After that, you will all receive some wonderful updates from around the world, as I will spend the month of August traveling; first to Bourgogne in southern France, then to Annecy, in the Alps, and finally to Indonesia (Java and Bali) and Malaysia.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Where in the world?
One month until I have to have 14000 words written on legal pluralism and women's land rights in North Africa, so it's going to be sporadic updating until then. Good news is, I'm going to possibly my favorite place to write. La Folletière, my grandmother's house in Basse-Normandie.
After that, you will all receive some wonderful updates from around the world, as I will spend the month of August traveling; first to Bourgogne in southern France, then to Annecy, in the Alps, and finally to Indonesia (Java and Bali) and Malaysia.
After that, you will all receive some wonderful updates from around the world, as I will spend the month of August traveling; first to Bourgogne in southern France, then to Annecy, in the Alps, and finally to Indonesia (Java and Bali) and Malaysia.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Andalusian Vacation
Back in late March, my mom came to visit me in Brussels and we took a much needed vacation to southern spain. A week in Córdoba, with day trips to Sevilla and Granáda, a beautiful region that was rich in history--and especially famous for its shared history with North Africa. For 700 years, Spain was ruled by the same Arab dynasties that ruled over North Africa. Al-Maghreb wa al-Andalus was a powerful Islamic empire, with Andalusia being the seat for many Caliphs.
Given my love for North Africa, it must not come as much of a surprise that the architecture and shared history was fascinating. The Cathedral at Córdoba, a former Mosque was amazing, awe-inspiring. The columns, the arches, the open space. I love the majesty of Cathedrals, but this one had an aura to it that is impossible to put into words. It was built on the site of a Visigoth temple after the Islamic conquest and was turned into a Church in the 13th century after the Catholic Conquest of Córdoba.
The Al-Hambra in Granada was another world famous beautiful place. Built in the 14th century by the last Emir of Granada, it was a fortified city. Upon the Reconquista, it was surrendered without a fight. As with the Córdoba Cathedral, it is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Emperor Charles V built a palace on the grounds, but died before it was completed. It was re-discovered by Washington Irving in the 19th century and restored to become one of the most visited sites in Spain.
I unfortunately do not have any photos of the food--but it features heavily on tapas and sangria. Tapas are one of those categories of food that I have yet to try cooking on my own. Its bite-sized servings feature a range from vegetable, to chicken, seafood, fried potatoes, meatballs...etc.
As for Sangria, I have a pretty good recipe. Try it out and let me know what you think!
Sangria
Ingredients:
1 bottle (750 ml) red wine
cognac (100 ml--about 2 shots worth)
250 ml simple syrup (boil 2 cups water, take off heat, add 1 c. granulated sugar, stir until sugar dissolves, let cool)
2 apples
1 lemon
1 lime
1 orange and the juice of another
Mix all ingredients, adjusting alcohol or simple syrup to taste. Pour over ice. Add fruit slices (do not use the rinds of the citrus fruits, it will give a bitter taste) and let marinate for a couple of hours.
Serve cold.
Given my love for North Africa, it must not come as much of a surprise that the architecture and shared history was fascinating. The Cathedral at Córdoba, a former Mosque was amazing, awe-inspiring. The columns, the arches, the open space. I love the majesty of Cathedrals, but this one had an aura to it that is impossible to put into words. It was built on the site of a Visigoth temple after the Islamic conquest and was turned into a Church in the 13th century after the Catholic Conquest of Córdoba.
The Al-Hambra in Granada was another world famous beautiful place. Built in the 14th century by the last Emir of Granada, it was a fortified city. Upon the Reconquista, it was surrendered without a fight. As with the Córdoba Cathedral, it is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Emperor Charles V built a palace on the grounds, but died before it was completed. It was re-discovered by Washington Irving in the 19th century and restored to become one of the most visited sites in Spain.
I unfortunately do not have any photos of the food--but it features heavily on tapas and sangria. Tapas are one of those categories of food that I have yet to try cooking on my own. Its bite-sized servings feature a range from vegetable, to chicken, seafood, fried potatoes, meatballs...etc.
As for Sangria, I have a pretty good recipe. Try it out and let me know what you think!
Sangria
Ingredients:
1 bottle (750 ml) red wine
cognac (100 ml--about 2 shots worth)
250 ml simple syrup (boil 2 cups water, take off heat, add 1 c. granulated sugar, stir until sugar dissolves, let cool)
2 apples
1 lemon
1 lime
1 orange and the juice of another
Mix all ingredients, adjusting alcohol or simple syrup to taste. Pour over ice. Add fruit slices (do not use the rinds of the citrus fruits, it will give a bitter taste) and let marinate for a couple of hours.
Serve cold.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Say Yes to Women's Colleges
No, I am not a bra-burning feminist. Yes, I went to an all women's college.
In 2006, the then President of Simmons College wrote a wonderful op-ed piece on why women's colleges should be invested in and why their graduates are the future. I re-post annually, and I think it's about that time.
I am strong, independent, critical, intelligent. I can be all of these things and still cry, still lean on my parents, still be feminine, still want to have a family one day. It's not one or the other, and anyone who tells you different has missed the concept entirely.
My years at Simmons were some of the most fulfilling years where my internal growth was exponential with every experience I had and people I met. My time at Simmons College build upon my upbringing to mold the person I am today.
Last month, I spent an incredible weekend on Cape Cod with my best friends. Those friendships were started, built upon, and cemented at Simmons. So, thank you ladies!
A recent graduate summed it up this way:
Simmonsness: (n.) - A thirsting desire for knowledge, for a better community, for a better world, for more. A relationship with classmates in which they push each other towards excellence, in and out of the classroom. The seizing of every opportunity, and in more cases than not, the creation of opportunities.
Here is the article for you. Enjoy!
Yes to Women's Colleges !
By Susan Scrimshaw, October 4, 2006 from the Boston Globe
TWO WOMEN'S colleges, Regis College and Randolph-Macon Woman's College, announced recently they will become co educational. Does this matter? Haven't today's women “made it”? Are women's colleges still relevant today? Yes, every bit as relevant, and in some cases more so, than they were when I was an undergraduate at Barnard College 40 years ago. Women have made extraordinary gains, but women are still the “first” and sometimes the “only” in many settings and situations. There are still wage and opportunity differences. There is still work to be done. Women's colleges are an important place for that work to continue.
Women's colleges empower their students. Students say they receive support for who they are, what they bring, what they want to accomplish, and how to get there. You hear “yes” and “why not?” instead of “no” or “why?” And you gain confidence that you are in charge of your future.
Even today, when women occupy more than half the seats in a typical coeducational classroom, women at single-sex institutions report having more engaging academic experiences than women at coed schools. The Indiana University Center for Postsecondary Research surveyed more than 42,000 students, including students at 26 women's colleges, in a study published in July. They found that students from women's colleges reported that overall they have greater satisfaction with their college experience, including greater support for their success, far more interaction with faculty members, more integrative learning experiences, better- developed quantitative analysis skills, and far more opportunities to develop leadership skills.
Consider the power: Although only 2 percent of all women who attended a US college or university in the past 30 years were graduates of women's colleges, they constitute 20 percent of women in Congress and nearly 20 percent of the 2005 Fortune “50 Most Powerful Women in Business.”
Students at women's colleges have more opportunities to observe women in top jobs. (At women's colleges, the majority of the presidents are women, and more than half of the faculty members are women.) And we cannot stop here. In our society, we continue to hold cultural stereotypes about gender roles and abilities. Minority women face a double set of challenges.
