FOOD

Born into a family of food lovers, I fit right into one aspect of Moroccan culture. Women and men take pride in what comes out of a Moroccan kitchen, and rarely do I have conversations that don't involve food at some point. From the prices of vegetables at souk to discussions about "foreign-izing" a Moroccan dish, I find myself most comfortable in the kitchen. When I meet strangers, two of the first questions they ask me are whether or not I've eaten Moroccan couscous and do I know how to make bread.

I didn't realize I liked food more than the average person until college. My all-you-can-eat meal plan caused me to gain 30 pounds freshman year--definitely worth all the tupperware recipe experimenting and lively discussions. Emails with mom consisted mostly of descriptions of meals eaten at restaurants or family potlucks. My fondest memories of childhood include watching the Foodnetwork and PBS cooking/travel shows with my grandma, cooking a southern meal and mashed potatoes for my 5th grade class in class, solo experimenting in the kitchen with baking/frying/chopping, watching my DC-aunt make un-Hawaiian meals and desperately wanting to help out (but never allowed), and being pampered with my mom's and dad's cooking skills. Hawaii is a melting pot of international cuisines, and moving to DC exposed me to other ethnic foods (Afghan and Ethiopian seduced me). Actively participating in Restaurant Weeks and finding delicious hole-in-the-walls fulfilled me. Anyone I lived with, dated, or befriended happened to also love food conversations. I didn't have any vegetarian friends.

Then in PC, learning how to cook Senegalese, Mauritanian, and Moroccan cuisines excited me, as does Moroccan market shopping. Instead of studying Darija or reading books at night, I religiously watch Top Chef/Master Chef/Kitchen Nightmares UK/Foodnetwork clips/Hell's Kitchen, thanks to home internet. Watching the Galloping Gourmet, David Rosengarten, or Lydia Bastianich takes me back to the time when the Foodnetwork focused more on food rather than the celebrity chef. Online menus make me dream of good things in store after COS-ing. Yet, every time Gordon throws a delicious-looking beef wellington in the trash, Padma tastes only a small bite of whole dish, or the cooks make five times the amount of food actually served, a piece of me dies (especially when the dish involves cheese or mushrooms). Compared to the cast in these shows--despite fresh produce and meat available here--I am in food purgatory.

I've gone to bed starving living with host families in RIM and ROC. Seeing anorexic-looking children--knowing they are thin by circumstances and not by choice--made my hunger subside. Watching women serve men meat and vegetables then give the leftovers to their children made me indignant. Passing a skin-n-bones person sitting outside pulls my heartstrings, but each time I walk on. We are supposed to live at the level of Moroccans, but comparatively, I eat so well here. I am in food heaven.

Thinking about those "starving children in Africa" and those elegant food critics in New York puts me at an internal crossroad. I need to cook and eat well in order to retain an enjoyable part of my former life. At the same time, I will eat anything in front of me: I appreciate any food. Seeing fellow PCVs waste food still bothers me. PC has completely destroyed any dreams I've had of becoming a food editor.

No doubt, I do miss the variety of ingredients, cooking techniques, crockery and appliances. No one in town can relate to my lochs cravings or find avocados appealing in any other form than as a sugared drink. Ginger must never be used in cookies. What will you do with a kilogram of limes?!! Pork? Hshuma. Goodbye, commiserating-over-food-conversations. As a result, although I eat well here, I look forward to going home to fine dining, happy hour, family potlucks, and "ethnic cuisine." I want to fit into the foodie culture again, but I can't shake off feeling guilty at the same time.

To end on a positive note, one thing that makes food taste delicious, no matter where I am, is the good company I'm with. Thank you for the memories:
(Fave neighborhood Italian restaurant with one of my fave aunties.)

(Annual family luncheon for the ladies.)

(DC friends during Restaurant Week.)

(Hawaii reunion in Boston.)

(Hanai family in Morocco.)

(On-campus picnics in Melbourne.)

(Lydia's in Pittsburgh.)

(Hanai family in Mauritania.)

Dear Moroccans I came across today,

To the female teacher from Casablanca, thank you for your interest regarding where I’m from (America) and specifically, what state I’m from (Hawaii). Why you then had to tell me that I can find my kind of food--Chinese food--in Casablanca, baffled me.

To all, Hawaii is not in China. The two places are more than 7000 kilometers apart.

To the two boys flirting with me, thank you for trying and making me feel attractive. Perhaps you would have had better luck if you 1. stopped saying “hello” and “I love you” repeatedly, 2. didn’t wear girls’ clothes, 3. helped me carry my heavy souk bag, and 4. didn’t bump into other people while staring at me. Actually, there are so many other reasons; I can’t name them all here.

To the vegetable man, thank you for lowering the price of onions and tomatoes for me and tossing in a few extra veggies. May God bless your parents.

To my neighbors, thank you for yelling at the boys for me. I’m sorry that I couldn’t eat enough of the cookies, candies, nuts, and chocolates that you shared with me. I really was full and satisfied with just the tea.

To the people who knew the former volunteer, it’s great that your analytical skills can differentiate our language abilities, fatness, and prettiness. Perhaps there are other characteristics you could compare us with too?

To the A. family, thank you for a delicious lunch. Whatever red meat we ate was so tender and delicious.

To the women and girls in town, thank you for offering to teach me how to cook Moroccan food. Just because I can’t knead my own bread like you doesn’t mean I’m an unfortunate one. Believe it or not, I can cook more than spaghetti and pizza. You’re welcome to come over and eat at my house anytime, just as long as you don’t complain that my food is not Moroccan.

To the kids playing football, I know you purposely kicked the ball towards me. Yes, I can kick the ball back at you, so you don’t need to act so surprised.

To the facebook requesters, I don’t know many Moroccan boys born after 1990 who live outside B-town. Why do you try to “friend” me?

To the woman who couldn’t believe I’m not married, I do hope to return to B-town after PC. Perhaps, if God wills it, I may bring my husband and children with me. You’ll see that I’m not unfortunate or abnormal.

To the locals who have accepted me thus far, thank you so much. I appreciate it.

Sincerely,
Zenab