The souk is loud and bright. Lama sneaks into the spice shop when everyone is away.
She dumps a whole jar of salt into the big sugar barrel. She giggles and covers her mouth. She imagines her mother's face.
Her mother grabs a handful of sugar for the msemen. It tastes bitter. She spits it out.
Neighbors begin arriving and whispering. Lama tries to fix it and trips — the couscous tower crashes down in a cloud of golden dust.
She holds up the empty salt jar with a tiny voice. She did it.
The grandmother laughs so hard she nearly drops her teacup. The whole street howls.
That evening, the neighborhood gathers on the rug. The msemen is made the proper way.
Lama sits on her father's lap. She dips her bread into olive oil. Everyone tells the salt story over and over.
The grandmother tells the story again, her hands waving as she acts out the tipping of the jar.
A little boy laughs so hard he falls sideways onto the rug. The grandmother claps her hands.
Lama looks at her grandmother and thinks: Maybe sharing the funny story is better than keeping it secret.
The mint tea is sweet. The msemen is perfect. And the salt story will be told all night.