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My father, throughout my life, has clung to small food rituals. Here is how you spread the labneh on the pocket bread. Here is how you open the pocket bread. Now the olives. Now the tomatoes. Now the salt and pepper. Here, now. Here. This is how you drizzle the oil. Then we roll it. Then we eat it and, ahhh. Call me Baba, he would tell me when I called him Dad. It was not a food ritual, but he asked more than once. It feels weird, I would tell

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