Today, while harvesting wheat, I spent quite a bit of time thinking about the importance of bread in the Moroccan diet and gastronomical culture.
Well, almost truthfully. To be honest, I mostly thought about cutting wheat and trying not to cut off any fingers.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, I cut wheat today. Perhaps this is not the most heroic or exciting of activities, but believe me, for someone raised in the upper-middle class suburbs of New Jersey, this is a feat on par with the first human landing on the moon. Growing up, I could not even tell you exactly where bread came from, beyond that it came from flour. I am not sure that I could have come close to explaining the process by which flour is made, nor correctly identified the useful parts of a wheat stalk.
As I am sure that many of my fellow citizens of Suburbia still could not. And so, today I consider myself fulfilled, one of my many dreams and desires having been made a reality.
As for the story behind the current braggadaccio: I arrived at Abdelhak's house the other day to find his father and some other men eating lunch there. This is not a common occurrence, as Abdou's father generally eats at the work site (he is a painter) and rarely returns home for lunch. He explained to me that he had been working in the fields on the hasada, the harvest, and asked if I would like to join him the next day.
Now, don't think that I didn't notice the glint in his eye or the slightly joking tone of voice. I think that he was amused by the thought of the visiting American working in the fields. Nonetheless, I decided to call his bluff, excited by the opportunity to learn something new and work in the fields.
I must say, the work was everything that I hoped it would be. It was hard work, tough on the legs and back and arms. One is constantly crouched or bent, and constantly slicing with one hand and pilings stalks of wheat with the other. Their are large, prickly bundles of wheat to pick up, and huge bags to fill and then place on a donkey's back. The sun is bright and absurdly hot, and in the fields there is no protection from its relentless rays.
And yet, it is fun. Everyone talks and laughs (not that I understand much of the talk), and there is constant coming and going of men with donkeys (they transport the wheat out of the fields). Everyone takes breaks to sip tea and eat 'khobbs mwarrak', a delicious, thin bread flavored with meat grease and spices, which is much more delicious than it sounds.
Now, I can imagine that the life of a farmer is not an easy one, or necessarily all that "fun", but here in Rachidia, it seems that most people have a regular profession or trade as well as a small plot of land for basic necessities such as wheat, animal feed, etc. And in this way, farming (I imagine) provides a bit of a change from daily life for the locals as well, as most of the work for crops such as wheat seems to be at harvest time.
And, while everyone working at first looked at me with a half-smile and a look that said, "whitey won't last ten minues," by the end of my work day (a half-day, as whitey was going swimming), everyone was telling me how well I was doing, my cutting abilities had vastly improved, and I understood the basic steps of the entire harvest process. I even think that I actually provided a helpful service.
As far as the "importance of bread in the Moroccan diet and gastronomical culture", I think that I will leave that for another day, though it is something on which I would like to elaborate. For now, my sunburnt skin, my blistered hands, and my tired body say that it is time for food, rest, and sleep.
More soon.
(Oh, and Jerz, I'm wearing sandals)
No comments:
Post a Comment