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of witches that blow onto knots, and from the
evil of the envier when he envieth.
My aunt passed the wooden spoon to my mother, who
stirred vigorously for a while before passing it to me. The
fire was so low that it took us an hour to brown the flour
and the nuts in turns. As we kept stirring, the doorbell rang
several times and more women arrived for the occasion.
The slowly heating up kitchen, the growing crowd, and the
melodic prayer eventually sent my mother into tears.
When the mixture had turned golden brown, my aunt
poured into it a large jug of sweetened milk and stirred
some more. As the prayer came to an end, she announced
that the halva was ready. Shaking her head several times,
she said: “Ah Ameli, it fell upon me to make your halva.”
She then looked up as if looking at the sky instead of the
whitewashed ceiling and said: “
Helal olsun!
” A short silence
ensued. Scents of butter, flour, nuts, milk and sugar wafted
in the kitchen and mingled with our sighs. My mother
started to scoop out little balls of halva on porcelain forget-
me-not plates. I covered some with paper napkins, stacked
them on a large tray, and hurried out into the building to
take them to the neighbors. My mother prepared more
plates for the visitors in the lounge.
It was 18th November 2013. My grandmother Ameli had
been gone for a year and we had gathered to honor her life.