The dough is still warm when I carry it up to the roof. It’s just past six in the morning, and the village is quiet except for the sound of sparrows and my son asking for breakfast downstairs. I set the rounds on their wooden discs and step back. The Egyptian sun will take it from here—the way it always has, going back further than most people think to look. This is Eish Shamsi, sun bread. And it is older than the country that surrounds it.
