Recipe: Preserved Lemons

For one jar of preserved lemons:

(canning jar with plastic or rubber lid covering is best)
5 - 6 small organic or meyer lemons
sea salt (enough for stuffing a few T into each quartered lemon)
 

Cut the lemon from top to bottom in quarters, but not all the way through. Basically a cross at the top, all the way down, but not through. Stuff each quadrant with approx. 1 tablespoon of salt.
Put 5 – 6 lemons (however many will fit) into the jar and seal jar tightly.
 

Leave lemons on the kitchen counter for 3 weeks. Turn them upside down, then right side up every day. Can keep for up to one year in pantry or refrigerator.

After opening the jar, use a wooden spoon to scoop them out. (Avoid metal.)

Where The Wild Wind Sings

Leaving the long stretch of Sidi Kaouki’s endless camel colored coast, is always poignant. It’s a refuge. Unplugged. A village with a few stone houses and a camel or two. A few cheeky donkeys bray, and oblivious chickens squawk and peck. You can sit for breakfast outside on the patio and watch a few herds of goats pass by the open doorway with their 8 year old herder. A few minutes later, a lone Berber woman, covered head-to-toe in mismatched patterns, strolls by with her cow. The wind can be fierce. It can be gentle. You can spend the day feeling it pick up and die down. It mimics one’s slowed-down breath. More subtle feelings have space to arise, so often buried under the harrang of too much thinking. The eyes see things that never registered before. This place has always been like this. It eases the mind.

Time to go. The “blue and white ”Essouira taxi burns up the straight three hour trek back to Marrakech. It passes the one and only indigenous argan forest. It’s spiky branches so free form, abstract and full of tiny yellow nuts, so loved by nibbly goats that they levitate themselves right up onto the highest branches. This stretch of road always reminds me of the first time I came to Morocco with two close friends. We arrived late at night. It was 2 am when we left Marrakech, after a midnight supper of chicken tagine and hearty bread. 

We headed off into the night with a toothless driver in an old beat up blue and white taxi on what seemed like an endless stretch of road. My friends fell asleep and I was left with my own white thoughts about ‘what happens if’. Meanwhile, the stars were immense, shining down with little moonlight on shadows and silhouettes of distant palms, robed figures walking in the dark, vast flat plains with faint light coming from an occasional low earthen dwelling. We passed strips of town, long and narrow buildings with arches; a loggia of mystery.

There was a man rolling a barrel down the road at 3:30 am. We mistakingly hit a dog. At least the driver stopped. The dog was stunned, but not dead. My friends lay dreaming asleep, while I sat dreaming awake. Where am I? I was cold. I couldn’t get the driver to roll up his window, or it was broken. Something in me felt slightly unravelled. Fear of the unknown has that quality.

By the time we reached Essaouira, the town was in a deep sleep. Yet, the nightwatchman from our hotel was there with his cart. We piled our luggage on, said goodbye to our driver, who smiled a toothless grin and we walked through the empty ‘place’, down dusty alleyways with the occasional dead fish, breathing in that familiar, wet, salty sea air. It’s now 4:30 am. The call to prayer comes over the loudspeaker in a loud and crackly “Allah o Akbar!” Glory be to God! I felt the same, happy to have arrived at this far away door.

Inside, all was orderly, white, calm, silent and peaceful. A chest of blue and white dishes greeted us. Roses, red and plentiful, were on all the tables. Our room, open, with a loft, beckoned us. I chose the small, cozy loft. My friends were chatty, and more than likely ready for tea. I, on the other hand was a corpse.

“Welcome to Morocco”, said the doorman. I fell quickly into bed to the sound of birdsong, sweet and melodic. At least birdsong is a universal language, I thought. The breaking light of day did not dissuade me from a potent sleep.

My first adventure to Essaouira was a memorable one. Not without love, discovery, magic,
a falling through the veil to another way of seeing the world. Leaving there was never easy.
Leaving the edge of something potent, a bit wild and untended takes discipline.

Once I saw the lines of separation~ between me, the tree and the earth~dissolve. It was a moment I will never forget. I was not on mind altering substances. It's just that my heart
had cracked open and like a thousand pedaled lotus, it bloomed and I could feel the various chambers that hold shadow, exposed. I was in a taxi going down a country road. I looked to my right and the tree ,the earth and the sky was lit up in outlines of color. It lasted a split second. Mother Africa winked at me.

Then there was the return of all returns that I will never forget. I was headed back to Marrakech yet once again in a blue and white taxi. It was September 11th, 2001. I pass the familiar landscapes, the argan forest, I see a small boy on his donkey high on the horizon. It's hot and there are people walking around in wool from head to toe. The windows are down and the wind is blowing my hair into my face, but I don't care. I'm steeped in this culture, infused like orange blossoms in water. I've hit the resonant note in myself that is  not alone, but in tune with everything. I am the air. The boy riding his donkey. A woman sitting in a taxi.

The cell phone rings. "Allo"? says the driver. He is animated and attentive as he listens, he shouts a bit, then hangs up the phone upset and says," Madame! Madame! Catastrophe in America! Catastrophe in America! Mafia! Mafia!"

Part one.
                                        .........................................................................
 

Recipe: Tagine of Blue Foot Chicken and Dried Cherries Soaked in Wine.

The tagine is my choice of an unglazed clay pot,  especially in winter. Its terracotta top and bottom create the perfect environment for developing slow-cooked flavor.

Being a great fan of Morocco, I most often stick to the traditional dishes. Moroccans themselves are quite creative, but the buck stops when it gets too out of the box or out of range for ingredients out of their reach.

Last week, I was in the mood for chicken, but not. Neither was I in the mood for red meat, having renounced it for three days. A small discipline, but a fine time to perhaps think out of the box. Some sort of wild fowl, or cornish game hen would do the trick, but they didn't have anything at my local market. What they did have was a frozen "Poulet Bleu," a white Canadian variety with blue feet, taken from the French Poulet de Bresse.

"Blue Foot Chicken is characterized by a red comb, white feathers, and steel-blue feet, which give the breed its name. The feet are usually left on for presentation." No blue feet were present on my frozen bird. Yet, the meat is noticeably darker and richer.

"Blue Foot are typically slaughtered much later than factory farm or free range chicken, being left to grow on their own rather than relying on force-feeding or power feed. Thus they require 12 to 14 weeks to reach market size, rather than the 42 days. No water is absorbed into the meat during the chilling process." Hmm...making them naturally plump.

The bird came home, along with a container full of dried cherries. My experience in Morocco has taught me that dried fruit and meat go very well together. Trying to deduce what flavors would combine well in this case, I choosing something equally as rich and dense in flavor, but which would lend some acidity.

