Fat Bread

Last year, my home-stay family served me cold khobz shHma, aka fat bread. By "fat," I mean lard, which can be very delicious when cooked right. However, the oily tortillas wrapped around congealed fat were not delicious, and that night, it coated my mouth and throat no matter how many times I brushed my teeth. Since that meal, I tried to avoid khobz shHma.

Have I been missing out...

Last night, my neighbor and I prepared the most delicious fat bread, and it changed my point of view. Here's her "recipe:"

Knead:
-Flour
-Pinch of salt
-Yeast
-Warm water
Cover dough and let it rise. In the meantime,

Saute:
-2 cups finely diced red onions
-1 cup finely diced frozen fat (ideally, saved from the 3id Kbir sheep)
-bushel of finely chopped coriander
-Salt, pepper, ginger, cumin, paprika, and hot pepper flakes to taste
-1 T olive oil

1. Divide dough into ping-pong ball sizes and roll like mochi.
2. With well-oiled hands and surfaces, flatten one ball as thin as possible into a tortilla. The tortilla should be larger than my hand.
3. Put a tablespoon of the cooked fat mixture in the center of the tortilla.
4. Fold the top third of the tortilla over the mixture. Repeat with the bottom third, then the right side and left side. Turn the "burrito" upside-down.
5. Roll out another well-oiled ball into a well-oiled, thin tortilla.
6. Place the first "burrito" in the center of the second tortilla. You should see only one layer of dough above the spoonful of fat.
7. Fold the top third of the tortilla over the other "burrito." Repeat with the bottom third, then right side and left side.
8. With well-oiled hands, pat the tortillas down so they are only about an inch thick.
9. Repeat until you've used up your fat mixture and dough. *We counted out how many balls of dough pairs were rolled, then we divided the fat mixture into equal spoonfuls accordingly.
10. Place oiled "double burritos" on a well-oiled tray and bake on low heat. *We don't use temperature gauges here.

When the bread layers are lightly golden and crisp, turn over each "burrito." Cook until the whole flaky bread is golden brown.

Serve the fat bread hot! Enjoy with a hot glass of sweet mint, flio tea!

Unfortunately, I was too busy eating to take a photo of our fat bread (which I heated up again for breakfast, and again forgot to take a photo of). If you combine the two photos below into one, our fat bread would look like that:


For recipe variations, meat, fish, or any non-watery vegetable can also be added to the fat mixture. Let me know how your fat breads turn out!

Women's Empowerment

Karima called me last night, wondering if I was back in B-town. I told her that I was sick but hoped to visit her soon. So today, Fatiha knocks on my door to check up on me. She walked all the way across town by herself, which is a first, to give me the biggest hug I've gotten in awhile. She thought the craft fair went very well BZAAAF, and she's bursting with new ideas and opinions for the next fair.

We watched http://vimeo.com/17120288, a video interviewing six empowered Moroccan women that was made by a former Morocco PCV, again. Fatiha met one of the speakers at the Kesh craft fair, so it was especially rewarding to re-watch that part. Fatiha told me that Amina gave her so much good advice and motivation at the fair (or at least, that's what my Darija thinks she said). Having left the girls' development association, Fatiha and other girls want to start their own association. Or cooperative. Association? Nothing like coughing your way through a discussion on the differences between the two groups to get you going. In the end, we agreed that a cooperative would be better for her and the girls. I hope she'll remain as dedicated and gung ho as she seems.

When she left, I told her I'm coming with her because I wanted to collect my laundry from the rooftop. She chastised me for being sick and doing my own laundry, instead of calling her over to come do my laundry for me. Obviously. I asked if she wanted to see something gross. What is my Darija word for gross? *Scrunching my face up and saying eww ewww ewww. She comes up on the rooftop with me and steps on the dead baby bird, looking around for the gross thing. I told her she stepped on the dead bird (#3 on my rooftop), and she responded, "So what? It's only a dead bird." She couldn't believe I was afraid of a dead bird, and I couldn't believe she picked it up and flung it around my roof. First, on the plastic staircase covering; second, against the wall. I was afraid she'd joke around and fling it at me, which a glint in her eye told me she thought about it. Instead, she flung the bird off the roof--no warnings given to passerbyers below. Believe me, I'm so thankful I wasn't walking by, and that she got rid of the dead bird for me.

