Three Meals Later

I would say that the Balti proverb illustrated in the Gregg Mortenson book "Three Cups of Tea" runs true in some parts of Morocco.  In some instances when I've been invited to dine in someone else's home, the first dinner is with the men of the family only.  On that initial visit, I don't even get to greet, meet, or for that matter see the wife or the women of the home.  It's utterly strange to me and I almost feel like I am inconveniencing the women and the kids who then eat their dinner in a separate dining room or in the confines of a small kitchen.  On the second visit, some of the kids have been allowed to eat with me and by the third or fourth meal, the entire family joins the dinner table. 

I have asked some Moroccan families to explain this custom to me and some have said that it has to do with protection from strangers and some of the women have said that they would rather leave the men alone to speak about whatever they feel like and would prefer to congregate with other women.  I would add that in all instances the food has been fantastic, which has served to minimize my concern about the absence of women at the dinner table during the course of the meal, but then the guilty feelings resurface when the food settles.

"It's not you; it's me"

Before I make any blanket statements about other cultures, I like to do a little introspection.  Perhaps, it's not them, but who I am that is prompting them to behave in that particular way.  Maybe, it's not that I am a man, but rather a very strange man.  Luckily, not too long ago, Joy and I received a dinner invitation from a female friend Joy had met at Amina's coop boutique on one of her first visits to the shamal(north).  I was really curious about this dinner.  Would Joy be asked to eat with the women and I with the men?  Would everyone dine together since it wasn't just this strange man as the guest, but also a very amicable and not Moroccan-looking Peace Corps volunteer?  (On one occasion I visited a family who upon entering the home said to their son, "But, I thought you said he was American?")

We arrived and were seated in their large dining salon.  It was a splendid salon with beautifully tiled walls, large Persian-style carpets on the floor, and Andalusian-styled, artisan designed furniture.  We both greeted the entire family.  For Joy, it was her second or third time there so she gave lots of hugs and kisses to all the women and kids.  Since this was a large crowd, my greeting is the customary handshake that I equate to a quick down-low high-five slap of the hands that is then proceeded by a left chest slap to one's heart that I now reciprocate without even thinking.  Some folks kiss the hand that was slapped, but I have yet to incorporate that in my greetings for personal OCD reasons. 

When we were seated in the large dining room, Joy and I were in the company of all the men in the house, which included the father, brothers, and close cousins, with the exception of Joy's friend who would join the conversation from time to time.  We spoke about a number of issues even the taboo subjects of politics were discussed.  Her friend then brought the dinner courses one after another, but did not dine with us.  We pigged out in traditional Peace Corps volunteer fashion.  (Generally, my goal for cooking is to make something edible and worth eating a second time as leftovers so the treat of a professionally cooked Moroccan meal is consumed to the maximum capacity available, which is often tested to its very limit on these rare occasions.)  Joy and I ate and conversed with the men all night while all the ladies ate in separate yet equal in size dining room with all the kids and the television. 

I was somewhat relieved that the hosts treated Joy and me equally and it wasn't just me or my strange ways altering their routine.  I will continue to ponder this.  I gotta say though that I’m not really fond of having to eat with just the men.  Don’t get me wrong.  The conversations are great, but I still feel like I'm more of nuisance than an honored guest.  Well, there is only one way to solve the ordeal.  No, I’m not going to tell them how I feel about their “three meals gets you into the circle of trust” tradition.  I am going to proceed graciously and gladly to my second and third meals.  

Assimilated Routines - The Family Platter

Dig in! Wait, did you wash your hands?

When I talk about the family platter, I'm not referring to the generous value size portions you can get at various American restaurants.  I'm talking about the tradition in which an entire Moroccan family typically eats from one giant dish.  At first, I found this practice a bit strange and unhygienic, but with time I have begun to see the logic in the custom and if proper protocol is followed as many Moroccans often do, you can easily make this routine as hygienic as eating from your individual plates and stainless steal silverware. 

In the U.S. every Thanksgiving many of us gather around a grand table and "ooh and aahh" as the house chefs bring out a series of platters of all sorts of steamed veggies, both sweet and tangy sauces, and creamy gravies all placed in what often looks like an ceremonial altar awaiting the arrival of the dish of all dishes, the properly dressed and painstakingly marinated baked turkey (makes me hungry just writing about it).  So large is the feast at times that it requires a collaborative effort to pass down or to serve everyone a portion of each dish.  Everyone has their own plate, silverware, glass, and napkin.  Drinks are served.  Then, the chowing begins.

Leid Kbir, bismillah and slice

In Morocco, I have had both humble and extravagant meals.  For the most part however, the tradition of the giant family platter is applied to both settings.  The equivalent of Thanksgiving in Morocco is Leid Kbir, a holiday in the Muslim calendar that commemorates the test of faith Abraham underwent when God asked him to sacrifice his first-born son.  The offering of an unblemished lamb was offered in its place.  Every Muslim family must in a sense do the same.  Many families slaughter a sheep and then go about dressing the entire animal.  This ritual produces a tremendous amount of meat that is then eaten over the course of three to four days.  In addition to the meat, families prepare salads and other vegetables as well.  Every meal that I have eaten during this time is grand even for those of meager resources.

