Dear Lucas,
I haven’t eaten strawberries with you in so long! I haven’t folded the green leaves between my fingers before taking a bite of the deep red fruit. I haven’t had the juice of a particularly ripe one run down my chin, or the tiny yellow seeds get stuck in my teeth. I haven’t picked out the biggest five from the plastic container to put on your plate, and I haven’t dunked them whole into a bowl of cool whip.
I can’t even remember the last time I saw a strawberry! Or any kind of berry for that matter! Morocco doesn’t seem to have much by the way of berries. There are no strawberries, no blueberries, not raspberries, and la samah allah, (God Forbid!) no blackberries! On Fourth of July I couldn’t make a berry-flag cake if I wanted to, and I can’t make us a single banana-berry smoothie!
It’s not that bad, though. The abundance of other fruits make up for the lack of berries. And, more so than their abundance, their quality really makes up for it. The other fruits here are so wonderful, so fresh, and oh so flavorful. You can’t eat an orange without needing to wash not just your hands, but all the way up to your elbows afterwards. There are figs that are bright green on the outside and pink on the inside. The peaches aren’t as good as they are in Texas (and no one has ever even heard of peach cobbler!), and I’m sure not as good as they are in Florida, but the nectarines are unlike any other nectarine I’ve ever eaten. They are so ripe the skin peels right off, and I always have a puddle of sweet juice left on the table that, unfortunately, never made it to my lips.
But the best fruit here, by far, is the melon. No question. Not only have I never seen so many mountains of melon before, but I’ve also never tasted so many different kinds! Of course there is watermelon and cantaloupe, but here is also “yellow melon” and the most delicious, juicy, wonderful honeydew I’ve ever tasted. I didn’t even know honeydew could taste so good! And regardless of what they look like on the outside—like a cantaloupe with brown little ridges or like a smooth, yellow colored football—I’m always excited to see what they’ll look like on the inside. Sometimes I think it will be honeydew, but then it turns out to be the milder, firmer yellow melon. Other times I expect it to taste like cantaloupe, but it ends up being honeydew! And I’m not the only one who is confused. Everyday at lunch when we are served melon for dessert, I ask my speaking partners what it is called. Without a doubt, there is over a debate: is it honeydew or yellow melon? Cantaloupe or simply just “melon?” No one can ever agree!
But everyone knows what watermelon is. There is never a question with watermelon. Its size gives it an automatic royal status. It is usually cut into manageable, handheld pieces, but is served by itself on a grand platter. My host family will always serve it with pride, and share its glory with our neighbors.
After we’re full from our watermelon dessert, we say alhamdallah (thank God!), and lean back into our cushions, hands on bellies, eyes on the rivers of pink juice spotted with black seeds flowing on the table in front of us.
Love,
Miss Emily
Friday, July 15, 2011
a celebration fit for a queen
Dear Olivia,
A few weeks ago, I was in the presence of a queen. And not just any queen, but a queen of cherries. It’s true! She rode by in her horse-drawn carriage, dressed in white with flowers in her hair, waving to her subjects as they showered her in praises and adoration.
She was a new queen, having only been crowned that day. She was selected from the most beautiful, eloquent, and mannered young ladies from her village, Sefrou, for her wit and charm, and especially for her gentle, agreeable demeanor that every honorable suitor desires in his future bride.
But I didn’t actually see her. The crowds were too great and my self too short, but her presence was made known as hundreds of loyal subjects applauded her, trying to sneak glances of her as she rode by.
But what I did see was equally as grand. Puppets—HUGE puppets—followed the queen closely. A giant paper swan soared above the crowds, flapping its wings in steady, rhythmic pulses. A traditionally dressed lady bounced her shoulders in a jittery dance. An old Moroccan man, clad in a white thobe and red fez, spread his long arms over the crowds. And the Berber Mother, with colorful beads in her hair and striking embroidery on her gown, stood tall, barely moving, her head almost level with the peaks of the surrounding mountains.
Away from the parade, just as many people congregated in celebration. But instead of crowding the queen, the families and companions congregated around vendors selling the most colorful foods in the land. Their cries and chants mixed with the smells of their specialties, wafting to my nose and ears before their vibrancy could reach my eyes. Once I was close enough, their sight only made their smells more intense, allowing me to almost taste them without even touching them. Corn on the cob crackled and charred over hot, black coals. Pink and green colored sugar sanded the hot, exploding kettle corn. Bright red sausages and cracked eggs sizzled on the grill, begging to be stuffed into the warmth and comfort of freshly baked bread. Chips were fried and oranges were pressed for their sweet and refreshing juice, though I couldn’t resist ice cream served in a tiny green (and tasteless!) wafer cone, drizzled with the tiniest bit of an unidentified sticky, sweet, pink syrup.
