Ode to the One Wrap That Ruined Me

Listen—

I’m not saying this shawarma changed my life,

but I am saying I saw God

somewhere between the beef, chicken, falafel,

and whatever that glorious white sauce is.

Is it garlic? Yogurt?

Liquid heaven?

I don’t know,

and frankly, I don’t want to.

Let the mystery live. It’s part of the magic.

Lettuce? Crisp.

Tomatoes? Fresh.

Onions? I think so.

Some other veggies? Possibly.

But who can say for sure

when your taste buds are busy ascending?

And the falafel—

crispy on the outside,

soft and spiced on the inside,

like it knew it didn’t have to prove anything.

It just showed up and did its job perfectly.

An overachiever in chickpea form.

A quiet legend wrapped in pita.

The wrap?

Folded like a burrito,

twisted at the top like candy,

wrapped in foil like a love letter

you peel back slowly,

bite by bite,

like it’s the last time you’ll ever be this happy.

I held it like something sacred—

hands slightly shaking,

heart oddly calm.

It felt like eating the answer

to a question I didn’t know I’d asked.

Something ancient.

Something honest.

Something that reminded me

to slow down.

First time I had one?

Michigan.

Cold as hell.

But I was warm, in love,

trusting the hands that passed it to me

like a sacred offering.

He knew good food,

and he didn’t steer me wrong.

I didn’t know it then,

but that shawarma would stay with me—

not in my stomach,

but in my memory.

In the part of my brain reserved

for first loves,

quiet mornings,

and the kind of meals

that know how to hold you back.

I grew up on ceviche.

I love ceviche.

But shawarma?

Shawarma lets me rest.

It wraps me in warmth

without asking questions.

It doesn’t care what kind of day I’ve had,

how tired I am,

or that I ate chips for breakfast.

It just says: Here. You’re safe now.

It doesn’t challenge.

It understands.

Every bite now feels like

a breakthrough in a therapy session—

safe, nourishing, and so good for the soul.

The kind of meal that doesn’t judge,

just holds you and listens,

then hands you extra napkins.

Like someone finally listened,

and then handed you a warm wrap

instead of advice.

You make me feel

more put together than therapy ever did.

And honestly?

Amen.

And one more bite.

Author’s Note:

This poem was inspired by a shawarma I had recently that was just... too good. Like, I needed to write-about-it good. It had beef, chicken, falafel (don’t even get me started on falafel), and this white sauce that I still don’t know what it is—but I want it on everything I eat from now on.

I first had a shawarma when I was living in Michigan. The weather was freezing my hands, but I was very much in love at the time, and my ex—who was Jewish and super into food—introduced me to Mediterranean and Middle Eastern cuisine. That man had an artist’s soul and a wild palate, and I’ll give him that: the boy could pick a meal. Shawarma has stuck with me ever since.

Ceviche is my favorite dish (though now I might have to make a poem about that Peruvian masterpiece too), but I chose shawarma over it last night. That’s wild. Anyway, this poem is just me fangirling over a wrap. I normally write poetry about motherhood, memory, and healing—but this had to go in the Feast section, because honestly, I need people to know.

If you’ve never had a shawarma before, go find your best local Middle Eastern spot and change your life. You won’t regret it.

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