Couscous Community

“Everyone makes couscous on Fridays,” Mary explained, taking a heaping serving of cauliflower lightly fried in oil. “Neighbors share, before the holy day.”
As she lifted a slab of vibrant yellow squash from the platter piled high with golden couscous and green and orange vegetables, steam curled up from the meat still cooking at the center. It harkened the twisting streets of Meknès, Morocco; the strangely sweet smell of the air in the medina and the inviting odors of spicy tajine wafting from the hole-in-the-wall restaurants.
Earlier, I had picked my way through the crowded streets of the medina to buy karfa, a staple in Moroccan sweets. Merchants were slowly repacking their bright mountains of fire-colored spices into bags formed of cerulean tarps. Hennaed hands gathered fresh vegetables and herbs before the stalls closed. I imagined the women returning home to prepare rich plates of couscous seasoned to brightness with the aromatic spices.
The eight of us gathered around the small dining table and served ourselves homemade bread and fresh cucumber juice as the ladle passed from hand to hand. Slowly, the mountain of couscous was reduced to a hill, sharp scents releasing into the air as we sliced the hunks of squash and cucumber.
On Friday early afternoons, the call to jumu’ah thins the streets and closes many medina stalls. Neighbors and extended families gather around plates of couscous to relax and reconnect for the holy day. Sharing food is an act of hospitality and piety; a welcome extended to us with each mouthful.
I imagined the women who had made this delicious meal for us returning to their own homes. Their female relatives and neighbors bustling about in the kitchen, their finely veined hands patted with flour from kneading dough, the tips of their fingers yellowed by liberal pinches of kamoun and skinbjir. Perhaps a serving spoon is raised surreptitiously for the smallest taste before another table joins the citywide celebration.