Couscous with ratatouille is one of my favourite meals and I would happily eat it regularly just as those two components, although other people in my house aren't as keen so we normally have to add some kind of meat, other than lamb which is what I would normally have with it.
When I was read Half Truth by Nadia Mahjouri earlier this year, this passage really caught my attention for a couple of reasons. The first was that I had never once thought about how couscous is made. Here it is an easy starch that comes out of a packet. Just add boiling water and maybe some butter and then fluff it up with a fork.
The second reason was the sense of joy that comes from the passage. Zahra has only just met her Moroccan family and yet they are already building their relationships.
You can read my review of this fabulous book here.
"Aujourd'hui, on est vendredi!" Fatiha says, eyes crinkling as she smiles. "It's Friday! Come, we make couscous. Amir, il dort? He is sleeping, no?" I nod.
I follow her to the kitchen - a small, tiled room where a free-standing gas cooker rests against the wall. Facing it is a bench with a deep white sink, and a small table with two wooden stools. The two women I saw the day I arrived have disappeared - neighbours, Fatiha told me, who came to help to cook a special meal. On the table is a wide flat-bottomed clay bowl. Fatiha pats the stool nearest the door, gesturing for me to sit down.
"Watch," she tells me. "C'est important! In Morocco, you know, when a woman can make couscous, that means that she is read to marry." She laughs, slapping her hand on my thigh. I think of the packet couscous we buy at home, just add water and stir. I smile - I'm pretty sure that's not what she is talking about. With two hands, she opens a large plastic container before pouring yellow grain into the wide bowl.
"La semoule," she explains, putting the bowl on the floor between us. Beside her is a bowl of water. She dips her fingers in it, sprinkling fine drops over the semolina. Her back is bent double, the bowl secured firmly between her slippered feet. In one seamless movement, she runs her hands through the contents, scooping and piling the tiny grains as though her hands were a wind blowing across the desert sand, piling dunes that are just as soon destroyed as they are created. Around and around her hands fly, sweeping the grains with them, mixing the water, picking them up and letting the stream of semolina run through them.
"Try," she encourages. I move my damp fingers tentatively, careful not to let any grains stick together, conscious of the movement of my fingers. There is sensuous joy to the process. She sprinkles more water and when she is happy with the consistency, she pours the grains into a metal steamer. She puts the steamer on top of a boiling pot of water, wrapping the gap with a thick layer of plastic wrap. She hands me a bag of carrots and shows me how to scrape off the peel with the back of a knife.
As we sit and work, I ask Fatiha about her life.
Fatiha shares about her life, the things that a Moroccan woman accepts as opposed to what an Australian woman thinks, and then"
Amir begins to cry in the bedroom, and my milk has already let down, two wet patches soaking through my grey top. As I feed him, Fatiha begins the second steam of the couscous, piling the vegetables and chicken into the pressure cooker. It will be steamed a third time over the stock water before she transfers it into a large round clay tagine, artfully arranging the meat and vegetables and chicken into a pyramid over the bed of couscous. By the time it's cooked, my stomach is rumbling as the rich scent permeates the house. Abdulrazak, Abdul Karim, Malika and the children join us around the small table. Soon we all laughing as Zeynab tries to teach me to roll the hot couscous into balls in the tips of my fingers; I copy her but fail, couscous spilling all over my lap. Sheepish, I take the proffered spoons, helping myself from the shared bowl, the warmth of the togetherness filling a space in me I had not realised had been there.
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