Leid Kbir Morocco indoor grilling tradition

We all huddle around a small table no more than a square meter wide, which means that in some cases you are shoulder to shoulder with your host family, and then wait in anticipation as the different platters are retrieved from the smoked-out kitchens.  Smoked-out because most people engage in the still-odd-to-me custom of indoor grilling.  Some places are well ventilated, but others simply let the smoke permeate the entire house.  There's often a haze in the house, but kids go about playing their games and adults watching their television shows despite the tears swelling in their eyes.  Safe to say that everyone smells like barbecue for three to four days straight.

Let bread be thy fork...

Every platter is like your typical serving dish, but there are no individual plates.  A vegetable tray is often served first, which can include lettuce, radishes, carrots, tomatoes, and other seasonal fare.  Everyone is given a fork or spoon and then everyone begins the assault.  Sometimes small dishes of olives or sauces circle the main dish.  After the salad comes the meat, a giant serving of slow-cooked tender chunks of sheep meat resting on a pool of oil and spices served on another large serving dish.  With the arrival of the meat comes the breaking of the bread--a moment that always makes me think about the Last Supper and perhaps this is why I devote so much time to savoring every meal.  Most of the time people begin by dipping and dabbing the bread in the oils and spices and then once the moat surrounding the meat has reached a certain level, folks move on to the meat.  Your bits of bread serve as your edible glove that has permission to dig into and rip apart meat from bone.  No forks, spoons, and no individual plates are necessary.  You rip and dip and stuff your face.

For most of the holiday meals prior to any dipping and dabbing, someone is responsible for ensuring everyone has clean hands.  A basin is passed from one person to the other and the person in charge pours warm water over your hands.  For other meals, you hope and pray everyone took the time to wash.

The meals are then capped with a tray of fruit from which everyone grabs a bit of each type of fruit.  All peels and seeds are put on the table along with some of the meat bones.  Someone then brings out a dust pan (not the same one used with the sweeper) and rounds up all the scraps.  A soapy sponge then cleans the plastic table mat signaling the end to the feast.

For napkins, a medium-size towel is passed around and for drinks sometimes individual glasses are available when one is treated to a soda or juice.  When not, there's the ubiquitous community cup with a liter of the city's punch available for the thirsty.

Who needs plates and for that matter forks?

At first, I found the practice a little odd, but slowly I began to see its practicality although I doubt that's the sole purpose for its existence.  As a kid, I hated washing dishes.  It has got to be one of the most boring activities out there.  I was overjoyed when my parents would decide from time to time to use paper plates.  It made whatever meal I ate on those plates even that more delicious.

Dinner with host family

Eating from serving dishes has a lot of benefits.  Ecologically, without the dish washing, you're conserving energy from not using hot water, using less water in general, and using less soap.  Financially, you save on the use of water and electricity.  Without such a vast amount of plates to clean, you probably do not need a dishwasher or the vast amount of plates.

If you hate washing all together, replace the fork with the bread.  In Morocco, bread is the equivalent of the fork.  I remember one time during my home-stay my host father felt bad that the family had to leave for the weekend leaving me in their home all alone.  I told him not to worry and that I could cook for myself, which prompted him to ask, "Well, can I get you some bread?".  To which I responded, "No thanks, I don't need any bread right now."  He then gave me a bewildered look and asked me, "But how will you eat?" gesturing the motion of using bread to grab your food.  I smiled and said that I would use a fork.  He said, "Ah, waxa (Oh, okay)."  They only had a couple of forks and during my time there I never ate with one so it was natural to be perplexed by these bread-free meals.

I'm still leery of the community cup so I think in that regard I will continue to add individual glasses to my table for water and soda.

I gotta say though that I kind of like the towel idea as opposed to paper napkins or even individual cloth napkins as long as people don't abuse it.  There have been flagrant abusers who use the entire towel to wipe their face and hands leaving no part of it unsoiled.  I think rules can be spelled out prior to its use.

All in all this new adaptation of the family platter and family dining is a win-win for me and the environment.  I'll gain more free-time, use less energy and resources, and end up happier with less dishes to wash.  Don't worry, when you come to eat, I'll make sure everyone washes their hands before we dig in.

Making Couscous

Every Friday in Morocco families gather to celebrate their most revered day of the week. Often extended family comes to munch on a delicious serving of couscous usually topped with chicken, beef, or lamb and veggies doused with a tasty broth.

