A Meditation on Breaking Bread by Elizabeth Jernigan

Yesterday a tour of Jaffa and a history of old meets new, new becomes old, history is written and rewritten by the victors and the victors are many in several thousands of years.
And then a meal. Food – don’t fill up on the salads, they are not salads, they are the amazingly delicious most perfect vegetables that god has ever blessed with flavor- food
And then meat in a most soft and perfect sauce, and then something like spinach and something like beans. And then something with spice foreign and intoxicating.
And then baklava, served in small pieces for sharing, and coffee, not too strong, with much of the smell and hints of the memory of cardamom.

This is not the important thing, neither is drying ones hand washed socks in a cold room with an improvised system of clothes hanger, climbing chair, and high mounted heater.  

Talks with young Israelis who work for good and beat drums in opposition to teargas, and the fathers of murdered daughters (a little ten year old Israeli girl, a little six year old Palestinian girl) who call each other brother, and the supporters of consciousness objectors, and all the pilgrims, and all the prayers, and all who look for justice for the oppressed, all who look for justice.

No, a plate offered by a local and passed from traveler to traveler is not the important thing. Fried cauliflower, brown and soft, rich with oil and with lemon, while not the most important thing, is still a small miracle.


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