It was chilly in the unheated room, even in my fleece and boots with woolly socks, and hot mint tea was a welcome prospect. Tamou followed a now familiar ritual, pouring the first glass back into the teapot, then raising the teapot high to stream tea that frothed into each glass.We sipped our tea with pieces of bread dipped into argan oil and melted butter.
When it was time to prepare the couscous, Fouziya and Nadia bustled to fetch water and kindling. Tamou led us to a free-standing room, a kitchen without running water or electricity. There was no gas bottle, the engine that powers Morocco’s urban kitchens. A lone rack held pots, platters, trays and a few glasses. The cooktop was a low stone shelf in one corner, a small space for building a fire underneath, the wall above streaked sooty black. Tamou’s was the most primitive of the kitchens we’d seen, practically empty. How does she cook with nothing? Where were the big jars of cumin and
ras el hanout,
the piles of coriander and parsley, the little dishes for serving salads?
Fouziya put one of the birds we’d brought into a pot with slices of lemon and covered it with water. Tamou handed Deb and me the ubiquitous paring knives that constitute the full kitchen kit for many Moroccan cooks, and I thought guiltily of the gadgets and conveniences in my home. We were put to veggie duty before a basin of water set on the stone floor. It was cold, and my fingers cramped as I washed and cored carrots. It was impossible to stay crouched and I constantly shifted position. After ten minutes of this, my knees and ankles screamed for relief. I was thrilled when Nadia fetched me a cushion. I wondered how they could prepare every meal squatting on the floor.
Tamou scooped a tea glass through the couscous Fouziya had dumped into a wide crockery bowl, filling it half full of the grains, then to the brim with water, before draining the water out. She did this three times, muttering her disapproval. We could tell Rachid had not chosen the right couscous, but it was frustrating to not understand Tamou’s explanation. When Rachid returned, we insisted he translate for us: ‘Good couscous needs just one washing!’ Ah, now we knew.
Still on their haunches, Tamou massaged oil into the couscous and Nadia seeded tomatoes through a grater into a bowl on the floor. Fouziya broke branches into small pieces for the fire. Deb and I peeled and sliced vegetables over our basin, as Tamou gestured and kept up a running commentary on the proceedings. Her crackling laugh rivalled the snap of kindling as the fire caught. Stinging smoke filled the room until the flue began to draw it outside. Tamou covered her nose with the end of her headscarf. I coughed as I observed the medieval tableau through smoke-induced tears.
Tamou added argan husks to the fire to raise the heat, and swabbed the chicken with synthetic yellow colorant from a packet. I was dismayed that the lamentable chemical, which contributes nothing in the way of taste or aroma, was used by every home cook we met in Morocco, to supplement or replace turmeric. When the chicken came to a boil with onions and tomatoes, Tamou added the root vegetables and simple seasonings: coarse salt, black pepper and a sprinkle of powdered ginger. No cumin, coriander or parsley here, ingredients used in such quantity in city kitchens. I wondered how this meal would taste without these flavourings.
Fouziya trowelled the couscous into an aluminium pot with holes punched in the bottom, and twisted a plastic bag around it. She set it atop the chicken and turbaned the two pots with a towel.
Voilà,
an instant
couscousière
. Ingenious! The stacked ensemble went back on the fire to simmer until Tamou pronounced the chicken done.
Steam roiled above Fouziya’s head as she turned the couscous onto a round platter and shook it vigorously to toss the grains. She mounded the couscous and arranged chicken and vegetables on top. Meanwhile, Tamou had returned the
When it was time to prepare the couscous, Fouziya and Nadia bustled to fetch water and kindling. Tamou led us to a free-standing room, a kitchen without running water or electricity. There was no gas bottle, the engine that powers Morocco’s urban kitchens. A lone rack held pots, platters, trays and a few glasses. The cooktop was a low stone shelf in one corner, a small space for building a fire underneath, the wall above streaked sooty black. Tamou’s was the most primitive of the kitchens we’d seen, practically empty. How does she cook with nothing? Where were the big jars of cumin and
ras el hanout,
the piles of coriander and parsley, the little dishes for serving salads?
Fouziya put one of the birds we’d brought into a pot with slices of lemon and covered it with water. Tamou handed Deb and me the ubiquitous paring knives that constitute the full kitchen kit for many Moroccan cooks, and I thought guiltily of the gadgets and conveniences in my home. We were put to veggie duty before a basin of water set on the stone floor. It was cold, and my fingers cramped as I washed and cored carrots. It was impossible to stay crouched and I constantly shifted position. After ten minutes of this, my knees and ankles screamed for relief. I was thrilled when Nadia fetched me a cushion. I wondered how they could prepare every meal squatting on the floor.
Tamou scooped a tea glass through the couscous Fouziya had dumped into a wide crockery bowl, filling it half full of the grains, then to the brim with water, before draining the water out. She did this three times, muttering her disapproval. We could tell Rachid had not chosen the right couscous, but it was frustrating to not understand Tamou’s explanation. When Rachid returned, we insisted he translate for us: ‘Good couscous needs just one washing!’ Ah, now we knew.
Still on their haunches, Tamou massaged oil into the couscous and Nadia seeded tomatoes through a grater into a bowl on the floor. Fouziya broke branches into small pieces for the fire. Deb and I peeled and sliced vegetables over our basin, as Tamou gestured and kept up a running commentary on the proceedings. Her crackling laugh rivalled the snap of kindling as the fire caught. Stinging smoke filled the room until the flue began to draw it outside. Tamou covered her nose with the end of her headscarf. I coughed as I observed the medieval tableau through smoke-induced tears.
Tamou added argan husks to the fire to raise the heat, and swabbed the chicken with synthetic yellow colorant from a packet. I was dismayed that the lamentable chemical, which contributes nothing in the way of taste or aroma, was used by every home cook we met in Morocco, to supplement or replace turmeric. When the chicken came to a boil with onions and tomatoes, Tamou added the root vegetables and simple seasonings: coarse salt, black pepper and a sprinkle of powdered ginger. No cumin, coriander or parsley here, ingredients used in such quantity in city kitchens. I wondered how this meal would taste without these flavourings.
Fouziya trowelled the couscous into an aluminium pot with holes punched in the bottom, and twisted a plastic bag around it. She set it atop the chicken and turbaned the two pots with a towel.
Voilà,
an instant
couscousière
. Ingenious! The stacked ensemble went back on the fire to simmer until Tamou pronounced the chicken done.
Steam roiled above Fouziya’s head as she turned the couscous onto a round platter and shook it vigorously to toss the grains. She mounded the couscous and arranged chicken and vegetables on top. Meanwhile, Tamou had returned the
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