A tagine almost always inspires Moroccan spices. Not afraid to experiment, I used ginger which I know goes well with any chicken, ras al hanout, because I thought the bird could stand up to it, a pinch of saffron because I was going exotic, and a touch of cinnamon and clove as the mystery ingredients, to add panache and enhance the cherries. The blue footless bird looked amazing in the tagine, marinated in a bit of extra virgin olive oil and spices. I landed a few sprigs of thyme on top just to add an herbal element.

To further gild the lily, I soaked the cherries for about a half an hour in some cabernet franc recommended by my new friend, sommelier Phil Morich, wine manager at Alfalfa's Market. They were added about half way through the cooking. I also used a splash of the wine as liquid to flavor the dish, something tradition does not advocate. Safe to say this idea is French-Moroccan fusion, of which there is a fair amount.

Almost all tagines cook for at least an hour, more depending on how gentle the fire. Tri-colored quinoa was my accompaniment, along with a spinach salad with thinly sliced red onion, dressed simply with course salt and freshly pressed olive oil.

My friend Virginie took a bite and said, "Oh Peg, it's a 10."I was rather pleased.

A culinary adventure, right here at home.


Tagine of Blue Foot Chicken and Dried Cherries


1 Blue Foot chicken
1 large onion
3/4 cup of dried cherries, soaked in wine of choice*
1 T dried ginger
1/2 t ras al hanout (Moroccan blend of spices)
1/4 t cinnamon
1/4 t clove
a pinch of saffron (soaked in 1/2 cup of water)
4 sprigs of fresh thyme
extra virgin olive oil
salt and pepper to taste

* Chateau Du Petit Thouars ~  Cepage Cabernet Franc
(read about them, quite interesting)

 
 Slice onions and set aside. Soak cherries in your wine of choice* and set aside. Slice chicken into parts and rub with olive oil and spices, salt and pepper. Put half the onions in the bottom of the tagine. Add the chicken on top and add the other half of the onions on top of the chicken. Add the sprigs of fresh thyme. Bathe the chicken in a splash of wine and add the saffron in it's water. Cover.

Cook tagine on a gas stove or over coals. When cooking with a clay pot, it's best to heat the pot slowly.
Start out slow, increasing the temperature until the pot has brought the food to a boil. Turn down to a simmer.  Let cook for 20 minutes. Check occasionally to make sure there is enough liquid to create steam and keep the chicken from burning.

Add the cherries and the soaking wine and let cook for another 20 minutes. Test for tenderness.

Dedicated to all of my fellow Moroccan culinary adventurers.

Explore Morocco with us this March!

Morocco: A Feast for the Senses

March 18-27, 2012

    

When I meet fellow Americans traveling abroad here in North Africa, I ask them, "What did you expect to find here?" Almost without exception, regardless of the way they express it, the answer reduced to its simplest terms is: a sense of mystery.  

~ Paul Bowles.    

Email us or call our booking coordinator, Merete, at 303-910-0897 to reserve your spot!

  

  

  

Program includes:

~ Airport pick-up by private driver

~ Six nights at a private guesthouse located in the Marrakech's posh Palmeraie

~ Two nights in the Atlas Mountains

~ One night in a candelit pension along Morocco's Atlantic coast 

~ All accommodations and most meals

~ Cooking classes and guided cultural excursions

 

She Might Be In Tangier

"If you see her, say 'hello', she might be in Tangier..."This Bob Dylan song came to me, along with "Boots of Spanish leather," while crossing the strait of Gibraltar a few days ago. It was no different than any other ferry crossing, just more significant. Leaving Tarifa, Spain's final beach, for the minarets of Morocco follows the thread of many a famous traveler.

I frequent ferries in Italy, going from the mainland to many of the outlying archipelago. Yet, leaving Europe behind to cross over only 9 miles of open sea to end up in North Africa, has adventure written all over it. Especially for those who swim it.
 

When I meet fellow Americans traveling abroad here in North Africa, I ask them, "What did you expect to find here?" Almost without exception, regardless of the way they express it, the answer reduced to its simplest terms is: a sense of mystery.  

~ Paul Bowles.    

 Paul Bowles                                                                 Matisse's Green Door. Tangier

 I can only imagine what it must have been like when author and composer, Paul Bowles (The Sheltering Sky) was encouraged by Gertrude Stein to go to Morocco, for the first time in 1931. Tangier was accessible and exotic. A completely different world full of magic and mystery. Unknown places delight the imagination at every turn with intrigue, curiosity, and heightened awareness. It has attracted and inspired artistic expression from the likes of Delacroix and Matisse. Bowles was the 'go to' man for many writers like Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams. Beat poets like William Burroughs, Allen Ginsburg, Gregory Corso, and Kerouac also knocked on the door,  attracted by the avant-garde Parisian playground. Yet, he was no beat poet himself. Even though he had experimented with hash from the Rif mountains and delved in exploration of consciousness, he was an older well-dressed, serious writer and composer.

Influential cookbook author Paula Wolfert, who came to Tangier also as a young beatnik 50 years ago, just came out with a new book simply called, The Food of Morocco. In it she writes,

"I had come to an exotic land in search of "The Other". I was, I thought, prepared for most anything. I soon discovered that it was I who was actually "the other" and as I explored, and made my way through the narrow streets of the medina of Tangier. It was not the kind of adventures described by Bowles that befell me, but something that I was not prepared for: the seduction of Moroccan Cuisine."

There was nothing extraordinary about the markets or the streets that we saw, Tangier now 50 years more modern. Yet we could imagine what they were like 50 years ago, when we turned the corner in present time and saw a woman in a quiet square at the well cleaning her fish, her head covered and her clothing simple. She was a shy portrait of the past. I didn't take her picture.

Remnant bread was gathered and put into a sack and set by a central neighborhood door. Bread is precious and recycled into other dishes, such as puddings.  Still, nothing is wasted.

We stumbled across a doorway where people, even young girls, were carrying trays covered in cloth. It was the community oven, where a man stood at the mouth of it in a pit and shuffled trays of roasted seeds, nuts and bread around. He would dump the roasted seeds into a woven basket, slosh a bit of water on them, then  sprinkle some salt. The seeds would be mixed by tossing the basket up and down. They were pitch black sunflower seeds, not ones that I would want to eat, but supposedly the Tanjawi's like them that way.

The old man,  tiny with a grey beard and faded clothing, had the sweetest eyes. He offered us a small round cake to try. We were peckish and quite grateful for the nosh. What a hot life to live in the mouth of the oven all day. What a blessing to bake bread for your community.
 

