August 20, 2011

By Daniela

Humus. Not the kind that’s spelled with two m’s. Not the yuppie infused, sun-dried tomato injected Trader Joe’s kind. And not the chunky garlic, unsalted and un-lemoned food court kind. I hunger for true Middle Eastern humus, perfectly seasoned and celebrated via the properly fluffy and warm pita. The kind I grew up on when I lived in Israel.

I get to experience a small taste of that when I go into one of the many hole-in-the-wall Valley strip malls falafel shops. And as I walk in, I am consumed by the smells and sounds of my childhood. There is comfort in all of it, but also some sharp reminders of how I don’t quite belong. After the nostalgia wears off, I remember that sometimes the rough around the edges attitude becomes aggressive and stressful. The religious show running on the satellite television seems alienating and cold. And the way in which every move, every sound, and every step I take becomes some kind of unintentional political statement is an exhausting way enjoy a dinner, let alone live.

Living as an immigrant in Los Angeles, it’s nice to know that at the end of that meal, I can just walk next door to the Seven Eleven and find liberty and justice in some M&Ms for dessert.