Johnnetta Cole, president of Bennett College, a historically black women's college in Greensboro, N.C., and president emerita of Spelman College, points to society to
explain relevancy: “As long as we live in a society where there is power and privilege in being white and being male, we need these institutions.” Despite progress in the business world, there is still a long and sometimes arduous climb for women up the leadership ladder. Women currently hold more than half of the management and professional positions in this country.
But a July 2006 Catalyst study of Fortune 500 companies shows that women occupy only 9.4 percent of titles higher than vice president, hold only 6.4 percent of top-paying positions, and represent only 16.4 percent of corporate officers. Moreover, women of color in the Fortune 500 survey hold less than 2 percent of corporate officer positions and represent only 1 percent of Fortune 500 top earners.
Women's colleges are not the right fit for everyone. But even in today's coeducational classes, many women report they do not feel empowered. A 2003 study of women in coeducational classes at Duke University reported that many women say they still face subtle and traditional stereotypical pressures. But if women's schools are so relevant, why are their numbers shrinking -- from about 300 schools in the late 1960s to 58 today? Most women's colleges that have gone co ed make what they say is a heart- wrenching decision because they face tough financial issues.
But the news at Simmons and many of the remaining women's colleges is good. Simmons enrollment has increased by more than 50 percent in the past five years. Our applicant pool and our first-year class are among the largest in our history. We are not alone. The healthy endowments of such women's colleges as Wellesley, Smith, Mount Holyoke, and Bryn Mawr are examples of success and strength.
I recently sat in on an advanced organic chemistry class where the professor asked for volunteers to demonstrate molecular resonance by moving to different types of music. I wistfully said to the young student next to me, “I wish I could go down there and dance. But that's probably not a good idea, since I am supposed to be observing.”
With no hesitation, she said: “This is a women's college. We can do anything we want.”
In 2006, the then President of Simmons College wrote a wonderful op-ed piece on why women's colleges should be invested in and why their graduates are the future. I re-post annually, and I think it's about that time.
I am strong, independent, critical, intelligent. I can be all of these things and still cry, still lean on my parents, still be feminine, still want to have a family one day. It's not one or the other, and anyone who tells you different has missed the concept entirely.
My years at Simmons were some of the most fulfilling years where my internal growth was exponential with every experience I had and people I met. My time at Simmons College build upon my upbringing to mold the person I am today.
Last month, I spent an incredible weekend on Cape Cod with my best friends. Those friendships were started, built upon, and cemented at Simmons. So, thank you ladies!
A recent graduate summed it up this way:
Simmonsness: (n.) - A thirsting desire for knowledge, for a better community, for a better world, for more. A relationship with classmates in which they push each other towards excellence, in and out of the classroom. The seizing of every opportunity, and in more cases than not, the creation of opportunities.
Here is the article for you. Enjoy!
Yes to Women's Colleges !
By Susan Scrimshaw, October 4, 2006 from the Boston Globe
TWO WOMEN'S colleges, Regis College and Randolph-Macon Woman's College, announced recently they will become co educational. Does this matter? Haven't today's women “made it”? Are women's colleges still relevant today? Yes, every bit as relevant, and in some cases more so, than they were when I was an undergraduate at Barnard College 40 years ago. Women have made extraordinary gains, but women are still the “first” and sometimes the “only” in many settings and situations. There are still wage and opportunity differences. There is still work to be done. Women's colleges are an important place for that work to continue.
Women's colleges empower their students. Students say they receive support for who they are, what they bring, what they want to accomplish, and how to get there. You hear “yes” and “why not?” instead of “no” or “why?” And you gain confidence that you are in charge of your future.
Even today, when women occupy more than half the seats in a typical coeducational classroom, women at single-sex institutions report having more engaging academic experiences than women at coed schools. The Indiana University Center for Postsecondary Research surveyed more than 42,000 students, including students at 26 women's colleges, in a study published in July. They found that students from women's colleges reported that overall they have greater satisfaction with their college experience, including greater support for their success, far more interaction with faculty members, more integrative learning experiences, better- developed quantitative analysis skills, and far more opportunities to develop leadership skills.
Consider the power: Although only 2 percent of all women who attended a US college or university in the past 30 years were graduates of women's colleges, they constitute 20 percent of women in Congress and nearly 20 percent of the 2005 Fortune “50 Most Powerful Women in Business.”
Students at women's colleges have more opportunities to observe women in top jobs. (At women's colleges, the majority of the presidents are women, and more than half of the faculty members are women.) And we cannot stop here. In our society, we continue to hold cultural stereotypes about gender roles and abilities. Minority women face a double set of challenges.
Johnnetta Cole, president of Bennett College, a historically black women's college in Greensboro, N.C., and president emerita of Spelman College, points to society to
explain relevancy: “As long as we live in a society where there is power and privilege in being white and being male, we need these institutions.” Despite progress in the business world, there is still a long and sometimes arduous climb for women up the leadership ladder. Women currently hold more than half of the management and professional positions in this country.
But a July 2006 Catalyst study of Fortune 500 companies shows that women occupy only 9.4 percent of titles higher than vice president, hold only 6.4 percent of top-paying positions, and represent only 16.4 percent of corporate officers. Moreover, women of color in the Fortune 500 survey hold less than 2 percent of corporate officer positions and represent only 1 percent of Fortune 500 top earners.
Women's colleges are not the right fit for everyone. But even in today's coeducational classes, many women report they do not feel empowered. A 2003 study of women in coeducational classes at Duke University reported that many women say they still face subtle and traditional stereotypical pressures. But if women's schools are so relevant, why are their numbers shrinking -- from about 300 schools in the late 1960s to 58 today? Most women's colleges that have gone co ed make what they say is a heart- wrenching decision because they face tough financial issues.
But the news at Simmons and many of the remaining women's colleges is good. Simmons enrollment has increased by more than 50 percent in the past five years. Our applicant pool and our first-year class are among the largest in our history. We are not alone. The healthy endowments of such women's colleges as Wellesley, Smith, Mount Holyoke, and Bryn Mawr are examples of success and strength.
I recently sat in on an advanced organic chemistry class where the professor asked for volunteers to demonstrate molecular resonance by moving to different types of music. I wistfully said to the young student next to me, “I wish I could go down there and dance. But that's probably not a good idea, since I am supposed to be observing.”
With no hesitation, she said: “This is a women's college. We can do anything we want.”
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Sushi and the Summer Solstice
A few months back, I took a sushi making course. Since then, I have reproduced what I leanrned in class twice, and its getting easier every time. I know there are many nuances to sushi making, but the basic steps are simple with the right ingredients.
In progress:
Ingredients:
Rice vinegar, sushi rice, seaweed squares, soy sauce, water, pickled ginger, salmon or tuna, shrimp, surimi (processed crab), cucumber, carrots, avocado.
Hardware:
sushi mat, saran wrap, chopsticks, sharp knife
Process:
rinse the rice by running it under cold water for 10-20 minutes or until the water runs clear. cover the rice with water and cook until the water evaporates. When the rice is cooked add a couple tablespoons of rice vinegar.
While the rice is cooking, cut the fish and vegetables into strips.
Take a seaweed square and spread a thin layer of rice on it. dip your hands in a mix of rice vinegar and water to keep from sticking.
In the middle of the rice, lay fish and vegetables across, but not too thick so as to make it easy to close.
Roll the seaweed and tuck one end under. Use the sushi mat to roll the sushi roll in the making.
Don't hesitate to squeeze the sushi roll with the mat to make sure it is well closed.
On a cutting board, take a sharp knife and cut the sushi roll into 6 or 8 pieces. If the knife sticks when cutting, dip it into a mix of rice vinegar and water.
After a couple tries, it should look somewhat like this.
