I swallow hard, peering through the plastic bag, and my heart feels full of the kindness that no longer tastes strange.
Earthy Brown
I left a bowlof ph? tái for Baba warm on the stove before I went to bed. Chef Vuong so graciously wrote down the names of the dishes and what they were on each food container. The flavor strangely reminded me of the yalanji Mama used to make. The taste isn’t anywhere near the same, but something about the dish itself feels like home.
When I wake up the next day, the noodle soup is still on the stove, but it’s half eaten, which makes me smile. The bedroom door is open, meaning Baba left early.
After that dinner at Chef Vuong’s, I’ve started thinking more about food, the dishes Mama used to make. Creating a Syria in New York. I think Jamie has the same thought to cook as well because a few days later during our lunch in the art studio, he comes with two pieces of Tupperware filled with food.
“I made stir-fry last night.” He proudly presents it to me where we’re sitting in our usual place at the back of the classroom. “Try it.”
I stare at the assortment of vegetables in their bright colors and the shiny pink shrimp laid expertly over white rice.
“This is a long way from your sad chicken breast. I’m impressed.”
He laughs and pushes one of the Tupperware pieces toward me. “Yeah, and I made a lot. An entire tub, actually. I can’t finish it on my own, so please help.”
I stare at him, something gnawing at my insides. “Are you feeding me?”
He rolls his eyes. “What? I can’t feed you?”
I poke my tongue against my cheek. He holds my gaze with a determined expression, as if daring me to argue.
I know what he’s doing, and the bruised part of my soul starts weeping. He’s rubbing a healing balm over the wound that’s been ripped open for ages now. I think about the times I was at Alexis’s house, with her salads and breads.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He relaxes, his happy smile coming back. “Thankyou.”
It doesn’t make sense why he’s thanking me, but I don’t say anything and take the stir-fry.
My appetite has been slowly coming back. But now Jamie is making food for me as well, I want to return the favor. I think I want to recreate the memories I’d almost forgotten. I want tomakesomething. So I ask Baba if I can do the grocery shopping, and he gives me some money. I go to the store we always go to, beside our apartment building, and walking through the aisles fills me with a sudden rush of nostalgia about when Amal and I would come here with Mama. I get what I need and visit the halal butcher for some chicken and meat.
On Sunday, when the world is still caught in the darkness of sleep, I pad toward the kitchen and take out Mama’s recipe book she put in the drawer beside the utensils. Her beautiful handwriting greets me, and I can’t help the smile on my lips.
She told me these recipes were her mother’s. Leafing through, I settle on making keshk, a yogurt-based breakfast soup we eat in Syria during the winter. And now with the cold weather, I think Jamie would like it.
Baba hears me working in the kitchen and shuffles toward me, his eyes wide, but when he sees me, they dim a fraction.
“All good?” he asks, and I nod.
It doesn’t take long to be done, and I tear pieces of pita bread into two bowls before pouring the steamy soup over them. I inhale the sour yogurt mixed with the fried garlic, and it warms me to my toes and my stomach grumbles.
I go for seconds and thirds. Even Baba eats two bowls.
The next day, I bring it in a Tupperware for Jamie during lunch, my heart in my throat.
He stares at the Tupperware, lips parted before glancing up at me. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know if you’ve ever had Syrian food before,” I say hesitantly, and he shakes his head. “Mom used to make this for us for breakfast during the winter.” I take out a bag of pita bread and tell him how to prepare it.
“You’re remembering,” he says with wonder.
I can’t help the smile in my voice. “It felt like she was with me.”
Tuesday morning before I go to school, he sends me a picture of a red bowl filled to the brim with keshk.
Jamie:I’m obsessed.
