I Sleep in My Kitchen

Introduction

If you lived in the Cleveland area in the early 2000s and happened to visit a restaurant called the Pyramid, then there’s a very good chance you’ve been in a room with me and my family. My parents owned and operated the restaurant from 1996 to 2004, but that’s really underselling their roles . . . they were the restaurant. They had a small handful of employees—a dishwasher, an occasional prep cook, and a couple of servers—but apart from that, they did all the cooking and hosting themselves.

While you were there, did you notice several babies napping in their car seats in the corner of the back room? Or teens and preteens folding napkins and drying silverware? Was there a handful of rambunctious five- to sevenyear-olds running around your table or a toddler on the hip of the woman bringing you delicious Middle Eastern food? That woman was my mother, and the kids were me and my nine (yes, you read that right—nine!) siblings. In case you were wondering, I was the five-year-old scampering about, pretending to be helpful.

I’m the third-youngest in my family, so my memory of the Pyramid is quite faded compared to that of my older siblings. But I can still say that I’m proud to have grown up in a restaurant family, and I know that the experience shaped who I am today. My earliest memories are of my parents working so hard to feed my family and our community. When they had to sell the restaurant, there was even a time when my dad had to move away, to Pittsburgh, to earn a living. While he saved up enough money to move us all to join him, my mom was essentially a single mom, raising and feeding us all while my dad supported us from afar.

You may have heard that professional chefs do not like to cook at home, preferring instead to eat frozen dinners or delivery pizza. Well, that never applied to my mama. At home, she made everything from scratch. I don’t think she touched a canned chickpea during my entire childhood. She always boiled big pots of dried chickpeas that she had soaked overnight, then stored leftovers in the freezer.

To this day, Mama is an incredible cook; she set the bar very high for me. But when I think about the most important lessons she taught me, I don’t necessarily think about recipes. Instead, I think about her entire approach to cooking and hospitality—for her, the spirit in which food is shared is as important as the food itself. For example, if you walked up to my mom and asked her for the recipe for one of the dishes you’d enjoyed, she’d burst into a big smile and immediately write it down for you. I cannot imagine her not giving away a recipe to someone who asked. She loves teaching people about her food and her culture; that is why there are no “secret recipes” in our family.

At home, Mom was always the head chef, but from the time we were very young, we were her enthusiastic (but also not-so-enthusiastic) souschefs. It took a lot of work to feed a family of twelve, so we all pitched in where we could. Many of my favorite childhood memories involve me and my sisters standing around our kitchen island, arranged like a factory assembly line. Mom would prepare a big bowl of kibbeh filling (see page 57), and it was our job to press out and stuff the shells, then arrange them neatly on a tray for her to finish frying. I’d be lying if I said I was an expert from the very start—my mom definitely circled back to the kibbeh I shaped and filled on the sheet and “adjusted” them a bit to meet her standards. (Let’s be real, they most definitely needed the help.) Other days, Mom would set out a bowl of sweet walnut- and coconut-studded katayef filling (see page 237), then she’d cook pancakes on a griddle and toss them onto a big tablecloth. From there, we’d spoon the filling into the pancakes, press them closed, and arrange them on a sheet pan so she could fry or bake them later.

I am the proud daughter of Palestinian immigrants, and sharing recipes that were passed down to me by my Palestinian mother is my life’s greatest honor. This work feels especially important now, as my people have been the victims of horrific, genocidal violence. As you are reading this, there are men, women, and children in Gaza who are struggling not only to put food on their tables but also to find basic necessities like clothing and clean water. Entire families—entire communities—have been killed, with generations of their history eradicated in a single moment.

My mother has always encouraged me to share family recipes, because it plays a vital role in preserving our culture—a culture that is very much at risk of being lost forever. For me, sharing recipes is a way to give Palestine a voice, to honor our heritage and traditions. I am sharing this deeply personal part of my life with you because I hope that as you cook through the recipes in this book, as you share them with your friends and family, you hold the Palestinian people in your heart. I believe that celebrating Palestinian cooking and culture is a form of resistance—a way to announce to the world that we are still here, that our lives and stories matter, and that we will not be silenced.