 I'm gonna start with this book called Secret Recipe Box. It's written by Hilal Mosleh. So for those who weren't here last time, the way that I read a story, I will open up the page and I will read it. But before I turn the page, I will give everyone a chance to see it. So if you can't see it really good while I'm reading it, don't worry. I'll give you guys each a turn to see the page. Okay? All right. Bismillah. Let's start. Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Rahim. Secret Recipe Box. Early Saturday morning, I swing my legs off my bed, rub my eyes and grin. Today is special because I'll be seeing my grandma after a very long time. We are picking Teta up from the airport. Does anybody know what Teta means? Exactly, Teta is another way to say grandma. We are picking Teta up from the airport and helping her move into her new home. Here's the secret. Our new home is actually our house because we'll all be living together. I'm gonna ask Teta to teach me how to cook Palestinian food. My dream is to have my own cooking show someday. I try to practice in the kitchen at home, but my baby brother, Sammy, is always ruining my recipes. Does anybody else call their grandma something different than Teta? You call her nani, that's one. Nani. You also call her nani? Sitto. We have a sito. Same thing. Same thing, sito, moshallah. Nanu. Nanu, moshallah. Say it again. Mama. Mama. See, there's so many names that we can call. Do you have another one? Amma. Amma. See, moshallah. Does he want it? Do you want to say what you call your sito? Nanu. Nanu. See, moshallah. There's so many amazing names to call our grandma. At the airport, Sammy wants to hold one side of the welcome sign I made, but I pull it away because I know he'll crumble the edges. We wait and wait, watching so many faces and suitcases zoom past. Finally, there she is. Her long dress swishes as she walks and her eyes light up when she sees us. Mama, Sammy, Teta says, you've grown so much. She holds us tight and kisses our forehead. On the way home, Teta peers out the car window. I point out the library and park on our street. The small grocery store where we buy our spices and halal meat, and the woman's gym where my mom exercises. What's that place, Teta asks, when we stop at a red light? It's this place that serves warm food for free, for those in need, Mama answers. I look at the long lineup of people waiting to get inside. Some of them aren't even dressed warmly. I shiver just looking at them and zip my jacket all the way up to my chin. At home, Teta pulls Sammy and me into her lap for another tight hug. I feel the small hard beads on her colorful dishdasha rub against my cheek. Dishdasha is another word for a Palestinian dress. After drinking a cup of mint tea, Teta pulls a faded wooden box out of her suitcase and runs her hands over the lid. All my secret recipes are in this box, she whispers to us. And some special memories too. I've been saving them for my grandchildren. How does what? How does the grandma hug so tight? How does the grandma hug so tight? Because she's so happy to see you and she has so much love for you, she just wants to squish you. Wow, my cooking dreams are starting to come true. I can already picture my popular Palestinian cooking show airing on the food channel. I quickly grab the box and hold onto it tightly. I don't want Sammy to think we're sharing this. At night, I fall asleep with the recipe box perched on the nightstand right next to my bed. I can't wait for tomorrow. I think it's glowing because it's extra special to her. So it's lit up, let's find out. The sun has barely risen when I wake up to the sound of shuffling in the kitchen downstairs. I grab the recipe box and I raise downstairs in my PJs. Sammy is following Tita around in the kitchen. Good morning, Mahat, Tita says. Shall we make some of my famous bread today? Yes, I say instantly rolling up my sleeves. Sammy jumps up too. She has white hair. I heard that Tita has white hair, yes. The white hair will glow on the day of judgment and trouble. First, we start by filling a bowl with flour, says Tita. This is just the way my mom taught me. I dump the flour into the bowl and a white powdery cloud floats up and tickles my nose. Next, Tita says we add some yeast and salt. Then we slowly pour in some warm water and a bit of olive oil. I dip my hands into the bowl and feel all the goopy ingredients ooze between my fingers. I mix and squish everything together until it forms a big ball of dough. Tita tells me to knead the dough with my knuckles to make it soft. So kneading is when we massage the dough till it's a good consistency. Now, Tita says with a smirk, move aside. And let me work my magic. I look on an amazement as Tita rolls out the dough and then expertly spins it in the air until