Suitcase Story

Dana S. Meyer

Suitcase Story

I’m three years old and the traditional Saturday lunch spread adorns the table of our home in Tel Aviv: warm, fresh pita bread on large platters, small bowls of pitted olives, a chop salad of cucumbers and tomatoes, and in the middle, the emblem of an Israeli meal: a deep, wide plate of rich and creamy chummus—hummus, garnished with paprika and fresh parsley. Arms overlap as everyone reaches for a slice of pita and sweeps the sides of the chummus dish. My chubby, three year-old arms join in on the tradition, my mouth full of sesame goodness.

I’m sixteen years old in Newton, Massachusetts, and my then-boyfriend, now-husband and I are babysitting for an Israeli family. Before leaving, the mother makes sure to tell me that I’m free to eat anything I’d like. After putting the kids down to bed, I find myself exploring the kitchen—as you do. What do I find but a box of homemade, traditional Israeli tchina—tahini— cookies. Nothing but pure sesame seed paste—the emblem of my childhood and my home country. I take a slow, nostalgic bite; then another. A few minutes later, my ears feel funny—a little tickly. My throat starts feeling scratchy; my tongue slightly swollen. I turn to my boyfriend with a melodramatic panic that only a sixteen-year-old can proficiently exhibit: OH MY GOD, I’M GONNA DIE.

I’m seventeen years old in my childhood home in Bedford, MA. The traditional Saturday spread is out—the pita, the olives, the salad, and the cornucopia of chummus. Only this time, I reach for the warm pita and eat it plain, while the remaining tangle of Israeli arms dive into the chummus. At this point, I have been living with a sesame allergy for one year. When we visit home, the Israeli waiters look at me with bewilderment as I make note of my sesame allergy and ask that the chummus for the table be brought on a separate platter from the pita, such that I can enjoy even just a small, warm, triangular slice of my Israeli identity.

I decide to embrace my new normal—after all, I live in America, and I’m less likely to encounter the sesame perils of the ubiquitous Israeli chummus and tchina. I go fully patriotic and attend my first ever American Sunday brunch. I arrive, ready to blend in with my American milieu and enjoy a different kind of cultural spread. With seventeen-year-old horror, I look to the table at the huge tray boasting two dozen sesamebagels. My heart drops. I nonchalantly make my way to a side table, grabbing a distinctly plainbagel and slathering it with the quintessential American spread: Jiffy peanut butter.

My stomach aches for a plate to call home.

~

I’m twenty years old, living in an apartment with my then-boyfriend, now-husband—yes, the same one from the tchina cookiedisaster of 2012. The table is adorned with a modest lunch spread: a small chop salad, a bowl of pitted olives, fresh pita. I’m busy in the kitchen, buzzing around my food processor. I grab a deep, wide plate. Into it, I pour my homemade, sesame-free chummus: two parts traditional chickpeas, one part…peanut butter.

I am Israeli. I am American. I am home. I am…full.