cooking pot to the fire, and reduced its liquid until thickened to her liking. Tamou ladled sauce over the platter and summoned us to the table. Theplatter was only slightly smaller than the table top. There were no individual plates.
Nor was there cutlery, just a circle of right hands tearing meat from bone and scooping up couscous. Here, as elsewhere, the Moroccans pulled meat from the hot carcass with asbestos fingers, something I found impossible to do. I was grateful when Tamou placed bits of chicken on my side of the platter. The yellow-tinged chicken was tender, the vegetables and sauce more flavourful than I had expected.
Chuckling, Tamou flipped a small handful of couscous back and forth in her palm to form a ball, and popped it into her mouth. She motioned for me to try it. My attempts to imitate the trick were in vain, but I cadged my share of couscous and vegetables with pieces of bread.
The sun was setting as the women walked us to the car. We clasped hands again, and Deb and I were effusive in our thanks for the day. Tamou and her granddaughters had never met an American or Canadian before, but the warm efficiency with which they had welcomed us into their home had made it seem like drop-in visits such as ours happen all the time. When Tamou gave me a fierce hug, I was saddened to know we’d not meet again. Long shadows followed our tumble down the mountain to the highway.
In city kitchens, Deb and I had experienced a richly spiced cuisine of complex flavours and elaborate meals elegantly presented. We had been introduced to exotic and intriguing food combinations. There was none of that with Tamou. She provided us with a glimpse into her rural food culture, its modest flavours and unpretentious hospitality. As our day together unfolded, Tamou’s fun-loving nature and generosity of spirit shone through the mantle of her discipline.
I admired this resourceful woman who had prepared a meal for unannounced strangers, transforming the ingredients they brought into a Friday feast – and making it look effortless. She and her granddaughters cooked food in the way they knew, and served it with pride.
Minor discomforts were trumped by wonder as I watched Team Tamou in action. The day opened my heart to that part of a culture’s cuisine that lies beyond the taste and presentation of food. I had entered Moroccan home kitchens in search of culinary secrets and insider cooking tips. In Tamou’s company, these taste-centric expectations were replaced by a broadened appreciation of homely hospitality.
Women in Morocco inspired me to cook with greater confidence, to put away my measuring cups and trust my intuition. Tamou’s example taught me something more substantial. I began to worry less about perfecting a dish, or setting my own table with picture-book elegance. I started to pay more attention to meal-time camaraderie and to feel more generosity towards strangers. Even now, when I pull a paring knife from the drawer, my heart warms at the memory of a remarkable woman celebrating the day we shared with a well-placed lick of her hand and forearm.
Cooking with Donna
WILLIAM SERTL
William Sertl was the travel editor of
Gourmet
for ten years, having started at the magazine the same year that Ruth Reichl took over, in 1999. The position combined his two great passions – food and travel – and he worked with a team of editors that, he says, ‘ended up being more like family than colleagues. We certainly agreed on one thing: the first order of business after getting off a plane was figuring out where to eat.’ Prior to
Gourmet,
Bill was one of the founding editors of
Saveur
(as well as the travel editor of
Garden Design
), and worked for that magazine from its inception in 1993. From 1986 until 1993, he was articles editor of
Travel & Leisure
. Bill was born and raised in St Louis.
It took me thirty years as a travel editor – best job in the world, everyone said – to realise how much distaste I had for
Nor was there cutlery, just a circle of right hands tearing meat from bone and scooping up couscous. Here, as elsewhere, the Moroccans pulled meat from the hot carcass with asbestos fingers, something I found impossible to do. I was grateful when Tamou placed bits of chicken on my side of the platter. The yellow-tinged chicken was tender, the vegetables and sauce more flavourful than I had expected.
Chuckling, Tamou flipped a small handful of couscous back and forth in her palm to form a ball, and popped it into her mouth. She motioned for me to try it. My attempts to imitate the trick were in vain, but I cadged my share of couscous and vegetables with pieces of bread.
The sun was setting as the women walked us to the car. We clasped hands again, and Deb and I were effusive in our thanks for the day. Tamou and her granddaughters had never met an American or Canadian before, but the warm efficiency with which they had welcomed us into their home had made it seem like drop-in visits such as ours happen all the time. When Tamou gave me a fierce hug, I was saddened to know we’d not meet again. Long shadows followed our tumble down the mountain to the highway.
In city kitchens, Deb and I had experienced a richly spiced cuisine of complex flavours and elaborate meals elegantly presented. We had been introduced to exotic and intriguing food combinations. There was none of that with Tamou. She provided us with a glimpse into her rural food culture, its modest flavours and unpretentious hospitality. As our day together unfolded, Tamou’s fun-loving nature and generosity of spirit shone through the mantle of her discipline.
I admired this resourceful woman who had prepared a meal for unannounced strangers, transforming the ingredients they brought into a Friday feast – and making it look effortless. She and her granddaughters cooked food in the way they knew, and served it with pride.
Minor discomforts were trumped by wonder as I watched Team Tamou in action. The day opened my heart to that part of a culture’s cuisine that lies beyond the taste and presentation of food. I had entered Moroccan home kitchens in search of culinary secrets and insider cooking tips. In Tamou’s company, these taste-centric expectations were replaced by a broadened appreciation of homely hospitality.
Women in Morocco inspired me to cook with greater confidence, to put away my measuring cups and trust my intuition. Tamou’s example taught me something more substantial. I began to worry less about perfecting a dish, or setting my own table with picture-book elegance. I started to pay more attention to meal-time camaraderie and to feel more generosity towards strangers. Even now, when I pull a paring knife from the drawer, my heart warms at the memory of a remarkable woman celebrating the day we shared with a well-placed lick of her hand and forearm.
Cooking with Donna
WILLIAM SERTL
William Sertl was the travel editor of
Gourmet
for ten years, having started at the magazine the same year that Ruth Reichl took over, in 1999. The position combined his two great passions – food and travel – and he worked with a team of editors that, he says, ‘ended up being more like family than colleagues. We certainly agreed on one thing: the first order of business after getting off a plane was figuring out where to eat.’ Prior to
Gourmet,
Bill was one of the founding editors of
Saveur
(as well as the travel editor of
Garden Design
), and worked for that magazine from its inception in 1993. From 1986 until 1993, he was articles editor of
Travel & Leisure
. Bill was born and raised in St Louis.
It took me thirty years as a travel editor – best job in the world, everyone said – to realise how much distaste I had for
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