The finished product:
In progress:
Ingredients:
Rice vinegar, sushi rice, seaweed squares, soy sauce, water, pickled ginger, salmon or tuna, shrimp, surimi (processed crab), cucumber, carrots, avocado.
Hardware:
sushi mat, saran wrap, chopsticks, sharp knife
Process:
rinse the rice by running it under cold water for 10-20 minutes or until the water runs clear. cover the rice with water and cook until the water evaporates. When the rice is cooked add a couple tablespoons of rice vinegar.
While the rice is cooking, cut the fish and vegetables into strips.
Take a seaweed square and spread a thin layer of rice on it. dip your hands in a mix of rice vinegar and water to keep from sticking.
In the middle of the rice, lay fish and vegetables across, but not too thick so as to make it easy to close.
Roll the seaweed and tuck one end under. Use the sushi mat to roll the sushi roll in the making.
Don't hesitate to squeeze the sushi roll with the mat to make sure it is well closed.
On a cutting board, take a sharp knife and cut the sushi roll into 6 or 8 pieces. If the knife sticks when cutting, dip it into a mix of rice vinegar and water.
After a couple tries, it should look somewhat like this.
The finished product:
Fuel
"Apples and peanut butter: entire pieces of legislation have been drafted on apples and peanut butter." (The West Wing, Season 3 Episode 1)
but when I'm stressed, I bake:
Chocolate Brownie Cake:
adapted from Babycakes NYC
Ingredients:
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, 1 cup sugar, 2 eggs, 2 t baking powder, 1/4 t baking soda, 1/4 t anthan gum, 1.5 cups rice flour, 1 cup chocolate chunks, 1/2 t salt, 1 T vanilla extract, 1/2 cup coconut oil, 1/2 cup coffee
Preparation:
Sift dry ingredients together. Add eggs and oil. Add coffee. Fold in chocolate chips. Pour into greased cake pan. Bake 45 minutes at 180 degrees celsius.
but when I'm stressed, I bake:
Chocolate Brownie Cake:
adapted from Babycakes NYC
Ingredients:
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, 1 cup sugar, 2 eggs, 2 t baking powder, 1/4 t baking soda, 1/4 t anthan gum, 1.5 cups rice flour, 1 cup chocolate chunks, 1/2 t salt, 1 T vanilla extract, 1/2 cup coconut oil, 1/2 cup coffee
Preparation:
Sift dry ingredients together. Add eggs and oil. Add coffee. Fold in chocolate chips. Pour into greased cake pan. Bake 45 minutes at 180 degrees celsius.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Semester at Sea
Having been brought up in an international environment, moving quite a bit, I realize what a blessing it is to have friendships all over the world.
So, this Father's Day, I want to thank papa et maman for exposing me to all these experiences.
Je vous aimes plus que tout l'univers.
xoxo
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Czech Street Party
Yesterday, the Czech Representation to the EU hosted their 5th annual Czech Street Party. Each region had a booth where they were promoting tourism and local food. At each end of the street were stages showcasing live music from popular Czech bands. We went hoping to find some Czech dumplings (which I'm told are nothing compared to Slovak dumplings). We instead landed upon something my (soon-to-be) roommate described as "that thing from Hansel and Gretel," which after some clarification turned out to be gingerbread.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Summer in Brussels
It stopped raining April 1. Everyone thought it was going to be God's version of an April Fools, but its been nice pretty regularly since then. It made it really difficult to write papers--and now a dissertation. Saturdays in the park, people are out in force, including scouts and children participating in the weekly soccer game.
The Royal Greenhouses of Laeken are only open two weeks a year, and the amount of people rivaled the amount of flowers. But the flowers were beautiful, and well worth the traverse across the royal park. I thought I knew how to get there, but after getting off the tram, I ended up walking 40 minutes through the royal park, and getting back was no easy feat either.
The Royal Greenhouses of Laeken are only open two weeks a year, and the amount of people rivaled the amount of flowers. But the flowers were beautiful, and well worth the traverse across the royal park. I thought I knew how to get there, but after getting off the tram, I ended up walking 40 minutes through the royal park, and getting back was no easy feat either.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Party
I mentioned that I have be privileged enough to attend many family celebrations. Seffa is a dish made for special occasions, including births, circumcisions, weddings, and holidays. I was lucky enough to eat it when I attended a party for the birth of a little girl. I'm going to make you work for this recipe, because giving birth in Morocco is not fun. I had a friend who was working as a midwife in the hospital where my host cousin delivered her little girl. On the day of her birth, I joined the women in the family at the hospital. My friend who works at the maternity clinic and she has some horror stories about giving birth here, so I was very worried. Midwives and doctors here only give the women 20 minutes to push the baby out—and if nothing happens in that time, the women are given an episiotomy and the baby is suctioned out with the help of the doctor straddling the mother and pushing on her stomach. And most first time mothers are like my host cousin, age 19, and with no idea of what is to come. But, while she is in pain and very tired, the little girl is gorgeous. This coming Friday is the naming ceremony—we will kill a sheep and cook lots of food—and eat with the entire family gathered. So now that I've probably turned your stomach a little bit, here is a recipe.
Sfa' سفاء
Seffa is sweetened vermicelli. It is easy to make but time consuming. I was taught to make this dish by steaming the pasta, because boiling renders the pasta limp. It can also be made with couscous, which turns this dish into something similar to the sweet couscous served at weddings. Traditionally, the sfa' is eaten around a table with everyone eating from their own section. It is easiest eaten with a spoon. Spoon some chicken broth onto your section before eaten to moisten.
Ingredients:
water
1 preserved lemon
2lb bag of vermicelli
2 cups of almonds, chopped (can be replaced with peanuts)
1 cup white raisins
cinnamon
powdered sugar
1 t saffron
1 t curcuma
1 T ginger
1 T ras el hanout
4 T butter
3 T olive oil (or argan oil if you have some)
1 small chicken, cut (about 2lb)
salt and pepper to taste
Start by browning the chicken in the base of the couscousier with spices to taste. After about 5-10 minutes, add water, filling the base of a couscousier to cover the chicken. Bring to a boil then turn the heat down to medium. If you don't have a couscousier you can use a regular steamer, just don't let the vermicelli touch the water. The chicken should cook until tender, about an hour.
Next, mix 3tbs of oil with a 2lb bag of vermicelli. Make sure to coat each strand. Cut the preserved lemon and place in the top of the steamer with the vermicelli. Place the oiled vermicelli in the top of the couscousier and steam for 20 minutes.
Turn the pasta out into a bowl, break apart, and add about 1 cup to 1 1/4 cups of water, sprinkle it on the pasta while mixing. Place back into the top of the couscousier and steam for another 20 minutes. Start timing when you see the steam coming through the strands and the strands will start to stand up on their ends.
For the third steaming repeat the same process as above only add salt (salt to your taste). Again, time the steaming for another 20 minutes from when the steam rises from the vermicelli, and watch for the ends to stand up.
At this time, the chicken should be cooked, so take it out of the water in the base of the steamer. Leave the broth and spices and proceed to the next two steamings.
The fourth and fifth steamings will be the same as above except without adding more salt. After the final steaming add about 4 tbs of unsalted butter to the vermicelli and place on a large plate.
Finely chop some fried almonds (recipe below), about 2 cups or more if you like.
Layer 1/3 of the pasta on a large serving plate. place chicken in the middle and ladle some broth over it. Add 1/2 cup of almonds, 1 teaspoon of ginger, and 1 tablespoon each of cinnamon and powdered sugar. Cover with the rest of the vermicelli.
