Every weekend,
we packed our bags
Every weekend, my mother would pack our bags and take us to my grandparents' village in Senafe, Eritrea. And at the gate, Grandma was always waiting — arms open, warm and sure, pulling us in like we were the most important people in the world.
Then she'd press a cup into our hands. Warm, golden, nutty. Her flax powder refresher — made fresh that morning, just for us.
Before the cup came the sound. The deep, powerful thud of Grandma's big wooden mortar — carved from a single heavy trunk. Her grandkids would gather around it, eyes fixed on the pestle going up and down, buzzing with excitement — because at the end of all that pounding waited our version of chocolate fudge. The roasted flax releasing its oils, darkening, clumping into something rich and glistening. We'd sneak pinches straight from the mortar while she kept going, steady and unhurried, until it was exactly right. She always knew when. We never did — we were too busy eating it.
"She didn't need a kitchen timer. She knew by the warmth of her hands and the smell of the seeds that it was ready."— A memory from the village, Senafe