Excerpt from “Rebirth”
As the gentle breath of spring wafts through the air, the household hums with purposeful activity. My mother, an expert in organization, embarks on her ritual of crafting labneh and yogurt for the upcoming week.
She instructs me to get the cheesecloth
As the soft and porous cheesecloth envelops the freshly dampened ingredients in its gentle hold, it transforms into a graceful dancer, twirling and swaying in my mother’s hands. With a delicate yet purposeful twist and a firm squeeze, the excess liquid yields to the cloth’s pressure, trickling down into a wooden bow. Each movement is a meticulously choreographed performance, a perfectly synchronized pas de deux between the fabric and her hands.
On wringing out the excess liquid with cheesecloth, a task I struggle with until her firm yet gentle hands guide me through the process.
I ask,
Mama, why are your hands so strong?
She replies flatly
From making labneh.
Spring, my grandmother orchestrates her symphony of seasonal bounty, carefully plucking pearls of ripe blackberries and grapes. Her hands, etched with the earthy residue of cracked walnuts, work tirelessly, a testament to her unwavering commitment to her land.
The cows bask in the warming embrace of the sun, and milk makes its way to our breakfast table.
Amidst this flurry of activity, my uncle deftly cracks a few eggs into a sizzling pan, filling the air with an enticing aroma. My cousin, two years older than me, attempts to make some Arabic coffee.
In a copper dallah, memories of centuries past mingle with the aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans. She measures the perfect blend of ground coffee (with a pinch of cardamom, as my mother taught us). Gently, she adds water, careful not to overflow the dallah.
Over the dancing flames, the dallah hums a melody of anticipation as steam rises like incense in homage to the ancient ritual.
Patiently, the brew simmers, infusing the air with its rich perfume, a blend of spices and history.
(You can taste it if the coffee is made in a rush. Be patient, let it simmer.)
Finally, she pours it into delicate cups and returns a copper tray to the table.
Meanwhile, my aunt playfully teases about the coffee’s bitterness, her hands deftly selecting vibrant cucumbers to accompany the fried eggs.
My grandmother opens a jar of olives that she has been pickling for a few weeks. She pours fresh olive oil into a bowl and adds some Palestinian zaatar my mother brought from Beirut. Then, my father offers me a taste of it from his hand and says, ‘خدي هيدي اللقمة من ايدي.’
It’s spring,
and my mother brews a pot of coffee, salvaging the burnt one from earlier. I watch her elegantly hold the small cup, asking if I could try a sip.
She offers hot chocolate instead, and we join my aunts for coffee before they embark on their chores. They flip over their cups, indulging in the tradition of “reading the coffee cups,” their laughter growing louder with each jest.
“See this hole? It’s an evil eye about to ruin your marriage,” my mother says, while my aunt jokes, “No, that’s my mother-in-law; just erase her.”
Intrigued, I ask my mom to read my hot chocolate cup. She sees the sun, the river, the trees—a vision of spring.
As the days get longer and warmer, my aunt busies herself with preparations for Makdus.
I run to her house with a jar of walnuts from my grandmother, and she scolds me
“Don’t run, you’ll break the jar!”
In a sunlit kitchen, she moves with practiced grace, coaxing life from the eggplant. She delicately carves out its heart, making room for the fragrant stuff.
With a blend of spices at her command, she fills the eggplants with various flavours—tangy, sweet, and savoury—each ingredient a verse in an age-old recipe whispered through generations.
Then, she arranges the stuffed eggplants in jars and bathes them in olive oil and time.
The delightful sound of children’s laughter echoes in the air outside. They run around, playing among the trees, enjoying their time under the bright sunlight. I hear my grandmother shouting at some boys for playing with the water hose. However, she praises me as a well-behaved girl and lets me join her in feeding the chickens.
It’s spring, and the sun has set, bringing a chill. My uncles and father are on the rooftop, arranging plastic chairs and setting up a table beneath the olive tree. My aunt prepares mate, as my cousins and I join them. We all wear jackets to keep warm on this incredible night.
As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the rooftops, the family gathers under the watchful branches of the olive tree. Amidst the chatter and laughter, my uncle engages in a spirited game of arm-wrestling with my brother, their playful antics eliciting raucous laughter from the crowd.
My grandmother sits quietly, with her hands resting in her lap, as she gets ready for bed by taking off her headscarf.
As the night wears on and midnight approaches, we begin discussing where everyone will sleep. For tonight, I have decided to stay at my grandmother’s house and will sleep in the spare bedroom next to hers. My brother is sleeping in one of my aunt’s rooms, while my parents will return to their tiny bedroom next door. My mother kisses me goodnight and instructs me to brush my teeth.
Outside, the gentle rustle of spring whispers through the night, a soothing lullaby that carries me into a peaceful slumber.
It’s still spring,
spring 2007,
and everything feels just right.
Anxious Thoughts 
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