it looks like a flying saucer. We pop it straight into the oven and Sammy peeks through the little oven window to watch the dough balloon up. Has anyone ever seen that when dough is in the oven and it poofs up? It's kind of a cool thing to watch, isn't it? Sammy looks like he really enjoys it. This smell reminds me of the big clay oven my mom used in our village of Atil in Palestine, Tita says. She baked bread over a real fire and everyone would enjoy the delicious smell. But if they smelled the bread, did that mean you had to share, I ask? Of course, she replies. We were happy to. Our village was like one big family. No matter where we lived or what troubles we faced, we always found ways to share what we had. Tita rifles around in the recipe box and pulls out an old piece of embroidered black fabric. It has beautiful red thread sewn across it. My sister's and I used to sew these wonderful patterns on our clothes. The pattern represents each of us coming together as one to create something beautiful, something special. I look over at Sammy and I wonder if we could ever work together like that. Back in the kitchen, we make more of Tita's recipe using the fluffy dough. We spread an olive oil and sautéed mixture on some pieces of dough. We sprinkle halum cheese on others. Then we cover some of the dough with ground beef, pine nuts, and tomatoes. Sammy is dropping ingredients all over the counter, but he has a huge smile on his face, so I tell him he's doing a great job. While we wait for the oven timer to beat, Tita shows us some old photos of her village. My favorite is a black and white picture of Baba and his sister standing in front of an old olive tree. They look just like Sammy and me. We pull the different golden poppy breads out of the oven and impatiently wait for them to cool. Then we break off bits and pieces of each kind. Tita dips hers in hummus, but I like to eat mine plain. As we rub our full tummies, we look over at the piles of bread lining the kitchen counters. I think I made too much, Tita says. I'm used to sharing with a lot of people. Do you guys ever do that? Do you make too much food at home? Yeah. Never? Yes. Damn. Whoops. Later as I help Mama scrub the dishes, I think about how Tita shares so much. Her secret recipes, her bright memories, and her tight hugs. The cold tap water runs over my hands and sends a shiver through my body. I remember the people I saw lining up outside the soup kitchen. I dry my hands and race to where Tita is sitting. Tita, I say. Your mom's bread filled your village with an amazing smell and she would share with everyone, right? Can we share our bread too? Tita grins. Without saying a word, she gets up, puts her jacket on, she knows exactly what I'm thinking. Who knows what she's thinking? Raise your hand if you know what she's thinking. If you don't, it's okay, we're gonna find out. Mmm. Baba drives us to the soup kitchen. There's still a bit of flour on our clothes, but we don't mind. We ask the manager if we can share some of our bread and he says yes. Sam and I hand out Tita's delicious baked goods. It looks like everyone loves them. The manager shakes our hands. Please come by anytime with more of your grandma's delicious breads, he says. In the car, I rest my head on Tita's shoulder and look at Sammy. I'm glad we're all together and I can't wait for our next cooking adventure. Look at her TV show now. What does it say? Tita, Mahaa, and Sammy's Palestinian feast. It's no longer just Mahaa's feast. Alhamdulillah. Did you guys like that book? Yeah. What is something that you think we learned from that book? Learn to share. Yes, we should share. We should share with everyone around us. What are some things that you guys do to share? Good, you share your toys? That's a good thing. So when dad gave me his black bag. Okay. And I put some of my favorite toys that they did and I'm sitting in my room to store. Mashallah. Your dad gifted you a bag and you're gonna fill it full of things and gift it to the poor? I'm actually absent. That's really nice, mashallah. I'm gonna go back there. You're gonna give a huge... You're gonna donate a huge monster chart with a remote, mashallah. These are great, great things that you guys are doing especially during the month of Ramadan. Mashallah. That's excellent, mashallah. He donated $10 to Feeding America so they could help feed the poor. I can repeat it. Share everything. Are you gonna share your food? That's a good one because that's one of our activities today. We'll talk about it in a minute. Yes, we could share our money with poor people. So I'm gonna do one more today for this question. Go ahead. You donate your toys, mashallah. That's excellent. You wanna share one more thing? I have a question. You have a question? Okay, I'll explain, mashallah.