On Arab Feminist Writers at The Writer's Chronicle

My mother and two aunts often lamented that in America, they couldn’t get their hands on fresh molokheya leaves. Sure, there was the Middle Eastern grocer who sold frozen packs of the viscous vegetable, but it wasn’t the same. By the time the leaves had been sealed in plastic, frozen, and shipped, their greenness had faded. On a weekly basis, the family gathered at one of the sisters’ houses. And by family, I mean cousins of cousins, their wives, children, and in-laws. For us, it was normal for fifty Egyptians to be gathered under the same roof in one of the calm golfing communities that dot South Florida.

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