My mother was a wonderful mom, a beautiful and compassionate person, but, honestly, she was not the best of cooks. It wasn't for a want of trying. There was never a night or a Sunday afternoon when she didn’t put a home cooked meal on the table in spite of working every day.
Granted, she could have taken lessons from her sister, my Aunt Ginny, when it came to making meatballs. My mother’s were small and hard and made a loud thud if they fell on the floor. Aunt Ginny’s were robust and tender, full of spices and home made bread crumbs.
I chose to model my meatballs after my aunt’s. But I learned from my mom how to make some of my favorite Syrian food: riz and lubee (rice and green beans), mamool (dough stuffed with chopped nuts and sugar), and pita bread.
I loved the days when she made bread. The anticipation of warm round loaves coming out of the oven, of pulling off a piece and spreading the inside with real butter and then having a good strong cup of tea was heavenly. But I didn’t realize how much work went into the bread making until I went through the whole process by myself as a young married woman -- the kneading, the rolling, the waiting.
But the experience was a lesson that helped me see the truth in a lovely quote by writer Ursula K. Le Guin: "Love doesn't sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all of the time, made new."
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