We passed another stall where women were making the breakfast bread. They had their flour cloths out with mounds of dough on top. When they were ready to cook it, they flattened it a bit with their hands and put it on a flat-top stove. To further "iron it out", they sat an old tin kettle on top, half full of water. It's uniformed flatness and crust no longer a mystery. Generous and kind, they tore off pieces of warm bread for us to try. At every turn, traditional Berber women with conical shaped hats from the Rif mountains were busy selling something. In their tradition, the women run the business. Whether selling goat cheese, chickens or fresh sardines, they rise early, make their way to town, trade, tuck their money into their skirts and head back to the hills.
 
Our lunch came next, and by this time, who was hungry? We were taken to simple place, La Tavern de Poisson; a Moroccan fish restaurant populare, where we were served a brothy fish soup with barley couscous out of a large terra cotta vessel heated over a standing coal fire. It was settling and delicious. Two savory dishes followed, another seafood dish full of the tiniest squid, shrimp and white fish, with celery root and spinach, spiced with lemon, cumin and ginger. Quite tasty. Grilled John Dory and Sole came after, with baby shark skewers on the side. No wine of course, but Hassan the waiter, who looked
like a genie, took us into the back room where he showed us that he was brewing figs, grapes and their stems, quince, apples and who knows what else. It is their own special non-alcolholic 'vino di casa'. Odd to drink with fish really, but refreshing. Freshly plucked pomegranates and sweet strawberries were served with honey for dessert.



Our day in Tangier came to an end when we met our driver to Fez at the historic old, classic
Continental Hotel. We said goodbye to our guide, SaID, and hopped into the car with Hassan, to take
us 5 hours south to Fez. An hour later, he pulls over and starts retching violently. "Bad Fish for lunch",
he says. We race through the night on two lane roads, dodging trucks full of sheep and men, boys on  bicycles, donkeys bundled with grasses, dogs and donkey carts full of Rif mountain tradeswomen.

He stops, all in all, 3 times to retch before finally arriving in Fez. We snake through the streets with a man who carts our luggage and turning the last and final turn to the left onto a broken road with bricks laying about, he knocks on a door and points to the name. Dar Roumana.

 

From monotone sand color of stone, building and streets, the door opens onto a kaleidoscope of blue and white tiles and a welcoming dining room set with linens, soft music and a fountain. Home~at least for the next few nights. Ginger pumpkin soup and sea bass calms the nerves.. creme brulee heightens the spirits~ but nothing quite does the trick, like the gin and tonic.

My friend Kim, still white from the journey says..."make it a double please."

Photos by Peggy Markel

Relaxing with "Thé Petales": Rose Petal Tea from Perfumer Miller Harris, London.

Paul Grimes smelling the roses at Jalil Belkamel's aromatherapy garden in Marrakech.

"My name is Peggy Markel and I haven't written a blog in over 15 days". This is what I imagine a meeting at Bloggers Anonymous would sound like. In this case, I confess that I can't keep up with blogging, or other social media word flow. My life moves fast in the "slow food and travel" lane.

Just this late summer and fall, I have kept moving at the speed of light. I've been steeped in poetry, fed warm sheepsmilk ricotta, tasted numerous full-bodied wines, eaten rustic ragus, seafood stews and delicate volutes topped with fennel pollen and drizzles of  aromatic oils on various stuffed pastas, meats and frilly fresh salads. I've sucked on salt chocolate, cinnamon chocolate, hot Sicilian chocolate and soon to be, ambergris chocolate. I've traveled by air, train, ferries, sailboat and zodiac. At times, I switched to donkeys, camels, mopeds and bicycles.  Even when I have stopped for a few short days here and there, I am constantly asked to do something, organize something (even a closet), make plans, write out a recipe, think of a plan for next year (but right now), price something, talk to this person, introduce that person, meet these people, re-pack a bag, hop a taxi, book a ticket, or deal with the details of the moment. Old and new friends are constantly coming and going.

This sort of existence has texture and depth, rich in meaningful, earthy experiences. A constant massage, it touches the places that love attention, offering a sensual smorgosbord for the eyes, ears, nose and palate, engaging me deeply in body, speech and mind. So much so, that at times I feel like my life is like a flimsy lacy petticoat, hanging half way off the shoulder and my legs are dangling out the window of a brothel. Enough already.

I have a thousand stories to tell and many details of discoveries to share. Most of them seem like they wait like wallflowers to be noticed or disappear all together.

Today, with another bag to pack and upcoming transition to make, I sat down to write instead. I made a cup of assam tea with a precious pinch of thé petales (rose petal tea) from Miller Harris. It was a gift from the perfumer herself. I met Lyn Harris at Jnane Tamsna in Marrakech. We share a passion, not only for tea, but for this private guesthouse that we frequent every year. It feels like a home away from home. I know everyone, including the carob trees and rose bushes, surely she knows every aromatic plant.

The interesting thing, is that I was aware of her perfume before I met her. I have her "fig" and "fluer oriental." Unusual fragrances, they stand apart from the plethora of powdery perfumes. Meeting her on casual turf in caftans and bare feet brought a certain air of authenticity to her product and mutual like-mindedness of mood.

"Drinking rare and beautiful teas has always been an essential luxury," says Lyn Harris. "Inspired by the delicate art of balancing flavor and aroma, Lyn has combined the world's finest teas with pure, natural extracts to create a collection of blends with top, heart and base notes. This tea demands the prettiest of cups. Smooth and sensual Turkish rose combines with velvet notes of vanilla Ceylon. A heart of Taiwanese White Tip Oolong is entwined with geranium bourbon from the island of Reunion to create a delicate refreshing cup. " So says the back of the tea canister.

So that description my friends..."is my cup of tea," on this fine Sunday afternoon in Florence. Life no longer hanging out the window, but sitting quite properly enjoying one's tea in a pretty cup reading a novel, Everything Beautiful Began After by Simon Van Booy.

Visit the Miller Harris tea collection.

High Atlas Needle and Thread

Mubarak took us up the long winding trail above the Kasbah to the closest village called Ammand. Breathtaking in everyway, the splendor of white on white is a freshness that penetrates the dullest of senses. White cherry blossoms in the green valley, practically holds hands with a snow capped Mt. Toubkal at 13,655 ft. The sky is beyond blue. The call to prayer bounces off the nearby mountains as the runoff rushes full on in a waterfall down to the valley below.