In one of my Dances with Wolves moments, I decided to find out the source of this scrumptious meal. I wondered, "Does couscous grow on trees? Does it rain from heaven like mana?"  I needed to know. Thankfully, one of our fellow volunteers knew the path to the origins of couscous. I and several other never-miss-a-couscous Friday convert took the pilgrimage to Khoukhate, a small village near Zaida that had begun teaching the steps to reaching a culinary nirvana of couscous making.

Khoukhate is a small valley of green with nothing but an arid wilderness to one side and towering desert plateaus to the other. When climbing onto the plateaus surrounding the village, it appears as if the ground level plane suddenly collapsed and the spring that gives this village its life carved out a beautiful and bountiful oasis. So bountiful, according to the locals, that the village for the most part is self-sustaining producing its own fruits, vegetables, and staple cereals like corn and wheat. Both the men and women labor in the fields, but when it comes to preparing the labor-intensive, time-consuming, but utterly gratifying couscous, the women take over.

There are many pre-packaged couscous varieties at the market that can be put immediately onto a couscoussiére, steamed, and served within a couple of hours. Couscous being such a central part of Moroccan tradition, I felt I needed to learn how to make it from scratch. Back in my home-stay, my host family gave me a five-minute step-by-step guide to make couscous, but I was not able to practice partly because I would have been the only guy with a roomful of older ladies toiling away on the flour. Not that I mind hanging out with older ladies, but at that particular point I was just getting to know my family and trying to understand the nuances of Moroccan culture and gender roles; so instead, I went out in typical Moroccan fashion with my younger host brother to a café to pass the time people watching until it was time to eat.

Whenever we would get back, I would pig out on the couscous as usual sometimes forgoing the meat that everyone sought out for more couscous. Sometimes I felt that I was in a couscous eating contest, but I wasn’t doing it to win any prize; it was pure self-motivation. To make things worse, when the family saw me slowing down, they aided and abetted my gluttony by adding more broth to my couscous so that it could go down easier and then offering the customary bssHa(To your health) as I stuffed my face.

Needless to say, I’m a fan. Back in the states, I purchased the 5-minute pre-steamed variety to spur things up a bit as a substitute for rice. I enjoyed it then; however now that I’ve had the real thing cooked Moroccan style, I’m hooked. Not wanting to revert back to the 5-minute boxed couscous, I went out to Khokuhate to learn the craft of couscous making alongside other couscous fans.

A group of fellow PCVs got together at the Association Ennahda for our couscous making class. The women's association with the help of a PCV is looking to draw tourists and study abroad groups interested in learning about Moroccan culture and experiencing it first-hand.

The association hosts the cooking classes, sells a whole wheat herb-infused couscous, zmita, and different types of jams. To learn more about the association, please click on the associations link above.

The association's president, who was going to lead the class, had already gathered the pots, pans, sifter, meats, veggies, spices, and Khoukhate's own milled whole wheat flour.

She poured the flour onto the ceramic couscous serving dish. Then slowly began sprinkling a bit of warm semi-salty water throughout swirling the flour with her other hand as it began to clump up.

Once there were enough clumps, she got sifter to separate the clumps from the flour. The clumps were then dumped onto several water reed baskets, which we all began pressing and rolling in

classic Karate Kid 'wax on, wax off' style adding a bit of flour from time to time so the granules would not stick together.

Then when the clumps were pretty much

gone, we dumped our baskets onto a sifter so that the sifter could filter out the right size couscous granules.

We repeated the process until we felt we had enough for a couscous feast.

Then, all the rolled and sifted couscous was put into a couscoussiére, kind of a two-tier type pot where chicken and veggies are boiled in the bottom pot while the couscous rests on the top tier pot, which is designed to allow the steam to seep in through its perforated base making it possible for the couscous granules to get nice a steam bath.

After 30 or so minutes, there was a gap between the couscous and all around the edge of the pot, which meant that it was time to fluff it out. The couscous was dumped onto the ceramic serving dish. After a thorough hand wash, I dug in and began to fluff the couscous.

The purpose of the fluff, of course, is to loosen the couscous so it doesn't become one big massive pasta ball and to move it around so all the couscous granules can get a better steam bath. This process was repeated three times.

Once the couscous was done, the chicken and veggies were cooked through, and the broth was ready, a little saffron was added to the couscous and then placed on the large ceramic couscous serving dish(I'm sure it has a name, but I can't recall it at the moment). The chicken came next, then the veggies, and finally a bit of broth was poured all around.

We quickly said our grace, which in Morocco is a simple Bismillah (In the name of God), and then dug in. A few of us tried to pick up the traditional way of eating couscous, which involves grabbing a bit and moving it and rotating it around to create a small couscous ball that you then pop into your mouth or use to start a couscous fight.

As usual I stuffed myself, but was outdone by fellow PCV Steven who claimed the title of last man standing. All in all it was a great learning experience. My hope is to replicate it in the States Inshallah (God willing) so y'all can partake of what I plan to make a tradition of mine: couscous stuffing Fridays.