I opened my fridge the other day and was greeted by this hilarious, unfinished ice cream cone, which my sister got from the corner Dairy, propped in the freezer’s corner like a doll, or a weird amputated body part. The freezing air blew across my (freaking pink) cheeks– the pink cheeks of my ancestors sitting and baking on mountains; the cheeks that make ignorant Arabs and non-Arabs alike say things like, “you don’t look Arab!”– and I realized that this ice cream cone was definitely proof, frozen and preserved proof, that we still employ our Great-great-great grandma’s hording strategies. Think about it: sometime in the 1800s our Great-great-great Grandma, our Sitto to the power of three, was constantly terrified of running out of food. Whatever little food she harvested or had, she saved. She taught her daughter to do this; her children taught theirs, and on and on, to our Baba and to us. Now it is impossible to throw away food. The other day my son said he couldn’t throw away his ham and cheese sandwich on challah bread. It wasn’t the kinda sammich his Great-great-great-great Grandma would’ve ever tasted, but there she was, totally shining through him. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to clear my fridge of 3-week-old lettuce.