Robinhood, a Berber man with a sense of humor and selling techniques of an east coast car salesman, tries to usher us into his shop on the side of a dirt road. "My name is Robinhood No. 2. I take from the rich and give to the poor. If you don’t want to part with your money, ok no problem, we stay friends anyway. No couscous for me today. No money, no honey, no chiken curry, but if you like to buy something from my shop and support the village I will be very happy and my family will be too.”

Coming Home to a Country of Old Friends.

Coming to Morocco is not a stretch for me. It’s like coming home.

Yet, this time, there was some worry about arriving amid political unrest, which is quite rare if ever. After Tunisia and Egypt, Morocco, Bahrain, Algeria and Libya followed suit. Some of these North African countries fared better than others during the protests, and Libya no doubt was like upsetting a hornet's nest. 

But Morocco was sane. Some thugs took advantage of the protests there and broke a few shop windows, but the demonstrations themselves were peaceful. Reform was taken seriously and the king is responding with intelligence. He was already on the trail of change, with no fear of being overthrown. On March 9, he gave an historical speech letting the people know that he was giving up seventy percent of his power. What this means is that ministers in each region will be voted in rather than appointed by him. One thing is for sure, protest or not, the Moroccan people love their King.

Protests in general are healthy. They effect change by the people, for the people. Europeans are taught to "manifest" in school, especially against unions, etc. The French, for example, make a habit of demonstrating. We in America are a little less willing.

It’s a shame that people cancelled their trips to Morocco this spring due to fear of unrest. Those of us who know Morocco better, know that it would be extremely rare to have an overthrow. Jobs are needed and some things need to change, like certain Ministers that squander money. Is that different than any other country in the world?

Moroccan people are kind and gentle and most of all good natured. I realize that I am biased, knowing only the people that I have met within this area of southern Morocco. For the last ten years I have been working with a similar group of people in Marrakech, Berbers in the Atlas mountains and by the coast of Essaouira. I have a handful of urban, university educated local friends as well. The more I get to know them the more their sense of humor comes out. These people are mostly Berber, some Arab—but they say in Morocco, "If you scratch an Arab, you will find a Berber."

Everyday life in the Palmeraie.

 With talk of earthquakes, tsunami's and supermoons, everyday life here in the palmeraie outside of Marrakech, is thankfully quiet and peaceful. We have not fallen asleep to what's happening in the rest of the world, but what can we do?  We construct colorful and tasty tagines as offerings and read poetry aloud.  In times of turmoil and uncertainty in pockets around the globe, we know that life is not perfect and never will be. But we do what we can do to celebrate the beauty at hand.

Spring Tagine with chicken, fava and fresh fennel

Persian Love Cake

We just found this delightful blog at My Marrakesh.

Morocco, Libya, Bahrain, Iran and, really, the world: A tale of Persian Love Cake

In these times of turmoil, of tumult, of turbulence.  Yes, in these times of upheaval, of unrest, of uproar. Oh, in these times of clamoring, confusion, and commotion, I thought I would offer you this:

Persian Love Cake.

We love the candied rose petals, which are, as Maryam writes, "helpful when wishing for rose colored glasses to see the world around you."

Read the full blog here. It is a reminder that amidst change and uncertainty, we can always go back to the textures, the flavors, and the rich culture that surrounds us. 

Considering the impact of changes in Egypt on travel in North Africa.

Hi Peggy:

I joined you on your Tuscan trip in Sept, 2002 with my friend Pat. I am thinking about Morocco for my next culinary and cultural adventure, but I’m concerned about the political unrest in Tunisia, Egypt and that region in general. What are your thoughts?

Best wishes,

Jennifer

~~

Hello Jennifer,


Nice to hear from you. I can assure you that I feel absolutely safe traveling to Morocco, and bringing guests with me, in the coming months.

I am reminded of the time that I spent time in Morocco on 9/11 and the months and years just after. As an American traveling at that time, I received much heart-warming support from the Moroccan people, both close friends and strangers. What I have to say about the current political climate in North Africa is rooted in my comfort with the Moroccan culture, and from the views and opinions of many of the my contacts there, who vary in background and experience.

The government in Morocco is different form that of Egypt and other North African countries in that it is a monarchy, not a dictatorship, with a young and progressive King. He has done a lot to increase the welfare of his people and, in general, they love and respect him. Morocco also began to institute political reform some years ago. Morocco is also separated geographically from the Middle East--in many ways, it is more an extension of Europe.

I feel that what is happening in Egypt is astoundingly positive for the Arab nation. The youth of that region are changing the old mentality--something that influence from the West cannot accomplish on its own.

Here is some additional reading that you might find useful, an article from Reuters, "Morocco Unlikely to have a Tunisia-like Uprising."

If you have any other specific questions, please do let us know. We would love to have you join us!

Best,
Peggy

Our booking coordinator, Merete, moments after a lesson in "How to Wrap a Turban" from two experts on the beach in Essouairia, during our Spring 2010 program. 

Morocco: Feast of the Senses. Four rooms remain for our April trip!

"We're making couscous, tagines, and Moroccan breads; and through this amazing food, we're going to learn the spice of life," proclaimed Ruth Reichl, when she joined us in Morocco two summers ago.

Watch a preview of the show that we shot together for Gourmet and PBS here, or taste Morocco for yourself this April 3-12.

Morocco: Feast of the Senses
April 3-12, 2011--Four rooms left!
November 6-15, 2011
$4,940 single room
$4,500/each double room

Including:
- 6 nights in a luxurious Marrakech guesthouse in the lush Palmeraie neighborhood.
- 2 nights in the Atlas mountains
- 1 candlelit night in the Portuguese-influenced coastal city of Essaouira

Email us or call our booking coordinator, Merete, at 303-910-0897 to reserve your room.

Being Like Bob.

I was not surprised when Ms. Kinney told me she wanted to bring her husband of 30 years along on her trip to Morocco.

It was, however, a surprise that he was 93 and able to travel well. My father would have not wanted to go anywhere at 90; he was quite content to stay at home.

Bob Kinney, on the other hand, was ready to go. Each morning in Morocco Bob showed up for breakfast bright eyed. I would ask him, "How are you?" and he would say, "I'm fine! Just happy to be alive! You know, I never expected to live this long."

I asked him, do you have a motto? He replied with certainty, "Do it now." That's different than "Just Do It," I thought. "Do It Now" means that we have no time to waste on not doing, on complaining or sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves. He seemed to understand the "go with the flow" mentality that my guests must slip into, once they realize that I am absolutely in charge not only of our itinerary, but also of their relaxing.

