.
Jamie doesn’t push me to eat more. “Good. I still think about that zucchini lunch you got first day of school.”
“Oh, mehshi. Literal translation is ‘stuffed.’” I laugh a little at how funny that sounds to my ears.
He grins. “So you stuff zucchini with rice and meat, right?”
I nod. “Potatoes and eggplants too. Even tomatoes. It can also be vegetarian.” I smile, remembering how Mama taught me to use the vegetable corer to remove the zucchini’s insides. “I used to cook a lot with my mom.” I blink, gazing far away. “How did I forget that?”
Jamie leans forward.
“It’s grief,” I say slowly, feeling the ripples of that word along my body. “She made this huge breakfast every weekend, and Amal and I used to help. She baked everything from scratch and taught me how to create the perfect fatayer shape.”
Jamie looks at me questioningly.
“They’re savory pastries. For Eid, we made atayef, little Syrian pancakes filled with pistachio and cream.” I press my hands to my cheeks. “I can’t believe I forgot that.”
“Not entirely,” he says gently.
I smile. “What about you? Did you cook with your Bà Ngo?i?”
He nods. “Oh, yes. It was one of the ways she felt close to Vietnam. I’m guessing it was the same with your mom.” I nod, and he continues, “She loved making this one noodle soup from her childhood called bún cá, which is fish noodle soup. Her mom came from Hanoi, and she made it that way. It’s amazing, but there are some local ingredients that were difficult to find here. Like this plant called doc mung, so we have to substitute celery.”
“Oh, same here. Sometimes we can’t get the good brand of labneh, which is strained yogurt, so we make it ourselves by literally straining yogurt.”
He smiles, a deep look in his eyes. “There’s something about cooking food your great-grandparents and ancestors cooked, and everytime, it’s slightly different, but it’s still the same dish. Like it connects you to them. Things change around you, but the food is there.”
I mull over his words. “Makes you feel less alone.”
He nods.
From where he’s sitting, the afternoon sun peeking in slivers through the alleyway paints him in gold. I really like how brown his eyes are. A color that exists only in certain places on earth. The velvety texture of the soil, the flecks in a supernova, crystallized ambers. But when the light hits them, they become the sun itself.