Sprinkle the rest of the almonds all over the mound. Next, take some cinnamon and sprinkle on the mound making lines down the mound. Lastly, place a large amount of powdered sugar on the top and make sprinkle lines like you did with the cinnamon.
Place the chicken broth in a serving bowl to use as a topping for the sfa' Serve hot.
Sfa' سفاء
Seffa is sweetened vermicelli. It is easy to make but time consuming. I was taught to make this dish by steaming the pasta, because boiling renders the pasta limp. It can also be made with couscous, which turns this dish into something similar to the sweet couscous served at weddings. Traditionally, the sfa' is eaten around a table with everyone eating from their own section. It is easiest eaten with a spoon. Spoon some chicken broth onto your section before eaten to moisten.
Ingredients:
water
1 preserved lemon
2lb bag of vermicelli
2 cups of almonds, chopped (can be replaced with peanuts)
1 cup white raisins
cinnamon
powdered sugar
1 t saffron
1 t curcuma
1 T ginger
1 T ras el hanout
4 T butter
3 T olive oil (or argan oil if you have some)
1 small chicken, cut (about 2lb)
salt and pepper to taste
Start by browning the chicken in the base of the couscousier with spices to taste. After about 5-10 minutes, add water, filling the base of a couscousier to cover the chicken. Bring to a boil then turn the heat down to medium. If you don't have a couscousier you can use a regular steamer, just don't let the vermicelli touch the water. The chicken should cook until tender, about an hour.
Next, mix 3tbs of oil with a 2lb bag of vermicelli. Make sure to coat each strand. Cut the preserved lemon and place in the top of the steamer with the vermicelli. Place the oiled vermicelli in the top of the couscousier and steam for 20 minutes.
Turn the pasta out into a bowl, break apart, and add about 1 cup to 1 1/4 cups of water, sprinkle it on the pasta while mixing. Place back into the top of the couscousier and steam for another 20 minutes. Start timing when you see the steam coming through the strands and the strands will start to stand up on their ends.
For the third steaming repeat the same process as above only add salt (salt to your taste). Again, time the steaming for another 20 minutes from when the steam rises from the vermicelli, and watch for the ends to stand up.
At this time, the chicken should be cooked, so take it out of the water in the base of the steamer. Leave the broth and spices and proceed to the next two steamings.
The fourth and fifth steamings will be the same as above except without adding more salt. After the final steaming add about 4 tbs of unsalted butter to the vermicelli and place on a large plate.
Finely chop some fried almonds (recipe below), about 2 cups or more if you like.
Layer 1/3 of the pasta on a large serving plate. place chicken in the middle and ladle some broth over it. Add 1/2 cup of almonds, 1 teaspoon of ginger, and 1 tablespoon each of cinnamon and powdered sugar. Cover with the rest of the vermicelli.
Sprinkle the rest of the almonds all over the mound. Next, take some cinnamon and sprinkle on the mound making lines down the mound. Lastly, place a large amount of powdered sugar on the top and make sprinkle lines like you did with the cinnamon.
Place the chicken broth in a serving bowl to use as a topping for the sfa' Serve hot.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
3 minarets
I went to Fes planning to take two days to explore the famous medina, but plans were derailed by the owner of the hotel where I was staying; the first day there was a Friday, and the friend I was travelling with and I were invited for couscous. During the meal, Mohamed invited us to come to his house in the afternoon and his wife would teach us how to make ghraif. We were shown to a courtyard across the street from the hotel and into Mohamed and Bouchra’s house. After setting us up in the living room with blankets, we all napped for a couple hours before getting to the cooking. Bouchra went into the kitchen and started preparing the dough for ghraif. I sat and watched her work, asking questions to clear up the recipe in my mind. Then, Bouchra handed me lighter and asked me make some tea. I was honored that she thought I knew how to make it. I stumbled through though and was rewarded with a nice laugh and a helping hand. Soon, there was a knock on the door. Mohamed’s mother had come over with a Kik fresh out of the oven. Then, Mohamed’s sister Khadija and her daughter came over for snack time. After a copious snack, we were invited to go with the women to the grande place outside the medina. We where sitting at the edge of the group when suddenly, we were summoned to come sit in between the women. Apparently, there was a group of men looking at us inappropriately and Bouchra and her mother in law wanted to make sure they knew that we were protected. It was such a touching gesture, especially when it was followed with a harsh word and a meaningful look reprobating the young men.
Mesmen مسمن
Ingredients:
2 cups wheat flour
2 cups semolina flour.
2 cups water (you may need more or less to get the right consistency. ideal is a gooey bread dough)
salt (couple pinches)
1-2 cups vegetable oil (used to separate into balls and keep from sticking and for cooking)
Mix 2 flours with boiling water and salt until a paste forms.
Knead dough to get rid of air bubbles. (I fold it over unto itself about a dozen times)
cover your hands in oil. using enough oil to keep the dough from sticking to your hands, shape dough into balls by putting a few spoonfuls in your hand and squeezing through thumb and forefinger. (the way an “ok” sign would be if your fist was closed)
Let rest 10 minutes.
Using more vegetable oil, spread and flatten dough into a square. Fold into thirds and then into thirds again. Flatten again and cook in hot skillet with some vegetable oil until golden brown. Let cool or eat warm.
This is good served almost anything, but two traditional toppings are Amelou and honey.
Amelou: 2 T Argan oil, 1/4c. crushed almonds, 2 T honey. mix all together into a paste.
Honey: 1/4 c butter and 1/4 c. honey. Melt butter to almost boiling, add honey and stir.
As some of you may know, Fes is the artisanal leather capital of Morocco, and the best place to buy leather goods—sorry for those of you who are queasy when it comes to dead animals. So, the next day we went to visit the famous tanneries and had another adventure. We were walking and looking into little alleyways when suddenly, we ended up in a courtyard filled with wool. There were still donkeys waiting to be unloaded and men combing and cleaning the wool. After this, we tried to get rid of our faux-guide by telling him we had no money, but he waved us off and so we followed him to the tannery. As we were walking through the medina, he explained that Fes was split into 365 neighborhoods and that each neighborhood of a medina has 5 things: a mosque, a fountain, a hammam, a communal oven, and a medersa (koranic school). We eventually ended up in a back alley where the smell was quite strong—this was no tourist destination since we did not get a sprig of mint to inhale to avoid the tanneries. Here, the men were specializing in dying the wool with a base of saffron—turning the leather a beautiful bright yellow color. We climbed a set of rickety stairs to the rooms surrounding the courtyard and saw various groups of men cleaning, brushing, and dying the goat hides. We then limbed on a terrace where lines and lines of hides were drying after having been dyed with saffron and set with vegetable oil. The men whose job it is to dye the leather eventually turn the same color as the dye; hands and feet are all a dull yellow color—or red or purple or green depending on the plant used.
The finished product:
Then, our “guide” led us to a point overlooking the city and pointed out the sights. After climbing back down, we asked him to lead us back to the main street. He gave us the information we wanted and then asked to be paid. We reminded him that he had told us it was free—whereupon he insisted that we were mistaken—and quoted an outrageous price. We shook our headed and I think he realized that he was not going to win, because he suddenly turned around and walked away without another word. At first, we got scared that he had gone to get reinforcements, so the two of us took off running uphill in the direction he had pointed out towards what we hoped was the main street, looking back every few steps. Finally, we arrived, out of breath, at the top of hill and turned a corner—only to find a dead end. We turned around and when we still did not see the guide, continued in the opposite direction through a maze of narrow and dark streets to find the main road of the medina. Eventually, we arrived, back the bottom of the street and started climbing upwards.