Bob was born in Maine and still speaks of it fondly. He wasn't drafted into the war, as he was better suited to run a certain food company called "General Mills." He would have liked to go straight into officer's training, but stayed home instead to his company like a tight ship. "You must put the responsibility of the product into the hands of the workers. This way, you will always have them listening and working on your behalf, because they feel invested in the success of the company." Bob was in charge of 120,000 employees.

It was with that same spirit and dedication that he accompanied his wife Margee, equally adventurous and enthusiastic about everything, on this fall's program to Morocco. Bob's other motto was, "Say YES to everything." Even riding up to 6,000 ft, to the Kasbah du Toubkal in the Atlas Mountains, on the back of a mule. I was more reluctant at first, having had folks 10 years his junior not comfortable with such a thing. Bob is not a jock, but he has a lot of joie di vivre.

He stayed well the whole trip and delighted us all. On our final night, he was even up dancing alongside the belly dancers. I asked, "Okay Bob, which was more exciting: the mule ride up and down the steep slopes or belly dancing with those lovely women?" He looked at me shyly and said, "The belly dancers for sure!"

I'm printing tee shirts that say, "Be like Bob." Happy to be alive. We should all take that as our motto for living a long life.

Giving thanks for all that we encounter and for the incredibly inspiring people I get to meet on my trips.

Here's a toast: Crumbs on tongues! Sips on lips! Wild Adventures at home and on trips!

With love and wishes for a Happy Thanksgiving,

Peggy

Bahija Lafredi's sensibility for the extraordinary in food, never ceases to amaze me. It comes easy to her.  Unpretentious in her kitchen whites or traditional tunics, she is like a neutral book cover to a colorful, classic novel. Full of surprises, her imagination takes something as simple as a sponge cake and dresses it to the nines with a flip of the wrists.

This basic pineapple upside-down cake came out of the oven beautifully caramelized and mouthwatering. It would have pleased a Queen. Then Bahija said, 'but if you like, you can turn half of it over'. The underside was studded with dates and almonds. Quite a contrast to the yellow caramelized pineapple. She studied it for a minute, then got an idea to quarter it. What started out as a festive cake, now became more so~ A work of art and a feast for the eyes.

Cooking is not always about following a recipe. It's about learning to follow someones way of seeing.

BAHIJA’S PINEAPPLE UPSIDE-DOWN AND TURNED-AROUND DATE CAKE

9 eggs

200 grams flour (1 cup)

200 grams of butter

100 grams of sugar (1/2 cup)

6-8 apples ( pears optional)

1 pineapple

1 cup of sliced, pitted and chopped dates

1 cup of slivered almonds

2 T orange or strawberry marmalade 

2 T baking powder

a pinch of salt

caramel sauce:

100 grams sugar

Melt the sugar on a low flame until it turns a clear light brown. Pour the sauce to coat the bottom of a ring mold, or springform pan. (Caution! Sauce is very hot!)

  

Slice the fruit and put around the pan. Pineapple first, then the apples.

Batter:

Beat the eggs with the butter, salt and sugar.

Mix baking powder with the flour, then add to wet ingredients and mix well.

Pour the batter over the fruit. Decorate the top with the chopped dates and almonds.

Bake for 30 minutes at 350F. Check for doneness with a toothpick. Invert the cake carefully!

      

If you want to make the presentation more interesting, cut the cake in quarters and turn only half of it over. You will have pineapple upside down cake on one side, and dates and almonds on the other.

      

 

Moroccan Fish Pastilla Recipe

Guided by master chef Bahija, we learned to make a traditional Moroccan chicken pastilla during the 2010 trip to Morocco.


Ready with our assortment of spices


Adding saffron to the chicken.



Bahija crushes almonds for the chicken pastilla by hand, a method she
laughingly refers to as the "Berber food processor."

By popular request, the recipe for a fish and seafood version of the pastilla follows. Enjoy!
FISH PASTILLA (Pastille au Poisson)
The below recipe uses filo dough to form the crust of the pastilla. Traditionally, Moroccan pastilla is made with warka, a slightly less-flaky, more malleable pastry sheet. In the United States, warka can be found in many Middle Eastern groceries, but filo dough also makes a suitable substitution.
>> 1 pound of filo dough
>> 5 T melted butter
>> 2 egg yolks
>> 14 oz white fish, cut in pieces
>> 14 oz. shrimp
>> 14 oz squid
>> 2 diced onions
>> 4 cloves garlic
>> 2 Tablespoons parsley
>> 5 oz. vermicelli

>> 1 teaspoon cumin
>> 1 teaspoon paprika
>> 1/2 teaspoon salt and pepper
>> 1 teaspoon saffron
>> 1 teaspoon harrissa (spicy tomato paste)
>> 1 preserved lemon, quartered and pulped
>> juice of one lemon
>> butter


Sauté fish in a skillet with 1 teaspoon of butter for 5 minutes. Add salt and pepper.
Sauté shrimp for 5 minutes, separately, add salt and pepper. Sauté squid with salt and 1teaspoon harissa.

Sauté onion in a little butter until translucent.

Soften vermicelli in hot water, drain and set aside.

Melt a little more butter and add half the of the fish (you will save the other half) to the pan, together with all of the shrimp and squid. Add parsley, vermicelli, garlic, cumin, paprika, preserved lemon, lemon juice, saffron, salt and pepper. Mix and simmer in the pan for 10 minutes (or a bit longer if necessary, to ensure that the vermicelli is cooked.)

Butter pan for the pastilla.

Place 5 leaves of filo around in a fan, starting from the center (like we did in class with the warka) and brush with butter. Add one more in the center and brush again with melter butter.

Add filling, spreading evenly. Add the fish pieces that you saved and place them around the top of the filling. Brush outer leaves with butter and beaten egg. Fold the leaves of filo over the filling, trying to keep it round. Brush again with butter. Add one or two sheets of filo on top. Tuck in well. Brush again with butter and remaining egg yolk.
Cook at 400 degrees F. for 20 minutes or until golden. Decorate with lemon slices and cilantro. Slice into wedges like a pie. Serve hot!

The House of Belonging.

Returning to the places we love is what drives us to travel. Unlike the impetus for adventure, or to get away to someplace new, returning fills a hunger that can only be satisfied by touching what you already know is true.

Unlike my guests who come to my programs for the first time, I make regular visits to these destinations to welcome them. Meanwhile, I am welcomed.

This last sojourn to meet the group in Morocco was a three-day feat. Iceland’s volcano put the squeeze on all of northern Europe closing down airports and all flights for what surely seemed like an eternity to the industry and was a nightmare for travelers stuck in-between. A wayward cloud of ash that could shift at any moment kept us all in suspense and second-guessing where it might go. Making alternative travel plans a game of chance. But when you “gotta go, ya gotta go” and you will do almost anything to get there.

