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The Kitchen with Two Doors
On the insatiable hunger for belonging.
I didn’t care to know that the leaves that form its slimy broth come from a type of jute plant, or that this dish is common to many cultures across the Levant, the Middle East, and Northern Africa. In high school, I would stuff my feta-cheese breakfast in the metal box intended for pads and tampons in the bathroom stall and I’d give away my packed lunch, too obsessed with shrinking my thighs to Spice-Girl size to consider that I was harming myself, let alone squandering the measured abundance that my grandparents had sacrificed their belonging to build. Still, while I may have seemed careless about my heritage to those watching me make these choices, my sense of home sits deep in my cells; Ethan and I chose to wed on a Sunday in honor of the golden afternoon light that bathed my parents’ dining room and swaddled my childhood.
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