We arrived around lunchtime to Café Clock where the guidebook had promised camel burgers. So, we went to the terrace and JH and I shared a camel burger—which was delicious. The meat was flavored with herbs and a blend of spices and cooked to smoky perfection. As we were finishing, we met Mike, the owner. He is British and was at a crossroads in his life about 5 years ago—thinking about moving to Istanbul when someone suggested that he move to Fes. He arrived and bought a riyad in the medina, soon realizing that he had to do something with his life. So, about 3 ½ years ago, he opened a café. I asked him about the camel burgers—he laughed it off, saying that he tried it on a whim, wondering if people would think it was a gimmick, and it turned out to be his most popular dish. Café Clock also offers cooking classes and sunday night concerts, and its a good way to meet expats and Moroccans alike.
Mesmen مسمن
Ingredients:
2 cups wheat flour
2 cups semolina flour.
2 cups water (you may need more or less to get the right consistency. ideal is a gooey bread dough)
salt (couple pinches)
1-2 cups vegetable oil (used to separate into balls and keep from sticking and for cooking)
Mix 2 flours with boiling water and salt until a paste forms.
Knead dough to get rid of air bubbles. (I fold it over unto itself about a dozen times)
cover your hands in oil. using enough oil to keep the dough from sticking to your hands, shape dough into balls by putting a few spoonfuls in your hand and squeezing through thumb and forefinger. (the way an “ok” sign would be if your fist was closed)
Let rest 10 minutes.
Using more vegetable oil, spread and flatten dough into a square. Fold into thirds and then into thirds again. Flatten again and cook in hot skillet with some vegetable oil until golden brown. Let cool or eat warm.
This is good served almost anything, but two traditional toppings are Amelou and honey.
Amelou: 2 T Argan oil, 1/4c. crushed almonds, 2 T honey. mix all together into a paste.
Honey: 1/4 c butter and 1/4 c. honey. Melt butter to almost boiling, add honey and stir.
As some of you may know, Fes is the artisanal leather capital of Morocco, and the best place to buy leather goods—sorry for those of you who are queasy when it comes to dead animals. So, the next day we went to visit the famous tanneries and had another adventure. We were walking and looking into little alleyways when suddenly, we ended up in a courtyard filled with wool. There were still donkeys waiting to be unloaded and men combing and cleaning the wool. After this, we tried to get rid of our faux-guide by telling him we had no money, but he waved us off and so we followed him to the tannery. As we were walking through the medina, he explained that Fes was split into 365 neighborhoods and that each neighborhood of a medina has 5 things: a mosque, a fountain, a hammam, a communal oven, and a medersa (koranic school). We eventually ended up in a back alley where the smell was quite strong—this was no tourist destination since we did not get a sprig of mint to inhale to avoid the tanneries. Here, the men were specializing in dying the wool with a base of saffron—turning the leather a beautiful bright yellow color. We climbed a set of rickety stairs to the rooms surrounding the courtyard and saw various groups of men cleaning, brushing, and dying the goat hides. We then limbed on a terrace where lines and lines of hides were drying after having been dyed with saffron and set with vegetable oil. The men whose job it is to dye the leather eventually turn the same color as the dye; hands and feet are all a dull yellow color—or red or purple or green depending on the plant used.
The finished product:Then, our “guide” led us to a point overlooking the city and pointed out the sights. After climbing back down, we asked him to lead us back to the main street. He gave us the information we wanted and then asked to be paid. We reminded him that he had told us it was free—whereupon he insisted that we were mistaken—and quoted an outrageous price. We shook our headed and I think he realized that he was not going to win, because he suddenly turned around and walked away without another word. At first, we got scared that he had gone to get reinforcements, so the two of us took off running uphill in the direction he had pointed out towards what we hoped was the main street, looking back every few steps. Finally, we arrived, out of breath, at the top of hill and turned a corner—only to find a dead end. We turned around and when we still did not see the guide, continued in the opposite direction through a maze of narrow and dark streets to find the main road of the medina. Eventually, we arrived, back the bottom of the street and started climbing upwards.
We arrived around lunchtime to Café Clock where the guidebook had promised camel burgers. So, we went to the terrace and JH and I shared a camel burger—which was delicious. The meat was flavored with herbs and a blend of spices and cooked to smoky perfection. As we were finishing, we met Mike, the owner. He is British and was at a crossroads in his life about 5 years ago—thinking about moving to Istanbul when someone suggested that he move to Fes. He arrived and bought a riyad in the medina, soon realizing that he had to do something with his life. So, about 3 ½ years ago, he opened a café. I asked him about the camel burgers—he laughed it off, saying that he tried it on a whim, wondering if people would think it was a gimmick, and it turned out to be his most popular dish. Café Clock also offers cooking classes and sunday night concerts, and its a good way to meet expats and Moroccans alike.
Marrakesh مراكش
In order to be able to go to Marrakech, I had to skip eating couscous with the family. Don’t be too disappointed, because in true Moroccan fashion, Mama packed me a Tupperware with enough couscous for an army—which really came in handy because the train was 2 hours late.
There is no way to describe Marrakech’s Jemaa-al-Fna.
When the beige grand-taxi drops you off, it’s a ten-minute walk down a street, which at night is reminiscent of the Las Vegas strip—Moroccan style—with neon lights advertising hotels, shawarma fast food and lamb brochettes, along with the old men with lighters chained to crates selling individual cigarettes and the little girls selling tissue packets for 2 dh. Then, the entire atmosphere intensifies as the street empties out onto the grande place, on which are milling thousands of people, Moroccans, and tourists alike.
At night, hundreds of restaurants set up shop here, building frames from metal poles and trying to attract tourists with the cleanliness of their grills and clapping enthusiastically when a customer approaches. Threaded amongst these “restaurants” are a myriad of acts, all trying to make some money. These acts range from snake charmers, tarot card readings, henna, Sufi-esque dancers, and performing monkeys. If you don’t pay attention, you might find yourself with a snake around your shoulders—granted it’s a harmless garden snake—the cobras are sitting on carpets while the “charmers” bang drums to confuse them and play flutes to rile them.
As one walks to any of the outer walls of Jemaa-al-Fna, any doorway will lead you into the maze of souks, set up in twisting alleys by the type of product they sell. Metal workers making tools, lanterns, and doors out of silver and copper; leatherworkers making bags, belts, and babouches; the “Berber Pharmacies” selling spices, dried herbs, and all sorts of natural extracts for cosmetic and medicinal purposes; the carts piled high with wool and cloth headed to the dying pits, where men with color up to their elbows and bent over vats filled with natural colorants dying cloth before hanging them up to dry—a sight which, when seen from the rooftops represents every color of the rainbow; and of course, the carpet shops—former grand houses decorated in gilded gold and mosaics with high ceilings—piled high with rolled Arabian carpets while the more delicate Berber carpets hang on the walls. The salesmen ply you with delicious mint tea while shaking out multiple carpets and explaining where and how they are made, with the high hopes that you will buy one—or more.
The following photo was taken from a café on the second floor, overlooking Djemaa al Fna. In early 2011, the Argana Café was the location of a suicide bombing that killed 15 people and wounded dozens of others. I had tea there, not even a year before the bombing; its a tourist attraction and was always full of foreigners.
There is no way to describe Marrakech’s Jemaa-al-Fna.
When the beige grand-taxi drops you off, it’s a ten-minute walk down a street, which at night is reminiscent of the Las Vegas strip—Moroccan style—with neon lights advertising hotels, shawarma fast food and lamb brochettes, along with the old men with lighters chained to crates selling individual cigarettes and the little girls selling tissue packets for 2 dh. Then, the entire atmosphere intensifies as the street empties out onto the grande place, on which are milling thousands of people, Moroccans, and tourists alike.