There were marvelous stories of 5,000 euro taxi rides, boat trips, endless hours on trains if you were lucky enough to find a seat. My colleague Merete and I had our own dramas that involved juggling new flights only to find out they’d been canceled. Requiring large sums of cash and swelling stress to make expensive decisions, with moments to spare, that we might regret.

But by hook or by crook. You get on that plane.

Never mind that when we arrived in Casablanca we faced delays, lost bags and more paperwork. We finally made it to Jnane Tamsna in the wee morning hours and fell into bed with abandon.

We woke to birdsong and sunshine.

Coming down the stairs to breakfast, I smile. It was a long hard row to get here. Yet, here I am at “home.” I know it well, the smells, the familiar faces, the bougainvillea. I see my friend Baijah, our chef, who gives me such a big hug of welcome and Majid who greets me warmly. I relax as if I had arrived calmly. My group wandered in slowly having made it from America with less challenging flights, rested, happy and well looked after.

I am so grateful for the relationships that have been built over the years. The secret to any success is in authentic collaboration. They took care of my guests as they take care of me, the hospitality stretched beyond the norm. A message saying, “this belonging extends to you.”

Jnane Tamsna is “a house of belonging.” I feel like I am returning home. And after a tedious journey, there’s no place like returning to what you know is true.

A Note from Landscape Architect, David Michael

I met David in Morocco a few years ago. We have collaborated on a few projects, one being bringing people to his traditional vernacular gardens at his adobe home outside of Marrakech. He recently wrote me about his experience in the Alpujarra in southern Spain, when he noticed I would be doing a program there in October. It was so poetic, I asked him if I could post it.

............................
Hello Peggy.

I hope you are well.

The post regarding your new Andalusian adventure was an interesting surprise for me. As it happens I was once spending a lot of time in the Alpujarra- mapping, measuring, and generally documenting the ancient vernacular irrigation system that flows down from the snow fed pools up in the Sierra Nevadas to the pueblo Trevelez then through Busquistar, Portugos, Ferreriola, Pitres, Orgiva, Velez de Benaudalla, Lobres, to Solembra where it empties into the Mediterranean. From the Chestnut groves down to the sugarcane fields. At one point, thanks to grant funding, I was based in Granada (lived up in the Albaicin) and spent a year wandering those paths along the channels in those mountains- and started making more forays down into Morocco.

As you know, Ferreriola is a tiny, beautiful little rambling pueblo, with many reward walks on the paths out from it. As I recall, up the path towards the iron spring (which will make your teeth hurt), there is a little building where farmers shell the almonds they harvest. Farther up, on the main road as it passes through Portugos, there is the/a communal wine press, etc. where locals take their personal harvests to do batches for home use- it is a nice design with the juice running down a channel in the floor and spilling into a reservoir in the room below. And be careful that the old ladies don't spit chestnut bits all over you when they speak! Their apron pockets will be stocked full of nuts. Such things might be happening in October while you're there.

And in Granada YOU MUST go up and enjoy some flamenco in the Sacromonte Caves (also a larger decent public stage up there with scheduled shows). It doesn't need to be expensive and there is a surprising amount of variety.

-David

p.s. If you get over near Jerez, hit the market in the morning- it is one of the best- great seafood and produce under the same roof. And you can load up on Fina and sherry while you're in town.

..........................

It's people like David that have added richness to my programs over the years. As I have always said, it's about relationship.
Thank you David.

Tagine of Chicken, Preserved lemon, Olive and fresh Coriander

CHICKEN TAGINE WITH PRESERVED LEMONS, OLIVES & FRESH CORIANDER

1 chicken, separated into drum, thigh, breast, etc.
2 onion, sliced
4 cloves garlic
a bouquet of fresh parsley and cilantro
4 T olive oil
2 t ginger powder
1/2 tsp turmeric
1 tsp ground cinnamon
a pinch of saffron
salt and pepper to taste
2 preserved lemons
1/2 cup purple olives

Separate the chicken into pieces and coat with spices and 2T of olive oil, salt and pepper.

Cut the preserved lemons into quarters, and separate the pulp from the peel. Finely slice the peel and reserve for later use. Chop and add the lemon pulp to the chicken. In a tagine or casserole, heat 2T of oil . Add half of the sliced onions. Put the marinated chicken on top. Add the other half of the onions on top of the chicken. Add salt and pepper and the parsley and coriander bouquet garni.

Add 3/4 cup of water. Bring to a simmer and let cook for about 30-40 minutes. Check the chicken periodically with a wooden spatula to make sure it’s not sticking. Simmer until the chicken juices run clear and the meat is moist and tender.

Add the olives 10 minutes before serving. Garnish with lemon peel at the end. Serve piping hot! Tagines available from www.tagines.com or www.
surletable.com. look for Emil Henry, Le Crueset or All Clad.

Morocco Feast for the Senses. April 18th, 2010!

Hammam a leuyah

Sorrow pushes you down to the bone. It seeps into the marrow to scoop up the sweet. It leaves you lying there like a corpse with the world spinning it’s luscious web all around you, and you cannot move.

In this womb-like place, it’s dark and quiet. You are reminded that it's hard to face the everyday all tied up and keep functioning with joy. This is not depression, it is a sense of being lost.
And Thinking too much.

high arched doorways, ancient and crumbling

old women sit cross-legged on folded blankets
wrapped in patchwork

wrinkled skin with a hand at the end
covers the heart

women strip

With big eyes, They enter the domed room painted with stars. They indeed strip and give their belongings to a small bossy woman, who gives them plastic slippers in exchange.

Toweled, They follow her into a steamy room with low light and marble floors. Buckets of water are side by side a handful of women of various shapes. Towels are placed on a hook, They are motioned to sit down on mats with other bodies they do not know. The mats and the floor are warm and wet. Cross-legged like monkeys, They are lined up like See no Evil, Hear no Evil, Speak no Evil and Think no Evil.

See No Evil is taken first..down on a brown lap, head on a thigh, before she can say jack rabbit and ‘I aint doin that’.

A skinny brown woman with empty breast and kind eyes takes a small bowl and dips it into the nearby bucket of warm water. She pours it over and over on See No Evil’s body. See no Evil has never been in a dark steamy room in a foreign county on the lap of someone she has never seen, naked. Not even when she was born.

