(by Maha Rouchati)
(My mom, my sister Chada, and me)
Moroccan cuisine is a sort of religion. It contains a moral code, a specific and fundamental set of beliefs and practices. From an early age, we learn that mint tea goes alongside bread and butter at family gatherings. We always make sure to feed our stomachs as well as our souls. And mothers are goddesses. My mother and I stepped into a love that pre-existed us, and but the bond intensified over a common passion: cooking.
I grew up in a house with a spicy-herby smell, and it turned into a bakery before Eid (an important religious event in the Muslim world, marking the end of Ramadan fasting). My mom works as a teacher for four hours every day, but never missed a chance to impress us with her creativity and dexterity. I was assigned back-up tasks such as looking for flour and sugar and the needed utensils. I was allowed to watch, while she crafted her culinary art—a little jealous for not being able to pitch in, and longing for the day where I could be in her shoes.