Moroccan food, commensality, cancer July
24, 2014
I don’t want to use the word “cancer” here. It has too much
power. It immediately takes over the imagination and drains hope and optimism.
But, that is the reality. A sudden new one I’ve found myself thrust into. So,
here I am in Madison, Wisconsin, (instead of the music festival in West Virginia
I had planned for all year) with my two sons. My oldest turned 28 last week and
was just diagnosed with colon cancer (stage 4). He’s one of the healthiest
people around, and has been a vegan since age 13 and vegetarian since 5
(another story I’ll write about sometime). He’s a graduate student here at the
university. My other son is 25 and has a full-time job as an
artist/illustrator. (I always point that out so that people know it’s possible
to get an art degree and still get a job…)
On Tuesday I drove the 7 ½ hours from my home in Ohio to
Madison, WI to be here while Ian undergoes surgery and chemotherapy. It’s the
first time I’ve seen him since the diagnosis, and I was thrilled to see him
looking so well. We decided to celebrate by going out to dinner. He chose the
place, Marrakech, a Moroccan restaurant that offers vegetarian and vegan
options, and I drove, carrying the two boys and their respective girlfriends.
The meal was delicious and fun, and a reminder of how food can bring people
together and be used to ground us—both in the here and now and in the more
abstract, universal truths of life.
The owner had a wry sense of humor in answering our
questions about the food. Ian had actually traveled in Morocco, and I’ve been
to other Moroccan restaurants, so that was a topic of conversation, especially
since, the owner said the population in Madison is miniscule (the largest is in
Boston). The menu wasn’t large so we ordered a sample of almost everything
vegetarian. The appetizers were wonderful—zaaluk
(grilled eggplant blended with tomatoes, green pepper, garlic, olive oil), mohamara (walnuts, artichoke, red
pepper, and spices), and humous
(blended chickpeas) served with pita
bread strips. Also, makouda (potato croquettes seasoned with garlic,
cumin, and cilantro). Entrees included a tangine, (similar to a stew) and vegetable couscous,
both of which are considered national dishes. Both were served in traditional
ceramic bowls with coned shaped ceramic covers. Also for entrée, was a
vegetable pie type of thing wrapped in phyllo dough, called a bastilla—delicious! For dessert we
ordered “Flavor of Sahara,” a bar made of ground dates, sunflower seeds, nuts,
and rosewater, and an “Oasis Tartlet,” fresh
figs cut in half with nuts and date honey.
The owner also brought us a pot of sweet mint tea although
we had not ordered it. It was one of those nice little touches that helped the
event be even more special and made it feel like a friendly family meal rather
than a business transaction. That was perhaps the intention, given that we
talked to the owner about Ramadan (since we’re in the midst of it). His gift of
tea reflected the hospitality and generosity so highly valued in Islam. I doubt
that he knew the circumstances of our meal there. If he had, I’m sure the tea
would have been a very intentional gift. I’m finding that illness galvanizes
people, bringing out the best and cutting through any differences, cultural or otherwise.
And what better medium to use than food, something we all share as a basic
need, but invest with such individuality, not only of cultures, but also of
personal memories and experiences. For me, sharing food with my sons was a
statement of life, of hope, and of sharing many meals in the future. And while
my universe at the moment is focused on my own family, this food is a reminder that
millions of people suffer their own personal tragedies every day. Sharing food with others and with a sense of