The old woman rubs a handful of black olive oil soap all over her. More water follows, then she starts to scrub. Hand in a textured mit, she rubs vigorously, as dead skin rolls into black strings. She motions for See to flip over. Her dark arms are strong, but her face is soft. See relaxes into it, mind and body won over purely by the old woman's nurturing gestures. More water was followed by shampoo, which was followed by a few more bucket loads of water. For a moment she was five and remembered when her mother used to spider her fingers through her thick hair. See opened her eyes carefully. She has just shed a skin.

Brown mother with breasts like sacks, motions for See to move to another mat. See looks mesmerized. She walks without question to the next mat where she is met by a cross-eyed woman in red panties, who motions for her to lay down again. Hear No Evil and Speak No Evil are still sitting cross-legged with curiosity. They look at each other as if to say, ‘What will happen next?’

The cross-eyed woman starts to massage. A hundred years, she has practiced her technique. She moves and flips and caresses the muscles with precision.

See lay wondering if she had just landed on earth. For the last 6 years, she had resided on the moon. Out there. A snake with false teeth had just smiled and greeted her in her dreams. Her head finally felt attached to her body. She was happy to be back, but still a little jet-lagged.

Hear No Evil was next. She had said to herself, ‘I’m not sitting on that floor’ and then she was. Her scrubber was a bit intense, more like a laundress, breast looking more like atomic bombs and enough rolls around the middle to get lost in. Years of Hear’s skin came off just the same. Who ever scrubs the mother? Hear was the mother to everyone. She surrendered immediately and was tossed around like she was three. She forgot about the floor. She forgot her name. She forgot everything. Her strong legs were like willows bending in the wind. Her feet moved back and forth like windshield wipers. Comforted, her mind went to apples, baked apples in cinnamon and honey. She could no longer support her hesitations. They were lost, like moss hanging from a tree.

At that point, See wandered out of the room like a zombie and went where she was told and waited. Hear went to the cross-eyed red pantie’d masseus. She melted into the floor with gratitude. Her attitude lost altitude. It had fallen out of the sky and broken into small beads of sweat and the nearest powder room was somewhere over the strait of Gibraltar. Meanwhile, Hear took a deep rest.

Speak was speechless. Far away from harmony and beauty as she knew it, she feared only for the sorrow of her family if they could see her now. What could be lurking invisibly on the warm wet floor, that might choose her for transportation? But, it was too late. She was motioned down on the mat. Hopefully if she was chosen, it would not be too expensive to cure. Her insurance was limited. A sophisticated girl, legs folded to the side like Sophia Loren, water poured over her like a Raphael painting; lipstick still intact. It wasn’t long before Speak, eyes closed, was smiling through the falling water down her face, caution to the wind, happy, not sad, to be in unknown territory. It was new. A boundary crossed. After all, this was what she wanted. What she realized is that what she may lack in insurance would be made up by her assurance. This she had in spades. Maybe she would keep this to herself.

Think No Evil lay down with ease. It was not the first time for her. She willingly gave herself up to the scrub. She willed the release of 50 years of grief. She was not worried about the floor. She was worried that she might have to live with herself with spooned out marrow. She wanted to surrender, become reborn, find out what was left of sun-bleached bone and sinew.

The moist dim room felt like honey, dark manna, spread thick and antiseptic. It was healing something, perhaps a deep wound, a heart punctured with poison arrows. Deep tangible sadness, that didn’t even feel like it was all hers, rose like cream to the top and the pores opened up and the skin sloughed and sloughed. She was raw and felt very vulnerable.

She sat up, took a few deep breaths, opened her eyes and floated over to the red pantie’d wonder, who put the muscles back on her bones and got the blood flowing again.

The next thing she knew, she was lying flat again in another deliciously steamy room, spread eagle on dry warm marble.

Her other monkey friends were there too. All They could do was nod and smile. A week in the woods solo, would not have done more for their souls.

Refreshed and renewed, They threw their towels over their shoulders and walked out of the hammam like They owned it.

They left sorrow, fear and hesitation on the floor. And threw a bucket of water on top to wash their sins away.. before someone else sat down.



A story about Western women in an ancient community hammam. Some hammams are chic, some are anticeptic. Some are raw and real.

Escape Adventurism is Intimate

The Dades valley spreads out supernaturally from the Tizi ‘n Tichka pass of the High Atlas. Majestic mountains pour out onto a dry desert that pools into a riverbed oasis of a thousand Kasbahs.

A long days journey begins with exhaustion and a chance for me to take a look at the sub-Saharan uplands of southeastern Morocco.

I initially set two friends up with a driver and some suggestions for acommodation in a swank desert hotel. Jenny lay, a journalist here on assignment, could easily get in for a song, I thought, and sure enough, they offered her a smashing deal. With little persuasion, she asked me if I would like to join them. I thought, why not? I had wanted to visit this hotel, but it felt to be just a little too far. But today I was content to rest in the back of the car, not being in charge of anything. I left Jenny to grill the driver. She was full of questions, as she should be, and I found myself empty handed of answers most of the time. I’m no expert on Morocco I quickly found out and memory challenged as I am, I often couldn’t remember what I do know. Now someone else could carry the ball and if not, say ‘I don’t know’. I was tired of saying it.

The Tizi ‘n Tichka pass was friendlier than the Tizi n’ Test ( from Imlil to Tarandant that I taken just a few months earlier for my birthday). It was greener, shorter and the roads were seemingly in better shape. It reminded me of Colorado and from photos, quite similar to Tibet. The people live close to the road. I love seeing the mountain people in action herding their sheep, cooking their tagines on the roadside,meandering around in the middle of nowhere looking like mystics in the mist. They seem indifferent to the dark and the elements.

Before reaching Ouarzazate we took a side road into the desert to visit Ait Ben Haddou, a village of Kasbahs, built in the 12th century. It’s the most photographed place in all of Morocco. Protected by Unesco, what looked like a city of sand castles was being carefully restored by local craftsmen. A visit was a must. We drove closer and awed at her beauty from afar. Our driver, Fatah, said, ‘ too bad it’s raining, we could have taken a walk’. Jenny, Carol (her mom) and I said, ‘we don’t mind’. We were adventurous. We were also hungry and tired after being in the car for several hours, but a walk in a 12th century earthen village sounded too refreshing to pass up.

I changed my clothes. I was all in white, pearls and linen, in preparation for our night in one of Morocco’s only three Relais Chateau Hotel’s, called Dar Ilham. I had been salivating all day. I was so excited to go that I postponed my flight for two days back to Italy. It wasn’t just to see an area that I had not seen before. It was a purely hedonistic decision. I wanted to rest ‘in style’. A walk in Ait Ben Haddou in the rain was not my first choice. but I was willing and I knew it would do me good. I shimmied into a pair of jeans, grabbed a jacket and a scarf and stuck on some flip-flops. Since it was raining, it seemed the appropriate choice. Suede was out.

