Maqluba and Memories
"When Hana's mother sends her to learn traditional cooking from her recently-divorced uncle, the lessons become far more intimate than either expected."
Maqluba and Memories
"Your uncle Fadi needs company," Hana's mother announced. "Ever since the divorce, he's been alone in that big house. You'll go learn to cook from him—his maqluba is legendary."
Hana wanted to argue. At twenty-four, she had her own apartment in Amman, her own life. But family was family, and her mother's tone left no room for negotiation.
She found Fadi's house in the hills outside Ramallah, a beautiful stone villa surrounded by fruit trees. He opened the door looking nothing like she remembered—the pudgy uncle who'd bounced her on his knee had been replaced by a lean, silver-templed man with sadness etched around his eyes.
"Ahlan, binti." Welcome, my daughter. "You've grown."
"It's been eight years, ammo."
"Too long." He ushered her inside, and Hana tried to ignore how her heart stuttered at his hand on her back.
The cooking lessons began simply enough. Fadi guided her through the preparation of perfect rice, the layering of eggplant and cauliflower, the spicing of the lamb.
"The secret," he explained, "is patience. You can't rush maqluba. It reveals itself when it's ready."
Working side by side in the warm kitchen, their bodies brushed constantly—his arm against hers as they reached for spices, her hip bumping his at the stove. Hana told herself it was innocent. He was her uncle. Her mother's brother.
But he wasn't blood. Not really. Her grandmother had adopted him as a baby—a fact everyone knew but rarely mentioned.
"You're distracted," Fadi observed, gently correcting her knife grip. "Where's your mind?"
On the way your hands feel. On the gray at your temples. On how wrong it is to want you.
"Just concentrating," she lied.
The tension built over days. Hana caught Fadi watching her when he thought she wasn't looking. Their conversations grew longer, more intimate—about his failed marriage, her string of disappointing boyfriends.
"Why do you stay single?" she asked one evening, sharing wine after a successful lesson.
"Because I haven't found someone who looks at me the way you do."
The air crystallized. Hana set down her glass with a trembling hand.
"Ammo—"
"Don't call me that." His voice was rough. "Not when we both know what's happening here."
"Nothing is happening."
"Then why do you shiver when I touch you?" He moved closer on the couch. "Why do I lie awake thinking about you?"
"This is wrong."
"I'm not your blood uncle. We both know that." His hand cupped her face. "Tell me you don't feel it, and I'll never mention it again."
Hana's breath caught. She should lie. Should run. Should do anything except what she did next.
"I feel it," she whispered. "Allah yistor, I feel it."
Fadi kissed her like he'd been starving for it. His mouth claimed hers with decades of unfulfilled longing, hands sliding into her hair with a desperation that made her moan.
"We can't tell anyone," she gasped. "My mother—"
"Forget your mother. Forget everyone." He pulled her into his lap. "Right now, there's only us."
He carried her to his bedroom—the one he'd shared with his wife, now stripped bare of feminine touches. Fadi laid her on the bed with reverent hands, undressing her slowly.
"Ya Allah," he breathed, taking in her naked form. "Kifik helweh." How beautiful you are.
"Ammo—Fadi—" The forbidden word made it hotter somehow. "I need you."
He shed his clothes, revealing a body still strong despite his fifty years. When he settled between her thighs, Hana wrapped her legs around him with shameless need.
"Baddi iyaki," he groaned. I want you. "Min zaman baddi iyaki."
He pushed inside, and Hana cried out at the fullness. Fadi moved with controlled power, each stroke hitting places no younger man had found. Years of experience showed in every thrust, every adjustment to her gasping reactions.
"Aktar," she begged. "Please—ammo—aktar—"
The forbidden word sent him over the edge. Fadi drove into her faster, harder, until they shattered together in a release that felt like absolution.
They lay tangled in sheets damp with sweat, the maqluba forgotten downstairs.
"What do we do now?" Hana asked.
"Whatever we want." Fadi traced the curve of her hip. "We're adults. We're not blood. The only laws we're breaking are written in gossip and tradition."
"My mother will disown me."
"Or she'll adjust. She loves you." He kissed her forehead. "Let me worry about your mother. You just worry about learning to flip the maqluba without spilling."
Despite everything, Hana laughed. "Is that a metaphor?"
"No. You really are terrible at the flip." His smile softened the criticism. "Stay, Hana. Not just for lessons. Stay with me."
She thought of her apartment in Amman, her ordinary life. Then she looked at Fadi—kind, handsome, offering her something that felt like home.
"Maashi," she said. "I'll stay."
Outside, the sun was setting over Ramallah, painting the stone villa gold. And in the kitchen, the maqluba continued to cook—slowly, patiently, ready to reveal itself when the time was right.