Dusted with salt, pepper, and ground cumin.

Okay, so it’s been but an eon since I last posted something on this blog. You know, I love the idea of journaling, blogging, documenting my thoughts and experiences. But as I’ve stated on this blog before, I’m really bad at it.

But anyway, let me tell you about this late-winter rain that pattered against my roof. The droplets struck, the echo reverberated through my cold but somehow cozy concrete-box-of-a-house (must be the 4 layers of sweaters, long-johns, and wool socks). I looked outside, the gray sky hovered eerily over the hollow formed by the two gentle argan and olive tree dotted hills. The wind blew a cold sheet of small rain droplets through my open kitchen window, wafts of freshly brewed coffee then tickled my nose. I sipped the pleasant coffee, its humble flavors engulfed my pallet. I continued to stare out the window, thinking how far I’ve come since arriving to Morocco just over one year ago. I am now far less confused and significantly less innocent, yet a much more capable resident of this country.

I sat at my kitchen table and from an old Fanta soda bottle I poured some fresh and delightfully fruity olive oil in a plate dusted with salt, pepper, and ground cumin. I dipped my fresh bread in the oil, and by a Morocco-induced habit I softly whispered “bismillaah,” literally: “in the name of God.” Fresh bread, fresh oil: this is the breakfast of Morocco and is now a breakfast I have come to thoroughly enjoy. The salt, pepper, and cumin addition is perhaps purely American on my part; salted and spiced olive oil is certainly ludicrous in the minds of my villagers. I bismillaah-ed like a Moroccan, yet I ate my Moroccan breakfast like a foreigner – a reminder that I am a metamorphosis of the individual that de-boarded the Royal Air Maroc flight over one year ago.

In honor of orange season (and in honor of my love for all-things food)…

Fresh oranges, ready to be juiced at home; 3dirham juice stand in Marrakech; the grand Koutoubia mosque in Marrakech