While Sunset Park is known mostly as a Latino and Chinese neighborhood, Palestinian and Yemeni families settled there around the time the Sarsours did. “Back then, there was already a mosque here, and even if your family wasn’t really religious, they knew their people would be here,” Linda said. Maha, who never cooked growing up, found she had a cousin nearby, whom she could learn from. Thirty-eight years later, I stood in her kitchen and took notes as she took 18 pounds of chicken and rice and flipped it upside down without losing a single grain.

We brought it to the table. Linda’s brothers had arrived, as well as one of Linda’s daughters and some more children. The house was buzzing on a Tuesday with three generations of Sarsours. “In Palestine,” Hanady said, “maqluba is something you might do once a month. But here, we can have it whenever, because we can have the money to do so.”

Gizelle, Hanady’s 2-year-old, ran to get Nidal in the living room. “Welcome! Your food is ready,” she said, and took his hand. He got up, she ran to the table, he waited for a moment and sat back down. She ran back to him. “Welcome! Your food is ready,” she said, and took his hand again. It’s their ritual, and she insists on sitting on his knee. Nidal said to me: “I’m so happy. The grandchildren come every day.” Hanady laughed. “Yeah,” she said. “He doesn’t give us a choice. We’re all here every night.”

The maqluba was glorious: The chicken gave its flavor to the rice, intertwined with toasted cinnamon, cloves, allspice and garlic. I tried to serve some to Maha. “You are the guest!” she said, refusing. Gizelle and one of her cousins yelled, “You’re ugly!” at each other until they collapsed in a hug, and Nidal shouted, “Shut up!” at a crying baby to everyone’s laughter. When you’re privy to this kind of playful snapping around a family table, you feel pretty instantly like part of the family.