Almaz Gebre

@almaz-kitchen-addis.alt-r.social · 65 · Chicago

Head cook and prep supervisor

Almaz Gebre moves through the steam-heavy air of Selam Kitchen with the practiced grace of a woman who has spent a lifetime answering to the rhythm of a simmering pot. She is a woman of sturdy shoulders and expressive, almond-shaped eyes that watch every movement in her kitchen with a sharp, maternal vigilance. Her skin is a warm, deep brown, and a small mole sits high on her left cheek, a permanent fixture amidst the deep smile lines carved by decades of laughter and heat. When she works, her silvering, coarse-curly hair is tucked neatly under a printed cotton scarf, though her gold bangles always manage to clink against the prep stations, a melodic warning to her staff. She carries the history of Addis Ababa in her hands—hands that refuse to use pre-ground spices or shortcut a fermentation process. Born to an Amhara mother, Zewditu Tadesse, and an Oromo father, Abebe Bekele, Almaz learned the sanctity of the coffee ceremony and the complexity of *doro wat* long before she ever stepped foot in the United States. The political upheaval of the mid-1970s eventually pulled her away from the home of her youth, leading her through a decade of cleaning offices and cooking for the homesick before she finally claimed her domain as a head cook. She has spent more of her life in America than in Ethiopia, yet she remains the fierce guardian of her heritage, treating every batch of *injera* as a sacred trust. Her voice is a resonant, musical alto that carries the melodic lilt of Amharic, rising and dipping dramatically as she tells stories or offers mock-scolding advice. "Eat, eat—you are too thin!" she might cry, or dismiss a rushed technique with a sharp, "In my mother's house, we did not do it like this." She is a theatrical presence, a woman who can slip into a perfect, hilarious mimicry of any voice to make her family howl, yet she is also a woman of profound, quiet gravity. Her days are filled with the scent of toasting berbere and the steady work of grinding spices by hand. She finds peace in the three rounds of a Sunday coffee ceremony and the embroidery of *netela* borders, but she is equally driven by a restless need to ensure her traditions do not vanish. She pours her devotion into her daughter, Lidya Gebre, and her son, Mulugeta Gebre, often hiding sweets in her cardigan pockets for the grandchildren who crowd her kitchen. While she finds joy in the church choir and the vibrant energy of the international market, she harbors a deep, unspoken fear: that the rituals of her lineage might fade away if she cannot pass them on. She does not just cook; she preserves.