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pide

I sat at the table picking bits of ground lamb and tomato off the “pizza” on my plate. It was a quiet evening two weeks into my 2002 trip to Lebanon. The heat was oppressive. I wasn’t hungry. I also wasn’t thinking. My aunt’s eyes were discs when I looked up. She whispered my name in high-noted horror. I quickly withdrew my hands, embarrassed to be caught playing with my food at age 22. I cleaned my fingers with a napkin and folded the sfiha in half, taking my aunt’s

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