I recall the days, when I was a small girl with pony tails, my granny sending me to our neighbourhood baker to get the pide for dinner, before they break their fast. I got in the line, wait for the hottest, sweetest pide with money tucked in my hands. The elder ones pat on my head, pinch my cheeks with the lovely words, sending their regards to my granny. I always saw my friends in the line, sent by their families.
I remember the wiggling movements when the shovels came out with pide on them. The line starts to move, the ones who got their pide moving out of the baker with full hands and happy faces, passing the the newspapers wrapping pide from one hand to another, trying to avoid the heat of it.
When we got the pide we used to race till home trying not eat the pide or drool over and always rewarded for our patience, me and my friends. Everyone knew each other, everyone trusted each other, we all shared our tables those days, not long about 30 years ago…
