Samboosa is the time I spent with my mother. I remember her running new dara’as through her lustrous Singer sewing machine in preparation for Ramadan every year. My mesmerized eyes would trace the needle’s path down the hems of long skirts for hours. She would take me to Souk Al-Safat, her favorite fabric market, where I would watch her bargain and study. I was a patient child, content with the colors and patterns of the fabrics to entertain me on our trips to the Souk. Hundreds of rolls would lace the insides of the hole-in-the-wall shops. Before completing our routine round of the Souk, we would stop and reboot at the Souk’s café. In the midst of the madness stood a classic Kuwaiti food stop. They made just about everything; fresh juice, ice cream, falafel, pastries, and my favorite- samboosa. They come in a small paper bag, faintly decorated with a red ink geometric pattern. They are little, double-fried with a dot of feta cheese in the center. My mother would always save a few extras for my grandma who waited patiently back home, stopping me from finishing the whole bag. Still, every fiber of my being was content. Only once we had our samboosa could we finish scavenging the market.
