Stuffing the Pita

by Joan Greenblatt

During the summer of 1970, I found myself working on a Kibbutz in Southern Israel, about five kilometers from the Gaza Strip. After a grueling day (that began at 5:00 a.m.) of weeding acres of green pepper and hauling bails of hay, I often spent the evenings sitting alone on a mound of sand staring out into the desert dusk. As the sunset colors splashed across the wide horizon, the sound of shepherds and stillness filled the air. The intense work and fresh air brought with it an amazingly large appetite, something I . . .


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