The Riad – A home away from home
We spent most of the five days in Marrakech, in Southern Morocco, a couple of hours away from the sea. We decided to stay in a riad which are old Moroccan homes converted into guesthouses. They usually have 3-5 rooms each and the owners or care takers stay on the premises. You get home cooked meals, a flavor of Moroccan life, and a chance to meet other tourists as well.
Riad Ghallia – on Derb El Khemis, Place Mokhef
Continue reading “Moorish Escapades”
Sun worshipper that I am, I enjoy seeing its gold orange glow reflected off the modern steel and glass structure opposite the window, and I imagine briefly, that I am sunning myself on some tropical island..
And I wish I could exchange the tweed umbrella in my bag for a tiny coloured paper one in my drink.
In the slicing of an apple for instance.
The knife poised expectantly above the freshly washed skin. Leaping, almost, out of my hand in an eagerness to slice through the firm red fruit.
Thick creamy slices edged in deep maroon.
Or in the crispness of a freshly ironed collar.
I lose myself in the heaviness of the iron filled with linen water. Erasing wrinkles and crumpled lines on the cotton blend fabric with every movement.
A warm cloud of steam rises from the board mingled with the smell of cotton and detergent.
Saute the onions until translucent.. she reads her mother’s neat handwriting. Recipes written for onions that were bright violet in the cart that Muruga brought around every morning. Her mother would run down in a nightgown and haggle merrily with him before returning with the day’s vegetables. Small tomatoes, potatoes still covered in spots of mud. And a handful of bay leaves that he would throw in for free.
How would she be able to tell, here where onions were white, in clear plastic bags under the bright lights of the vegetable aisle at the Tesco?
She guesses the best she can while measuring out the spices. It takes several tries to get it right. Too much salt (add some potates to soak it up). Too little tamarind. Finally, she adds the sambhar podi from a tupperware container.
Neatly labelled in tamizh, packed and sent from home, brought over by a cousin returning from a vacation. It was saved for a special occasions – when she was cooking for friends, when they were having people over. If it was only for her, she’d just throw in the “Hot Chilli Powder” (suitable for Indian curries) that she buys at the store.
But today, although she’s dining alone she uses the sambhar podi. On this rainy Sunday afternoon, she’s trying to recreate, in Liverpool Street, a tiny slice of Abhiramapuram.
Instead of going back the entire hour at one go, like the rest of England and Europe (Yes, as someone who had to fill countless forms, shell out a 100 quid and jump through hoops to get a visa to Europe despite living in London (or is it because of), I still think they’re two very seperate entities), I savoured and spent this hour throughout the day.
In the morning when I woke up, and wanted to snooze a li’l while longer – I gave myself twenty more minutes of Sunday morning under the covers – a very guilt free snooze unlike Monday or Tuesday morning snoozes where you know that the later you get up, the more emails you’ll have to deal with in one go.
In the afternoon when I met girlfriends for lunch, I gave myself an extra half hour of conversation, laughs and gossip before I had to leave.
And this morning, when I ran into work suffering from Monday morning blues, I stopped at a Starbucks, bought myself a caramel coffee with cinnamon, and gave myself ten extra minutes to savour it before getting to the rest of the day.
Now, I’m tempted to go forward every Friday evening, and give myself an extra hour all weekend!
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