At night, hundreds of restaurants set up shop here, building frames from metal poles and trying to attract tourists with the cleanliness of their grills and clapping enthusiastically when a customer approaches. Threaded amongst these “restaurants” are a myriad of acts, all trying to make some money. These acts range from snake charmers, tarot card readings, henna, Sufi-esque dancers, and performing monkeys. If you don’t pay attention, you might find yourself with a snake around your shoulders—granted it’s a harmless garden snake—the cobras are sitting on carpets while the “charmers” bang drums to confuse them and play flutes to rile them.
As one walks to any of the outer walls of Jemaa-al-Fna, any doorway will lead you into the maze of souks, set up in twisting alleys by the type of product they sell. Metal workers making tools, lanterns, and doors out of silver and copper; leatherworkers making bags, belts, and babouches; the “Berber Pharmacies” selling spices, dried herbs, and all sorts of natural extracts for cosmetic and medicinal purposes; the carts piled high with wool and cloth headed to the dying pits, where men with color up to their elbows and bent over vats filled with natural colorants dying cloth before hanging them up to dry—a sight which, when seen from the rooftops represents every color of the rainbow; and of course, the carpet shops—former grand houses decorated in gilded gold and mosaics with high ceilings—piled high with rolled Arabian carpets while the more delicate Berber carpets hang on the walls. The salesmen ply you with delicious mint tea while shaking out multiple carpets and explaining where and how they are made, with the high hopes that you will buy one—or more.
The following photo was taken from a café on the second floor, overlooking Djemaa al Fna. In early 2011, the Argana Café was the location of a suicide bombing that killed 15 people and wounded dozens of others. I had tea there, not even a year before the bombing; its a tourist attraction and was always full of foreigners.
Two worlds meet over millenia
Meknes is an imperial city, like Fez, and was for a short time the capital. It's a pretty town, with large majestic gates set into thick clay walls. Not far away from Meknes is the Roman city of Volubilis, the westernmost outpost of the Roman Empire. It sits on 40 acres, and not all of it is excavated, but it’s amazing to walk and be able to touch the same stones that we were more than 1800 years ago.
We also went to Moulay Idriss, an 8th century Islamic town, built on two hills tucked into the mountainside. From far away it looks like a dromedary. It is home to the shrine of Moulay Idriss—the great grandson of the Prophet Muhammad. He fled Mecca in the 8th century because of persecution by the Abbasid Caliphate and settled at Volubilis, converting the locals to Islam. He also established Morocco’s first dynasty—the Idrissids—and is Morocco’s most revered saint. Because of the town’s pious heritage, it was closed to non-Muslims until the mid-twentieth century. Locals say that 5 pilgrimages to Moulay Idriss equal one Hajj to Mecca. We were dropped off at the main square and walked towards the shrine. A wooden gate quickly stopped us where the guard told us that we could come all the way to the gate and take pictures but not go any farther. Instead, we climbed upwards through the town to a terrace overlooking the whole valley.
Our hotel in Meknes had some orange trees in the courtyard, and because the oranges here are delicious, the girls I was traveling with, and I decided that we should steal some for breakfast. Unfortunately, the window had wrought iron bars covering it. So, instead of giving up, I was rather easily convinced to take my umbrella and stick my arm through the bars to try and catch some branches. After about 10 minutes of being unsuccessful, we had the brilliant idea to tie a shawl to the end of the umbrella and instead of using the umbrella as an extra arm, to open it once it went through the window to try and use the spikes on the ends to catch a branch, which through shaking would make an orange fall into the open umbrella. Genius right? Anyways, we managed to knock three oranges off a tree and just as I was ever so carefully bringing the umbrella to the window, they would fall into the courtyard and bounce off of a downstairs window making a loud rattle. After the third orange, we heard a yell from downstairs—I’m not sure what they said, but the voice sounded rather angry. Then, a flashlight was shining towards us and we managed to pull the umbrella and the shawl back duck just in time before we were caught. One would think that this would deter us from trying again. When leaving the hotel for dinner, we recommended it to 2 other travelers—and after some scoping out, we realized that their room was the next window over from us, and that they had plenty of oranges within their reach. So, we tried to signal them, with the umbrella, or course. But…they had laundry drying on the window, and I think they thought we were trying to steal their underwear because they opened the window and looked out before quickly pulling the laundry inside and closing the window, thus effectively ending our orange stealing mission.
We also went to Moulay Idriss, an 8th century Islamic town, built on two hills tucked into the mountainside. From far away it looks like a dromedary. It is home to the shrine of Moulay Idriss—the great grandson of the Prophet Muhammad. He fled Mecca in the 8th century because of persecution by the Abbasid Caliphate and settled at Volubilis, converting the locals to Islam. He also established Morocco’s first dynasty—the Idrissids—and is Morocco’s most revered saint. Because of the town’s pious heritage, it was closed to non-Muslims until the mid-twentieth century. Locals say that 5 pilgrimages to Moulay Idriss equal one Hajj to Mecca. We were dropped off at the main square and walked towards the shrine. A wooden gate quickly stopped us where the guard told us that we could come all the way to the gate and take pictures but not go any farther. Instead, we climbed upwards through the town to a terrace overlooking the whole valley. 
Our hotel in Meknes had some orange trees in the courtyard, and because the oranges here are delicious, the girls I was traveling with, and I decided that we should steal some for breakfast. Unfortunately, the window had wrought iron bars covering it. So, instead of giving up, I was rather easily convinced to take my umbrella and stick my arm through the bars to try and catch some branches. After about 10 minutes of being unsuccessful, we had the brilliant idea to tie a shawl to the end of the umbrella and instead of using the umbrella as an extra arm, to open it once it went through the window to try and use the spikes on the ends to catch a branch, which through shaking would make an orange fall into the open umbrella. Genius right? Anyways, we managed to knock three oranges off a tree and just as I was ever so carefully bringing the umbrella to the window, they would fall into the courtyard and bounce off of a downstairs window making a loud rattle. After the third orange, we heard a yell from downstairs—I’m not sure what they said, but the voice sounded rather angry. Then, a flashlight was shining towards us and we managed to pull the umbrella and the shawl back duck just in time before we were caught. One would think that this would deter us from trying again. When leaving the hotel for dinner, we recommended it to 2 other travelers—and after some scoping out, we realized that their room was the next window over from us, and that they had plenty of oranges within their reach. So, we tried to signal them, with the umbrella, or course. But…they had laundry drying on the window, and I think they thought we were trying to steal their underwear because they opened the window and looked out before quickly pulling the laundry inside and closing the window, thus effectively ending our orange stealing mission.
Chicken and Green Olive Tagine
Chicken and Green Olive Tagine
طاجن الدجاج والزيتون
Ingredients:
1 cup green olives
1 preserved lemon
2 garlic cloves
1 whole chicken
1 can (12 oz) peas
1 cup carrots
2 lbs potatoes
1/2 teaspoon safran
1/2 teaspoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon curcuma
1 liter of water
salt and pepper to taste
Cut preserved lemon into quarters. Cut raw chicken (wings, thighs, breast), leaving the meat on the bone.
In a pressure cooker, grate garlic, add spices, and bring to a boil. Add chicken, lemon, and peas. Cover and let cook on medium heat.
