Ibn Ibn Battuta

In Honor of Friday Couscous, Notes on a Moroccan Classic

Before I came to Morocco, I rarely ate couscous (كسكوس). My mother - ever the adventurous and talented chef - had made it now and then throughout my childhood. But although certainly no picky eater, I had never liked the dish much. At home or in restaurants, it always seemed a bit too mealy, too dry, and too bland to really be enjoyable.

In Morocco, of course, couscous is the national meal. Without fail, the kingdom's entire population eats it every Friday at lunch, by hand or by spoon, at home or in a restaurant. It is a nationwide rite unparalleled in America. (Catholics' fish-only-Fridays comes to mind, but Friday couscous in Morocco is

Southern Spain: We Could Get Used to This

Spain map

The second leg of our trip with Jacqueline's family took us from Marrakech to southern Spain.

We planned to stay outside Marbella, the nightlife capital of Spain's Costa del Sol, where a Powers family friend owns a condo. However, when the airline misplaced our bags - including the one with the condo's keys inside - Jacqueline's dad Jeff picked up the phone. A few calls and an hour later, we pulled into the swanky Marbella Club Hotel, for decades an exclusive beachfront retreat of Europe's rich and famous. Black and whites of Spanish royalty lined the walls of the reception; our room came

Celebrating the Sacrifice, and its Contradictions

Tuesday morning, Ryan, Jacqueline and I walked to the home of our former landlords Abdelrahim and Fatima, who joined their neighbor Younes’ family in sacrificing a sheep in honor of the ‘Eid. We arrived to see the two families circled together around the flailing sheep, its throat slit just seconds earlier.

The disassembly began as soon as the sheep ceased twitching. With a large knife and much tugging and grunting, Abdelrahim and Younes removed the sheep’s head, then set to work on the body.

Quince: A Culinary Love Story

In late October, my mother e-mailed me with a link to a Baltimore Sun article about quince, which included a recipe for a North African quince tajine. “Thought of you when I saw this,” she wrote. “Do you see quince in the market? Loveya, Mom”

Of course my first thought was, What on earth is a quince?

Ever interested to expand my repertoire of Moroccan recipes, I looked up “quince” in my Arabic dictionary, poked around online a bit, and kept my eyes open. Within a few days, I noticed it – tucked between the tangerines and tomatoes at a nearby produce stand – a lumpy yellowish-green fruit covered in a distinctly unappetizing fuzz. “Waash haadu as-sfarjel?” I inquired.

Marjane and the Medina: Food Shopping à la Marocaine

When I was preparing to leave for Morocco, without exception, everyone person back home who had ever visited or lived here agreed: “The food is amazing.”

Here in Fes, I have stuffed myself at some of the city’s finest restaurants, been force-fed by overzealous Moroccan housewives, and lunched at local bsarra soup stands beside paint-speckled laborers. I can confirm – it is “amazing.”

Buying food to cook at home, however, has revealed even more about Moroccan culture and the changes the country is undergoing. After two and a half months