Personal Taste — Kurdish

When the kuba floated to the surface, glossy and fragrant, Hewa ladled one into a bowl. No spoon. He ate it the way he had as a boy: with his fingers, burning his lips, breaking the shell to let the broth soak into the meat.

He wanted to say home . Instead he said, “Personal taste.” personal taste kurdish

Hewa decided to cook. Not the simplified Kurdish food he made for German friends—the toned-down stews, the less-lamb version of yaprakh . He would cook the real thing. The way his mother taught Rojin. The way Rojin taught him, standing over a fire in a house that might now belong to someone else. When the kuba floated to the surface, glossy

He ate a second. Then a third.