My mom takes the yogurt she makes herself and cuts cucumbers into it with salt and pepper. And she bakes bread—real bread to dip into it. And she has jars of mixed pickles. And she grows radishes. And for dessert she has fried dough balls in rosewater syrup, and baklava, and saffron cookies stuffed with cinnamon, sugar, and walnuts—all of it she baked over the weekends. And she brews black tea. And none of it is from cans or anything. We eat as if we’re the shahs of Oklahoma City. She asks if school is fine, and it’s easy to say yeah with a mouthful of cookie. This is the best part of the day,
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