After nine years of marriage, Mary knows that the holidays are not a good time to ask her husband for a favor. Especially not this favor. And not this holiday.
It’s precisely this favor that’s been weighing heavily on Mary’s mind all day, like a hulking piece of furniture that must be shoved aside for now, like the tile-inlaid coffee table that Layla and her cadre of fourth grade girlfriends struggle each Tuesday to push against the far living room wall, creating a space large enough to dance in.
But this is no time for dancing. Mary gathers her silver-blond mane into the beaded barrette that Asim brought back from Cairo last spring. The stark contrast, her flaxen hair fastened by an Arabic trinket, always seems to delight him. There is not an ounce of enmity beneath Asim’s winning smile. And of course he never uses words like shiksa. That was her first husband’s shameful term for her. Or maybe it was his mother’s. Either way, it took Mary ten long years to understand what they really meant by it. And ten more to recover her self worth.
She gets down to the business of mincing garlic and grating ginger for karahi lamb. There will also be stuffed peppers, spicy chickpea salad and date bread for suhoor, tomorrow’s pre-dawn meal before the daily fast begins. Eons ago, when she was married to Howard, she used to cook brisket and matzo ball soup for Shabbos dinners. Now she is preparing for iftar, the late night Ramadan feast, and wondering whether she is more like a chameleon, a...
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