Manger!

On Meals:

I will be lucky if I have not gained at least forty pounds by the time I leave this country. The cuisine is delicious. Moroccans incorporate a variety of spices I am not always familiar with, although I can always detect the cumin and am growing accustomed to the turmeric which is also a staple ingredient.

The two dishes I have encountered most frequently have been Tagine and Couscous. I don't believe there is a restaurant in the entire country which cannot offer you at least one form of Tagine which is named for the heavy clay dish it is prepared and served in. When ordered in a restaurant, or served at home, the Tagine arrives to the table steaming and sizzling in this thick dish and the person who makes the mistake of trying to touch the plate will quickly learn to enjoy their meal with caution. Tagine is made with either beef, chicken or fish and of course a variety of vegetables. My favorite by far was made with beef and plums which gave a wonderful tangy-sweet perfume to the sauce, which I can only describe as succulent. Tagine in general I would equate to a stew although the meat tends to be left on the bone in the center of the plate and covered in vegetables; a tiny mountain of food which those seated at the table collectively demolish.

Most meals at home are served this way. There is a large plate in the middle of the table and each person is allotted what seems like an entire loaf of bread with which to scoop up mouthfuls of food. Utensils are rarely used and Emilie and I are the only two at the table who are given napkins. This was made clear the first evening when we ate fried fish, which is meant to be eaten by picking the meat carefully off of the bones with your fingers. Half way through, Emilie and I sat staring helplessly at each other, greasy fingers held aloft. We were soon given napkins and that seemed to set the precedent because we receive them at every meal now while everyone else is able to maintain clean fingers despite the fact that they are also eating without utensils. The trick is to learn how to use the bread as a spoon and also a guard between your fingers and your meal; a trick which I have yet to master.

Couscous is also eaten out of a large communal plate although because the couscous is so tiny we are given spoons. As Emilie and I discovered when trying to clear the table, it is extremely difficult to clean up individual grains of couscous. I also can't imagine eating couscous with bread (however it is always set at the table) because it is so heavy to begin with. The small grains are so filling that by the end of the meal everyone is sleepy and immobilized, somewhat like the effects of a large turkey dinner. We have couscous every Friday, usually with what seems like half the people on the block. Couscous is also prepared with beef or chicken and vegetables but the vegetables are arranged in a very aesthetically pleasing tower over the meat. I think I could write a book on the architecture of Moroccan cuisine.

Every meal includes several loaves of bread. It is baked fresh every day and is delicious but when I stop to think about just how much of it I'm consuming, I start to worry about the grain supply in Morocco. If everyone is eating as much as I am, and I believe they are, where on earth is there enough flour to make this much bread?

<...preparing couscous...>

Like wise the amount of couscous served every Friday, if gathered together from the entire year, could easily fill my house to the rafters and have some left over to feed the rest of the block.

This is not to say that the food goes to waste, because it certainly doesn't. Actually, I'm not sure where it goes, but I know it is not being thrown away. When walking through the streets of Rabat I have seen many baskets filled with the crusts of bread that hasn't been eaten, left there for whoever really needs it. There are many people who are not as fortunate as we are to have such an abundance of food, and the Moroccans recognize this and really do look out for one another.

Needless to say I am very well fed. This past weekend as we ate Sunday lunch, I sat back for a moment to allow the three slices of bread soaked in tagine juice I had just consumed to settle. After about forty five seconds of peace my host sister, who is twelve years old, turned to me and said,

“Manger Maral!”

She was demanding that I eat more in a tone that suggested if I didn't she would be personally offended. I jumped and immediately grabbed the closest piece of bread.