We walked 50 ft and encountered a riverbed with a strong muddy current. Some local boys were vying for an extra dirham to give passage on a donkey. I assumed it was normal considering the infrequency of rain. Jenny and Carol went with a valiant head-dressed horseman, who hoisted them up by turn with ease beside him on his steed. I meanwhile was hoisted up on a small reluctant donkey and taken across 10 feet of wildly rushing desert colored water with some difficulty and hesitation.

Once deposited on the other side, we walked over stones in the dry part of the riverbed to the edge of the village. Fatah knew it well. We were having trouble walking. Dry desert dust and water make mud. Every two feet we would have to stop and clean our shoes, or else lose them. It was tediously funny. Finally we hit stone paths and entered the ancient Kasbah.

Climbing up the pathways, we could see where the old buildings had been restored and where they were still in ruins. Families had begun to move back in, bringing life to what seemed like a movie set. Which in fact it was at times, for films such as, ‘The Sheltering Sky’, a Bertolucci film adapted from the book written by Paul Bowles.

Fatah met a woman he recognized on the road that cautioned him about something we couldn’t understand. He said, ‘waqqah’ and moved on. I asked him what she said. ‘She said, the river was rising and it would be difficult to cross’. At that point I forgot all about the ancient city and all I wanted to do was find a way to get back so that we wouldn’t miss our precious evening at Dar Ilham. I started weaving through the pathways to find the front entrance to the old Kasbah. I met another western woman who said, ‘ the river is too high to cross. We can wait an hour or we can hike 5 k to a bridge.’ I knew how far 5 k would be; perhaps two hours by foot. In the mud it would be
futile. Fatah was close behind and when he heard the news, he spoke to a few locals who suggested donkeys. I am a great fan of burros. Burroughs was my family name. I was quick to mount. I felt it was the best and quickest solution. It would cut the time in half. While we waited for a third donkey, it began raining harder. The Berber men who provided the donkeys for us suggested that we wait for the rain to subside and invited us into their family home for tea and couscous. We were grateful to be dry and eating crumbly couscous with a spoon instead of our hands.

It stopped raining only long enough for us to eat in dry shelter. As soon as we were back on the donkeys, it started raining again. At this point we were ready and restored, rain or no rain. We were off on an adventure over the red mesa, with our arms around the kindness of strangers.

The entire landscape was full of rocks and boulders and fissures that we had to navigate through. Carol was barefoot and drenched. Jenny was still full of curiosity. ‘It seems we are headed away from the river. If we are looking for a bridge, shouldn’t we be going in the direction of the river? I was the most covered, in a woolen scarf and the happy holder of Carol’s umbrella. She didn’t want it. I preferred it to shield the wind. I must have looked a site on the back of the donkey in the middle of nowhere looking a bit Poppins like. I said to Jenny, ‘don’t worry, these Berbers know what they’re doing. I trust them totally.’ Then we smiled at each other in total disbelief that we found ourselves in such a predicament. An hour before we were cozy, dry tourists admiring the sites from our vehicle. Next thing we knew, we were refugees escaping a flood, totally exposed to the elements,at the mercy of the locals, still unsure of our fate. We were bonded for life.

As a woman, I appreciate a valiant man- especially one with no pretense.I have gotten to know the Berbers over the last 5 years and I find them extremely gentile. They are kind, generous, big-hearted people, genuine to the bone. We gave them a mission and they were on it. I was behind Aziz; a strong jawed man with a talent for donkey driving. His series of clicks and commands had us jumping over creek beds, picking our way carefully down rock wall fissures and at times galloping. ‘Rro, rro’, the most common command, makes your donkey go forward. The shrills and trills that came after that were ingenious and the donkey never failed us. Aziz would place his hand respect- fully on my knees to protect them as we brushed against rock in tight places. I held on tight with my arms around his waist, moped style. He took a turn with the umbrella to give my arm a rest. He also kept checking to make sure I was ok. Speaking very little English, he would ask, ‘it’s nice?’ What he really meant was, are you ok? I would say, ‘yes, it’s nice’ just to please him. Cold, raining, in the middle of nowhere, not knowing if we would make it to our destination by nightfall, I would say, yes. It’s nice. Ones experience is always relative. I was on my edge and it was challenging. I could have complained or whined. But I didn’t. I was grateful to be cared for.

We came to the edge of the mesa. Jenny saw the river and the bridge and was relieved. Carol was drenched, but still smiling. I said, ‘are you alright?’ she said, ‘just dandy’. At 63, she was more open and free than either of us. ‘That was a piece of cake,' she later told us. She had been through hell for the last 9 years with her son, a heroin addict. Both survived. ‘He has been clean a year, he’s in a steady relation- ship and I have a gorgeous grandchild. This was definitely cake.’

We clip clopped across the bridge then realized what goes out 5 kilometers, must come back 5 kilometers. It was easier terrain and went much quicker. We passed through a village where all the people came out of their houses to see the spectacle. Who were these wet women on the backs of these donkeys and why?

We made it to the car just before dark. We said goodbye to our dear friends and gave them an offering of thanks. I hated to leave so abruptly. I would have preferred to sit somewhere warm and drink something warming to the bones. Yet, it was time to go. I realized it was their kindness that warmed me the most. The site of Hamadi especially, looking as handsome as Omar Sharif. He ran behind our caravan in gum boots over rocky terrain the entire 10 k just to make sure we made it safely. I felt a reluctant good- bye. Escape adventurism is intimate.

I took the essence of Aziz to my dreams that night. But it wasn’t in Dar Ilham. The river there had risen beyond passage as well.We stayed at Ait ben Moro, a Kasbah run by a Spaniard. I lamented terribly the missed opportunity for Relais Chateau. But even that became transparent.

We were able to cross over the next day by 4 x 4. It was a sight alright. Very under- stated. The chef prepared us a wonderful lunch and we ate by the fireside,outside on the patio. He must have sniffed journalist. He was quite GQ. I was impressed with the place, but not too regretful for not staying there.
Relais Chateau is a state of mind. If you don’t have it, then it’s no fun to stay
there. There’s nothing to complain about. I made a plan to come back for a three day tented safari in the desert.

I am usually the one taking people to their edge, only because it’s no longer mine. Sometimes I find one for myself and when I do, I am grateful. It increases my own ability to stretch.

We headed back over the mountains, but not before we stopped on the side of the road for a basket of dates. After all, we were in the Dades Valley.