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Lebanese Ma3moul
An elderly Lebanese man lay dying in his bed.
While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of
his favorite sweet, freshly baked ma3moul, wafting up the stairs. He gathered
his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning against the
wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort,
gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs. With labored
breath, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not
for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there,
spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were literally hundreds of his
favorite ma3moul. Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his
devoted Lebanese wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a
happy man? Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table,
landing on his knees in a rumpled posture. His parched lips parted, the wondrous
scent of the fresh ma3moul was already teasing his mouth, seemingly bringing him
back to life. The aged and withered hand trembled on its way to a warm ma3moul
at the edge of the table, when suddenly -- WHHAACCKK!! -- his hand was smacked
with a wooden spoon by his wife......
Ma ted'arhon hawde lle' aaza: "Don't touch
that! These are for the funeral!"
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