What happened with the other two dead baby birds? Another PCV took care of the first, and the second magically disappeared after a few days. What is God telling me with these birds?? Hrmmm...

(Painting done by local artist, Mohammed, of the walkways in B-town. You need to walk through one of these doorways to get to my house.)

I’m From Morocco; Where the F*** You From?

My close friend does not like B-town. She says the real B-towners have moved away to work (like her), and they only return to visit family on holidays or if they have haneen (nostalgia). Everyone else in town is from the country-side. So all the verbal harassment I get from men (both little boys and wizened men) and shocked stares from women come from outsiders, not B-towners. The true B-towners know there is no future or economy here, a small town that can’t compete with Casa or Marrakesh.

My home-stay family lived near the end of town in the same neighborhood as the screen-printers, my tutor, and association girls. Over the past year, these neighbors have seen me adjust to B-town, and they say I know the town better than they do. I’m probably closer to them than I am to my SBD stagemates. This one neighborhood consists of some of my most favorite people in town, and these people are not B-towners. Most speak fondly of the countryside, where there are animals, grass, fresh water, and clean air. People know and respect each other there, and they’ve invited me countless times to their country homes.

Officially, I am on my third year of PC service: 14 months in RIM and 15 months in ROC. ROC time flew by much faster than RIM time, as I’ve been busy with work projects (3 grants approved!), friendships, access to PC’s library, and home internet. Granted, here in ROC I do not have daily euchre games with interesting American sitemates. Despite spending a slightly longer time in ROC, I feel like I relate to my RIM time and RIM PCVs so much more. I’ll be visiting another ex-RIM PCV in Egypt next month, which makes me so ecstatic just thinking about it!

In the meantime, I have a difficult time commiserating with SBD PCVs here. I just came back to site from Mid-Service Medicals, where we meet with the doctors, dentist (yay, no cavities!), and program staff to recap our 1st year and plan for our 2nd. One of the doctors was my PCMO in RIM, and it was so nice to catch up with her and let out some tears. She said that half of the office shut down, the furniture was given to PC Senegal, housekeeping staff moved to the embassy, and our educated, dedicated program staff faced an almost non-existent job market and personal loans. If you think the economy is pretty bad in America, imagine Nouakchott. They were given a month’s notice that the PC RIM program would be “suspended.” My program manager appeared to have gone into depression. It is such an unfortunate situation, and I am reminded that I'm so blessed to have had the option to move to Morocco.

During MSMs, we had a whole session about how some PCVs feel like they aren’t paid enough and want to be compensated for their "business expenses." I know first-hand that some events, like the craft fair in Kesh, require lots of personal floos. Accordingly, inshallah, PCV expenses will be compensated for grant projects. Yet, that wasn't enough for everyone. These same PCVs grocery shop at the fancy supermarkets (as opposed to the local souk or hanuts), bump into me at expensive restaurants that target foreigners, travel like tourists around country, and some don’t even drink alcohol. How the hell did I save 700 Euros (not dirhams), pay for work projects out of pocket and monthly internet/landline, and treat myself to all the food/beverage luxuries available? Care packages help, but they aren't the reason (thanks for sending the boxes though!). Regardless, I also turned in my Living Allowance survey (apparently only 2/19 SBD PCVs did), which lets PC know how we spend our money. If PCVs want more money, why didn’t they turn in their overdue paperwork? One older woman said to everyone that she doesn’t budget and so couldn’t fill out the form. My silent response: that’s a life skill, not PC’s problem.

Okay, yet another blog entry turned into a rant entry. Believe it or not, I am actually very satisfied here. The Tataoua girls had a blast in Marrakesh: understanding better firsthand business concepts, networking their hearts out, flirting with the PCV boys, and selling a necklace to the US Ambassador’s wife. They made enough profit to invest in new materials for the next fair, and many PCVs complimented their colorful, hand-drawn inventory system. We also saw Keanu Reeves together!~~My rug/couscous artisan introduced me to new parts of Marrakesh’s medina that foreigners don’t enter, and he volunteered to help plan the next Marche Maroc craft fair.
~~All PCVs were invited to the Ambassador’s house for a fabulous dinner (Aunty A: first course after drinks was borscht!), and I bumped into my Moroccan friend there.~~My Marrakesh and Rabat hotels had friendly staff, hot showers, and plenty of stairs for free exercise. The Marrakesh receptionist told me that he loves PC and the tv show LOST, and that I spoke Darija better than any other PCV (that is perhaps an exaggeration on his end).~~Despite feeling completely fine (except for my small cold now), I have a parasite. Nicknamed Lucy, she must be the reason I’ve lost 5 pounds here. Or, it could be due to the abundance of fresh produce and meat (granted I’m a sucker for salt & vinegar chips and local pastries).~~I just ate corn/clam chowder with dill, but I started off with Aunty M’s cookies. Life’s pretty sweet. Happy Holidays!

