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
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