Diana Abu-Jaber
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Syracuse, NY, The United States
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December 2010
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The Language of Baklava: A Memoir
8 editions
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published
2005
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Crescent
17 editions
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published
2003
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Origin
16 editions
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published
2007
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Birds of Paradise
11 editions
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published
2011
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Arabian Jazz
6 editions
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published
1993
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Life Without a Recipe
5 editions
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published
2016
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Silverworld
6 editions
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published
2020
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Birds of Paradise Lib/E
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Fencing with the King
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Delivering a Public Speech: Learning the Process of Mass Addressing
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I love how direct and honest this memoir is. He's got a great story - especially considering how young he was when he wrote this! ...more | |
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“Marry, don't marry,' Auntie Aya says as we unfold layers of dough to make an apple strudel.
Just don't have your babies unless it's absolutely necessary.'
How do I know if it's necessary?'
She stops and stares ahead, her hands gloved in flour. 'Ask yourself, Do I want a baby or do I want to make a cake? The answer will come to you like bells ringing.' She flickers her fingers in the air by her ear. 'For me, almost always, the answer was cake.”
― The Language of Baklava: A Memoir
Just don't have your babies unless it's absolutely necessary.'
How do I know if it's necessary?'
She stops and stares ahead, her hands gloved in flour. 'Ask yourself, Do I want a baby or do I want to make a cake? The answer will come to you like bells ringing.' She flickers her fingers in the air by her ear. 'For me, almost always, the answer was cake.”
― The Language of Baklava: A Memoir
“Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the ground”
― Crescent
― Crescent
“...tasting a piece of bread that someone bought is like looking at that person, but tasting a piece of bread that they baked is like looking out of their eyes.”
― Crescent
― Crescent
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“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.”
― A Room of One's Own
― A Room of One's Own
“Who am I?" she snaps. "I am America, Israel, England! What am I doing?" She waits another long moment, her eyes shining. "I'm shutting up and listening." She draws the last word out so it hisses through the air. "I am the presidents, the kings, the prime ministers, the highs and the mighties—L-I-S-T-E-N!" She spells the word in the air. "The woman who made the baklava has something to say to you! Voilà! You see? Now what am I doing?" She picks up an imaginary plate, lifts something from it, and takes an invisible bite. Then she closes her eyes and says, "Mmm... That is such delicious Arabic-Jordanian-Lebanese-Palestinian baklawa. Thank you so much for sharing it with us! Please will you come to our home now and have some of our food?" She puts down the plate and brushes imaginary crumbs from her fingers. "So now what did I just do?
"You ate some baklawa?"
She curls her hand as if making a point so essential, it can be held only in the tips of the fingers. "I looked, I tasted, I spoke kindly and truthfully. I invited. You know what else? I keep doing it. I don't stop if it doesn't work on the first or the second or the third try. And like that!" She snaps the apron from the chair into the air, leaving a poof of flour like a wish. "There is your peace.”
― The Language of Baklava: A Memoir
"You ate some baklawa?"
She curls her hand as if making a point so essential, it can be held only in the tips of the fingers. "I looked, I tasted, I spoke kindly and truthfully. I invited. You know what else? I keep doing it. I don't stop if it doesn't work on the first or the second or the third try. And like that!" She snaps the apron from the chair into the air, leaving a poof of flour like a wish. "There is your peace.”
― The Language of Baklava: A Memoir