To end on musical note, another PCV showed me the music video to one song I hear on so many boys’ cell phones in B-town. Check it out here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WVirGjPrT1s

PS: 1st pic is from the "certificate ceremony" at Marche Maroc. 2nd pic is my SBD eating buddy and I sharing chicken caesar salad, lasagne, a bacon cheeseburger, and a milkshake for me and root beer float for her. Love the American Club and friendly waiter who gives us poor PCVs larger portions!

New Business

So how have I kept busy with one association after Ramadan? Some girls decided to start their own business!

With funding from K2K and PCPP, one girl taught 16 other girls how to screen-print and sew their own jellabas. Girls from this class combined their sewing, crocheting, knitting, and traditional bead-making skills to produce products that will appear at a Marrakesh craft fair I'm planning with other PCVs. Learning business skills along the way, these girls have come up with their own business name and logo, sourced and costed their raw materials, conducted market research online (and created an email account), filled out a budget and project outline, and so much more (too full from dinner/tired from long day). "President Worker" Fatiha is becoming a seasoned traveler: her first trip to Casa was to source fabric and materials for the screen-print class and her first trip to Kesh will be this week for the fair!

(A small sample of their work-in-progress. This collage was created for my personal notes, not as an advertisement. I'm just too excited to wait to share their stuff with my biggest fan, my mom!)

Thinking Too Much & Getting Nowhere

My tutor/friend told me this week that I'm the hardest-working PCV that he's ever met. He used to work at a school in the south of Morocco, where he befriended many PCVs, and he helped his best friend research a thesis on PC's impact in Morocco. Whether or not his comment is true (I doubt it is), I am working a whole lot more in ROC than in RIM. Does that also correspond to having more of a positive, sustainable impact? Who knows. Sometimes I wonder why the PC organization continues to run today; other times, I wish everyone could experience it.

The concept of "work" is hazy. Business is so personal here. It seems that knowing how to make delicious couscous offers one more esteem than having a college degree. Sitting and eating the couscous is more important than arriving at my project's class on time. Keeping up appearances (both idiomatically and literally), trying to communicate, and household chores are necessary, and I do them so inefficiently (by my Western standards).

Going to souk is at least a three-hour affair, and it involves greeting friends/work partners/hanai family, shopping for my weekly groceries, and picking up used clothes bargains (a great way to build relationships with the ladies in town). How much of going to souk is a personal errand and how much of it is considered work? All the people who call me "Chinouiya" or "Gazella" and the men who follow me, is the harassment from them worth it? NOTE: by PC and Morocco standards, name calling, verbal abuse, and any cruel action done by kids aren't a big deal. Thus, I shouldn't get angry but just ignore it. Instead, I sometimes ignore this strategy (sometimes to my own detriment).

Not sure of the purpose of this blog entry. I know that I'm out of my house almost all day (when not dealing with craft fair SPA grants...which is finally finished); at night, I dream of my work projects. It's pathetic that 90% or 95% of my emails come from PC, PCVs, or RPCVs. I'm frustrated that God did not will me to have a sitemate, my Spain trip fell through, UH is getting its butt kicked by Boise State, and my Darija is not where I want it to be. I guess this is a mellow vent. Perhaps influenced by my surroundings, I've learned to accept these causes of frustration as something beyond my control (even though another part of me says I'm copping out). On resume-paper, I bet my PC experiences look good. Yet, I'm still unfulfilled.

I guess I need to work harder or I need a break. If you repeat any word enough, it starts sounding strange. I guess it's better not to analyze so much. Back to work, or life. Simplicity can be complex.

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