Musakhan: a field of caramelized onions on a bed of taboon bread with melt in the mouth roast chicken, lovingly spiced with cumin and cinnamon, allspice and coriander, cardamom and nutmeg.

Sumaghiyyeh: succulent beef with chickpeas, smoky sumac, red tahini and pepper.

Manakeesh: savoury flatbread topped with za’atar and Ackawi cheese.

The bread I used to help my grandma make. I would knead the dough until it sprang back into shape. My grandma would say, “Khalil you must stretch it without it tearing; stretch it until it is so thin, that when you look through it, you can see your grandma’s smile.”

The smell of the manakeesh baking in the oven made my knees weak.

Mansaf, kibbeh, tabouleh, baba ghanoush.

Baklava with the finest crispy filo, plump walnuts and green pistachio, soaked in honey and rosewater syrup.

Delicious food.

It is late, but I cannot sleep.

Beside me I hear my young sister Aisha gently snoring.

It is good that she is sleeping. She has not slept for so many days.

I hope the explosions do not wake her.

But it is good. I think they are moving away.

The wind is cool tonight and this ripped tent provides little shelter

Our old house is now just a pile of stones and memories. I miss it, most of all the courtyard, where we would all gather to eat and tell stories. My uncle Ali would play the oud and my cousin Hamza the tablah. We would sing and laugh and eat and dance.

We are forgetting how to dance.

Ali and Hamza will never dance again, and I will never again see my grandma’s smile.

I turn over and try to sleep. I hold my stomach. It answers with a rumble.

Maybe tomorrow the trucks will come.

Delicious food.

To be honest a simple ripe fig would be enough.

To the hungry, all food is delicious.