And they crowded around games and street performances. Little boys climbed onto the back of a baby camel and its mother, smiling nervous grins and desperately grasping the saddle for dear life with their tiny hands as their parents paid too much money for a camera man to snap a Polaroid. Women delicately painted the arms of young girls with flowing, flowery henna. Local celebrities sang and danced on stage under flashing purple lights disco balls, and fathers bought their little ones bright bouncy balls larger than their heads.
Yet although it was a cherry festival, not one cherry attended the celebration on the busy street. They preferred, instead, to hide in the silence of the small souq. We set out on a quest to find these beloved berries, and were not disappointed. Our journey through the twisty, maze like roads in what is considered the “old city,” led us to Sefrou’s hidden treasure. Box after box lined these tiny streets. Though seemingly chaotic, they were organized by type, quality, and size—the best costing up to 45 dirhams a kilo! I bought some that were pink and yellow, others that were deep red. I gave half to my family as a gift, and pitted and halved the rest for the galette I baked with my friend, Sam. My family was grateful for the simple gift, as this specialty of Sefrou is somewhat hard to come by in Fez.
Love,
Miss Emily
A few weeks ago, I was in the presence of a queen. And not just any queen, but a queen of cherries. It’s true! She rode by in her horse-drawn carriage, dressed in white with flowers in her hair, waving to her subjects as they showered her in praises and adoration.
She was a new queen, having only been crowned that day. She was selected from the most beautiful, eloquent, and mannered young ladies from her village, Sefrou, for her wit and charm, and especially for her gentle, agreeable demeanor that every honorable suitor desires in his future bride.
But I didn’t actually see her. The crowds were too great and my self too short, but her presence was made known as hundreds of loyal subjects applauded her, trying to sneak glances of her as she rode by.
But what I did see was equally as grand. Puppets—HUGE puppets—followed the queen closely. A giant paper swan soared above the crowds, flapping its wings in steady, rhythmic pulses. A traditionally dressed lady bounced her shoulders in a jittery dance. An old Moroccan man, clad in a white thobe and red fez, spread his long arms over the crowds. And the Berber Mother, with colorful beads in her hair and striking embroidery on her gown, stood tall, barely moving, her head almost level with the peaks of the surrounding mountains.
Away from the parade, just as many people congregated in celebration. But instead of crowding the queen, the families and companions congregated around vendors selling the most colorful foods in the land. Their cries and chants mixed with the smells of their specialties, wafting to my nose and ears before their vibrancy could reach my eyes. Once I was close enough, their sight only made their smells more intense, allowing me to almost taste them without even touching them. Corn on the cob crackled and charred over hot, black coals. Pink and green colored sugar sanded the hot, exploding kettle corn. Bright red sausages and cracked eggs sizzled on the grill, begging to be stuffed into the warmth and comfort of freshly baked bread. Chips were fried and oranges were pressed for their sweet and refreshing juice, though I couldn’t resist ice cream served in a tiny green (and tasteless!) wafer cone, drizzled with the tiniest bit of an unidentified sticky, sweet, pink syrup.
And they crowded around games and street performances. Little boys climbed onto the back of a baby camel and its mother, smiling nervous grins and desperately grasping the saddle for dear life with their tiny hands as their parents paid too much money for a camera man to snap a Polaroid. Women delicately painted the arms of young girls with flowing, flowery henna. Local celebrities sang and danced on stage under flashing purple lights disco balls, and fathers bought their little ones bright bouncy balls larger than their heads.
Yet although it was a cherry festival, not one cherry attended the celebration on the busy street. They preferred, instead, to hide in the silence of the small souq. We set out on a quest to find these beloved berries, and were not disappointed. Our journey through the twisty, maze like roads in what is considered the “old city,” led us to Sefrou’s hidden treasure. Box after box lined these tiny streets. Though seemingly chaotic, they were organized by type, quality, and size—the best costing up to 45 dirhams a kilo! I bought some that were pink and yellow, others that were deep red. I gave half to my family as a gift, and pitted and halved the rest for the galette I baked with my friend, Sam. My family was grateful for the simple gift, as this specialty of Sefrou is somewhat hard to come by in Fez.
Love,
Miss Emily
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