Yesterday was a sad day. Not because I was crammed onto a minibus to drive for 8 hours across the desert, still exhausted from the epic border-crossing journey the day before. Not because I was flying solo on the cursed Valentine’s day (in fact I had very little reminder of this, despite there being elaborate celebrations in its honour here). But no, yesterday was a sad day because I was missing out on Couscous Friday.
If there’s one thing I will miss about Maroc, it’s Couscous Fridays.
That, and the legacy of French colonization, left in the form of beautiful pastries..
But, back to Couscous Fridays. You see, it’s a lengthy process, the making of the couscous. Over here, it’s not a 20 minutes in a pot kind of deal. It’s a rinsed, soaked, and steamed in a special kind of pot, over the course of a couple of hours, kind of deal. And my god, the results can be incredible.
So while you can get couscous in say, marrakech, on any given day, it’s not the real deal. The real deal is made once, on Fridays. And as such, it had become my favourite day of the week. In Merzouga, the lady next door would bring us a dish of her couscous every Friday afternoon, bless her heart.
When I’m on my own, I could usually find some back-alley hole in the wall, where couscous was made for the working class. Yes ma’am, I will give you $2 for your magnificent couscous. Don’t mind if I do.
But now, I’m in the land of… pizza and chicken? I’m really not sure what the deal is with all the pizza joints in southern Maroc and Mauritania, but it’s a huge thing. And I can’t say I’m really a fan.
I miss Couscous Fridays.