I cut into it and let out a cry. It’s bleeding, I shriek. Uncle Mazin laughs and shakes his head. No, he says. It’s perfect. In Syria, they overcook meat. I look at the light pink of the meat, my stomach turning at his words, at the small puddle of blood on my plate. I pick at the baked potato instead. I have been learning that in America, they add something called butter to everything.
