March 14, 2026
By Hala Kenawy
Staff Writer
I never used to think much about food. It was just there, on the kitchen table or at family gatherings.
I didn’t stop to consider how special it was to sit around a big plate of mansaf, which is made with tender lamb cooked in a tangy yogurt sauce called jameed and served over rice and thin bread called markouk. It is usually topped with pine nuts and almonds.
Mansaf represents hospitality, generosity, respect and unity, as families and guests gather around one big plate and eat together with their hands.
When I visited my family in Egypt often, food was everywhere. It wasn’t something I searched for; it was part of my everyday life. Shawarma from a nearby shop, koshary made at home, kebab at family gatherings. The smells of cardamom, cinnamon and cumin felt normal to me. I never reflected upon how comforting they were.
Living in Lyndhurst, I don’t see any Arab-owned corner stores, and I rarely hear Arabic spoken in grocery stores. Sometimes I miss walking into a place and instantly recognizing the flavors and the people.
Those quiet moments remind me that food was never just food.
During Ramadan, I feel closer to my culture. Breaking my fast with dates and water before having soup and sambousek with my family now carries more meaning. I pay more attention. I notice the silence before we eat. I notice the gratitude. It’s not just about hunger. It’s about faith, patience and togetherness.
Those quiet moments remind me that food was never just food.
The smell of certain spices can instantly take me back to Egypt. Back to my family gatherings, loud kitchens and crowded tables. It’s strange how one scent can encapsulate so many memories. Sometimes, I don’t even realize I miss those moments until they resurface unexpectedly.
Celebrations like weddings and Eid — a joyful holiday where families come together to pray, rejoice and share special dishes — feel different too. The large meals, shared plates and traditions help me remember that I’m part of something bigger than the community where I live. Even if I’m far from parts of my culture, those traditions live inside me.
When I share my culture’s cuisine with others, it feels personal. When someone tries mansaf or shawarma for the first time and enjoys it, I feel proud. It’s like I’m sharing a piece of my story without having to explain anything.
I used to think food was just what I ate every day, but now I understand it’s one of the strongest connections I have to who I am. It brings me closer to my culture, my faith, my identity and my memories. Every bite tells a tale about where I come from.
