Four Pieces Too Many

"Please no more"—words I dread to beg of any soul who wears sparkling diamonds of perspiration from hours of tending sweltering pots in a minuscule Moroccan kitchen. The utter sight of the crude contents brimming the glass tumbles my innards. Not yet regaining stability from a recent warfare with food poisoning, I falteringly lift the glass of thick, lathery off-white liquid to my lips. My eyes nervously scan the wrinkled faces dissecting my every move and I summon all of my energy to keep my gag reflexes from assuming action. I hastily tear off a hot corner of msemen in hopes of forming a plug in my esophagus to prevent the sour disaster from reappearing on the table. The flat, square bread, almost floating in fresh olive oil, slides down to the depths of my feeble stomach. Four pieces too many and my overly-generous hosts have yet to introduce the main course. I watch the flurry in the next room as the wives and sisters of my scrutinizing male company add the final morsels of an oversized meal, which is proudly presented on their least-chipped china. An entire foul sprawls before me atop a throne of dull vegetables. My heart deflates as I notice that the number of hens pecking the dirt floor of the living room has decreased since morning. The youngest of the men is scolded by a thick, henna-stained woman after reaching first to savor the oily meat. As I tear a piece from the steaming dish I attempt to recall the last time my hands have been washed in the past week; I quickly conclude that I do not care to know. I bite into a soggy brown potato, close my eyes and release a breath of approval. Grins double in size and I am suddenly forgotten as seven pairs of grimy hands thrust forward to delve into the overflowing dish. Grateful to no longer be the focal point of evening, I melt into my backless chair and take in the exultant exchanges of a genuinely content family, sharing stories in a language I cannot translate and a meal I cannot wait to actually taste someday.