After 30 minutes, lower heat and add carrots cut into strips, let simmer another hour (or until all vegetables are cooked through and chicken is falling off the bone)
Potatoes can either be added with the carrots, or cut into strips and fried in vegetable oil and added on top at the end (see photo)
Serve on a large plate in the center of the table with bread.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Home
“I’m home,” that was one of the first thoughts that crossed my mind as I was walking down Rue Mohammed V from the train station to the old medina. I was pretty proud that I remembered exactly how to get home. ‘Abir locked her arms around my waist, followed by a tight hug and about 5 kisses on both cheeks from Baba. I was immediately ushered into the family living room and told “kouli, kouli.” The ghraif (غريف) with apricot marmalade was delicious. Gluten has never tasted so good. It was still a couple of hours before dinner, and I was looking forward to it since Baba has gleefully announced that Mama had made tagine. Tagine is almost always made for lunch, with leftovers being eaten for dinner, so this was a special occasion. We finally sat down to eat around 22h30, after Baba returned home from evening prayer. Dinner gets later and later as the sun sets later and later, but hearing the resonating calls of “Allah Akbar” from the mosques was a beautiful sound and somehow I didn’t mind waiting.
Moroccan family celebrations--weddings, births, and circumcisions--are a sight to see. Last year, I attended a party for a birth. One of the many cousins gave birth to a little girl. This year, it was one of the grandchildren’s circumcision. The age varies between 0 and 5 years, but in this particular case, the little boy is 18 months. He was put under general anesthesia in the morning by a doctor who I was told is the most experienced in Rabat. He is a pediatric urologist, and this is a piece of cake for him, and indeed, Bara’a seemed rather unaffected by the time we got around to eating food. We arrived at the house, and stuffed full of tea and almond cookies before the music and singing started. Then, Bara’a, dressed in a djellaba, babouches, and a fes, was hoisted onto a decorated platform and everyone gathered around to sing and cheer. It was beautiful, all the women dressed in their colorful caftans, the men in their more sober djellabas. Men and women were separated for the majority of the evening, but it did not diminish the mood. By the time the singing was over, the pastilla was ready, and I learned that the traditional way to eat it was just to dig in with your fingers, not necessarily waiting for a slice. Either way, it was delicious, and I learned that pastilla can also be made with vermicelli and seafood as opposed to chicken and almonds.
Moroccan family celebrations--weddings, births, and circumcisions--are a sight to see. Last year, I attended a party for a birth. One of the many cousins gave birth to a little girl. This year, it was one of the grandchildren’s circumcision. The age varies between 0 and 5 years, but in this particular case, the little boy is 18 months. He was put under general anesthesia in the morning by a doctor who I was told is the most experienced in Rabat. He is a pediatric urologist, and this is a piece of cake for him, and indeed, Bara’a seemed rather unaffected by the time we got around to eating food. We arrived at the house, and stuffed full of tea and almond cookies before the music and singing started. Then, Bara’a, dressed in a djellaba, babouches, and a fes, was hoisted onto a decorated platform and everyone gathered around to sing and cheer. It was beautiful, all the women dressed in their colorful caftans, the men in their more sober djellabas. Men and women were separated for the majority of the evening, but it did not diminish the mood. By the time the singing was over, the pastilla was ready, and I learned that the traditional way to eat it was just to dig in with your fingers, not necessarily waiting for a slice. Either way, it was delicious, and I learned that pastilla can also be made with vermicelli and seafood as opposed to chicken and almonds.
Inshallah
And a year later, I'm back in Rabat! When I left, Aicha promised I would be back, Inshallah, of course. Well, now I am, so God was willing for me to come back. :)
On Fridays, we eat couscous, which Mama cooks while Baba is at the Mosque. The midday prayer lasts about an hour because there is a message. Mats are placed outside the Mosque, in the sunshine (or rain), to accommodate everyone. All the streets and alleys are filled with the faithful and one cannot walk through the medina. I've managed to enter the medina during the call to prayer multiple times, which means the Medina is even busier than usual. There are prayers five times per day; at sunrise and mid-morning, noon, mid-afternoon and sunset.This time of year, sunrise prayer is at 3h30 and sunset around 22h30.
Every day at lunch, we eat a tagine, usually chicken with lemon, potatoes, and carrots, and dinner is soup and eggs. My favorite eggs are just hard-boiled with cumin sprinkled on top, and my favorite soup is "harira," a lentil and tomato soup with bits of pasta and various spices. Its the traditional soup eaten to break the Ramadan fast, but is eaten all year round.
The city of Rabat is very interesting. Although there are some westerners, it is not a tourist destination. The oldest part of the city is Chellah, which is now a park. It's the Roman ruins and the Merenid complex of the 13th century. The next oldest part is the Kasbah, which overlooks the Atlantic Ocean. The walls are painted white and blue and it is the most touristic place in the city. After that is the Medina, where I live. And then the city expands to the modern part, where it's filled with people and cars.
The taxi system is interesting here; There are “grands-taxis” which are white, usually 20 year old Mercedes, which go from point to point in each district of the city…they will not drive you to your specific destination, and operate something like a bus route. In these, you pay 4 dirhams (about $0.50), which pays for your seat—they fit 6 passengers and you go with strangers, sort of like a mini-bus. You can pay double and sit in the front by yourself, but the crush is part of the experience. Then there are "petits-taxis" which fit three people and run on a meter, and although the driver might ask you to pick up other people on your way, it's ok to say no. A couple of months ago, the Rabat-Salé tramway started running and for 7dh, you can avoid the traffic. I’ve never seen it full though, and it seems there are just as many cars and motorbikes on the roads as ever. I imagine that it’s because its the price as two bus rides, which is a bit steep.
You haven’t seen anything until you’ve been in a taxi in Rabat. Anyone who thinks that Bostonians (or New Yorkers, or Italians...) are bad drivers is kidding themselves. Cars are coming and going in complete disorder…between 5 or 6 lanes squeezing on what should be a normal sized road. There are roundabouts that supposedly order traffic, and people force their way into the traffic. I've seen police officers futilely trying to direct traffic, and sometimes, people stop, although I have yet to see any traffic lights. Usually, it's cars pushing their way into a lane and trying to avoid the pedestrians and the taxis abruptly stopping and backing up in the middle of traffic to pick up passengers.
Everything here seems cleaner and more modern than last year. Development in action. The tramway, the new bridge, the new waterfront buildings, the tunnel under the river...even the house is repainted, the bathroom redone, and at the AMESIP centre, the soccer field is recovered and the walls repainted. And yet, the city has not lost any of its charm. I was so happy to be back at the centre, and even though most of the kids are new, it was still very familiar. Because the association’s goal is to reintegrate the children into the public school system, it was good to see that most of them were indeed back in school.
On Fridays, we eat couscous, which Mama cooks while Baba is at the Mosque. The midday prayer lasts about an hour because there is a message. Mats are placed outside the Mosque, in the sunshine (or rain), to accommodate everyone. All the streets and alleys are filled with the faithful and one cannot walk through the medina. I've managed to enter the medina during the call to prayer multiple times, which means the Medina is even busier than usual. There are prayers five times per day; at sunrise and mid-morning, noon, mid-afternoon and sunset.This time of year, sunrise prayer is at 3h30 and sunset around 22h30.
Every day at lunch, we eat a tagine, usually chicken with lemon, potatoes, and carrots, and dinner is soup and eggs. My favorite eggs are just hard-boiled with cumin sprinkled on top, and my favorite soup is "harira," a lentil and tomato soup with bits of pasta and various spices. Its the traditional soup eaten to break the Ramadan fast, but is eaten all year round.
The city of Rabat is very interesting. Although there are some westerners, it is not a tourist destination. The oldest part of the city is Chellah, which is now a park. It's the Roman ruins and the Merenid complex of the 13th century. The next oldest part is the Kasbah, which overlooks the Atlantic Ocean. The walls are painted white and blue and it is the most touristic place in the city. After that is the Medina, where I live. And then the city expands to the modern part, where it's filled with people and cars.
The taxi system is interesting here; There are “grands-taxis” which are white, usually 20 year old Mercedes, which go from point to point in each district of the city…they will not drive you to your specific destination, and operate something like a bus route. In these, you pay 4 dirhams (about $0.50), which pays for your seat—they fit 6 passengers and you go with strangers, sort of like a mini-bus. You can pay double and sit in the front by yourself, but the crush is part of the experience. Then there are "petits-taxis" which fit three people and run on a meter, and although the driver might ask you to pick up other people on your way, it's ok to say no. A couple of months ago, the Rabat-Salé tramway started running and for 7dh, you can avoid the traffic. I’ve never seen it full though, and it seems there are just as many cars and motorbikes on the roads as ever. I imagine that it’s because its the price as two bus rides, which is a bit steep.
You haven’t seen anything until you’ve been in a taxi in Rabat. Anyone who thinks that Bostonians (or New Yorkers, or Italians...) are bad drivers is kidding themselves. Cars are coming and going in complete disorder…between 5 or 6 lanes squeezing on what should be a normal sized road. There are roundabouts that supposedly order traffic, and people force their way into the traffic. I've seen police officers futilely trying to direct traffic, and sometimes, people stop, although I have yet to see any traffic lights. Usually, it's cars pushing their way into a lane and trying to avoid the pedestrians and the taxis abruptly stopping and backing up in the middle of traffic to pick up passengers.
Everything here seems cleaner and more modern than last year. Development in action. The tramway, the new bridge, the new waterfront buildings, the tunnel under the river...even the house is repainted, the bathroom redone, and at the AMESIP centre, the soccer field is recovered and the walls repainted. And yet, the city has not lost any of its charm. I was so happy to be back at the centre, and even though most of the kids are new, it was still very familiar. Because the association’s goal is to reintegrate the children into the public school system, it was good to see that most of them were indeed back in school.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Springtime in Paris?
14 hours in Paris. It could be the setting for a romantic movie. But instead, it was my day today, and instead of a tall, dark and handsome stranger, it was a dusty library and century old micro-fiche. But even though it was raining, the city was still beautiful, with its turn of the century buildings and cafés on every corner. After a ridiculously early start (5h15 to be exact) I arrived in Paris under the rain and ate a breakfast of yogurt and granola with some much needed coffee at EXKI.
Feeling slightly more alive, I headed to the Bibliotèque Nationale de France where after going around a corner, down two escalators and through some secure doors I picked up my reserved micro-fiche on property regimes in Morocco dating from 1906. Five hours later, I emerged to more rain, but as I walked towards the Institut du Monde Arabe, the rain stopped and a beautiful Paris emerged.
Tomorrow, I leave for Morocco. I'm looking forward to Mama and Aïcha's cooking and to seeing the kids I worked with last year
Stay posted...you might get a recipe from an authentic Moroccan kitchen!
Monday, June 6, 2011
The Inspiration - Morocco
Last year, I lived and worked in Rabat, Morocco and fell in love with the people, culture, and most especially the food. This first post is a sensory walk through the Rabat medina - the old city, where I lived with a host family. The next few posts will catch you up on my adventures in Morocco before finally moving on the Brussels, Belgium, where I have been living for the past 9 months. Enjoy!
Walking the in the medina of Rabat is a unique experience. Every time I walk the now-familiar streets to the outer walls either to catch a taxi to work or to venture into the ville-nouvelle for the bank or the internet, I fall in love all over again with the narrow streets filled with people, the Mosques every other block, the delicious smells wafting from the multitudes of “restaurants”—little more than a room with a burner and a table with a glass case filled with goodies covering the door, and even the many vendors selling everything from DVDs and scarves to kitchen and bathroom appliances.
Let me take you on a sensory journey from “al-beb”—the gate to “al-bayt”—the house. It’s almost sunset as I walk home, and I know that at any moment, the muezzin’s call to prayer will resonate throughout the streets. First, I pass a man with a cardboard box selling the most delicious macaroons—1 dirham for 2—and the man selling chickpeas covered with cumin that come in a sheet of recycled paper. There is a high school on my left, the white wall has graffiti in bold red, “Rabat: shining over Morocco since 1150,” and then a Mosque across the street on my right. Quickly I come to the intersection of the covered souq and the main shopping street, which at this hour is filled with people. I dive into the crowd and shuffle along avoiding being spritzed by the perfume seller on the next corner. There, I end up in the main square where there is another Mosque. To my left are the food stalls selling sandwiches of fried sardines with potatoes, eggplant, green peppers, red onions, and hot sauce as well as those selling sandwiches of merguez, chicken liver, ground beef, eggs, and rice mixed with spices. There is also a stall with whole sheep’s heads cooking something that smells delicious, the bakery window filled with almond and honey cookies, the shops with sacks of turmeric, cumin, paprika, cinnamon, and ginger neatly shaped into cones, and the stall selling herbs—including the ever-precious orange blossoms. This square is also the workplace of the various beggars—the 4 blind men in different colored djellabas singing verses from the Koran and rocking back and forth holding out their hands, a deranged barbershop quartet; the 13-year old boy with Down’s syndrome and a bulbous leg always covered in scars, open wounds and mercurochrome; the albino twins also sit here asking for money while their mother stands not far way with their little sister; and the young woman with 2 sleeping children in her lap. I wind through the crowds, making sure not to get hit by the man pushing a cart filled with olives, or to run into the cart with fresh goat cheese. As I keep walking down the street, I assiduously keep my gaze forward, ignoring the young men and their sometimes crude remarks, knowing that if I look at them or laugh at the way they try every language they know to get a non-Moroccan girl’s attention, they will take it as encouragement. I jump out of the way when I hear the distinctive roar of a moped or the bell of a bicycle with the rider yelling “Andak, Attention!” I soon reach the market street, with a hammam on the corner and if I turned right, I would quickly run into tarps stretched across the alleyways and on the floor with people selling eggs, spinach, root vegetables, fish, different meats, detergent in recycled water bottles, and almost any other foodstuffs I can think of. But, I keep walking, past an arch, which holds a door to another Mosque, and a man selling mint and parsley on a blanket and finally reach the unused blue, yellow, and green mosaic fountain which is a popular gathering place on a warm evening. Just as I turn onto my street, I hear the first call to prayer from the Mosque behind me. It is quickly joined by the muezzin’s voice from the Mosque up ahead, and soon the rest follow suit. I listen respectfully to the cannon of “Allah Akbar” echoing in the fading daylight as I slowly make my way home. I pass another storefront, this one selling triangles of phyllo dough stuffed with shrimp, chicken, and spiced ground beef, and mini chicken and roasted almond stuffed pastillas, and yet another with a woman selling fresh beghrir and ghraif—dough folded into squares and stretched flat to cook, which gives you warm flaky layers. These are best served with honey drizzled on top and folded in half. I might buy one of these, since for 2 or 3 dirhams, they are a delicious but simple snack to pass the 3 hours until dinner. I turn a corner on this narrow, winding street with walls painted blue and pass under another arch. I come out and almost run into a boy running after a small orange soccer ball. I kick the ball back to him—probably inadvertently scoring for the other team—and continue past the striped yellow and black wall speckled with pieces of green glass and seashells, where I see Baba in his maroon djellaba with the hood up carrying grocery bags filled with fresh oranges—complete with stems and leaves. He greets me with a “Bonjour Mademoiselle, Labas?” and I follow him past our door—recognizable with a tic-tac-toe game drawn on the red paint—and up the stairs home, where the smells of Mama cooking dinner waft down the hallway. It’s Harira with fried sardines and fruit salad for dinner.
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