Derb 37

a journal from a house in the medina

Derb 37 — the cuisine of Morocco, page 2

Kitchen

The first harira

The pot has been on since noon. The whole house smells of cumin and tomato and that cinnamon-at-the-end thing that only happens in Ramadan. Zahra makes hers thicker than mine. I keep adjusting toward her version, year on year. It is almost there.

Harira

serves six

For the pot

200g brown lentils, rinsed150g chickpeas, soaked overnight1 large onion, fine-chopped4 ripe tomatoes, peeled and crushedA handful of celery leaves (not stalks)A big bunch each of coriander and parsley1 tsp cumin, 1 tsp turmeric, 1/2 tsp ground ginger1/4 tsp cinnamon, right at the endA pinch of saffronOlive oil, salt, pepper

To finish

2 tbsp flour mixed with a little cold waterLemon, dates, bread, at the table

Sweat the onion in olive oil. Tomatoes, celery leaves, herbs, spices in — a couple of minutes until the kitchen smells ridiculous.

Lentils and chickpeas, water to cover (about two litres). Bring up, drop to a simmer, walk away for forty-five minutes.

Cinnamon now. Stream the flour-water in slowly, stirring, until it just coats a spoon. Lemon at the table.

Travel

Chefchaouen, in fog

Two nights in Chefchaouen and the fog never lifted. Blue walls, blue stairs, blue doors — the whole town hand-painted into the colour of an idea. I drank mint tea on a wet step at eight in the morning and didn't see another tourist for an hour. I was glad.

Morocco

Six am in the courtyard

Bare feet, cold tiles. No fountain yet. Just the birds and the muezzin and then quiet. The courtyard is still cool from last night. Yunnan black in the chipped Hong Kong cup. The zellige goes pink at this hour. Mine for thirty more minutes, then the house wakes up.

Morocco

The Tuesday bread oven

Tuesday is communal-oven day. Two rounds of khobz on the wooden board, my initial in flour so the boy knows whose is whose. Forty minutes later he reappears with two hot loaves wrapped in a cloth, and the whole derb is the smell of bread for an hour.

Kitchen

A jar of preserved lemons

Small Moroccan lemons from the souk this morning, the thin-skinned kind. Quartered through the top so they open like a flower but stay attached at the base. Pack hard with salt, jar them tight, lemon juice over. Six weeks. The pantry will smell like all the good things at once.

Preserved Lemons

one two-litre jar

You need

10–12 small thin-skinned lemons (more if your jar is wide)A generous handful of coarse sea saltJuice of 4–5 extra lemons, to top upA clean two-litre jar with a tight lid

Quarter each lemon from the top, almost through, leaving the base attached. Stuff each one with salt.

Layer into the jar, pressing down hard so the juice rises. Top up with extra lemon juice until the lemons are submerged.

Lid on. Pantry. Turn the jar upside down once a week. Six weeks before they are tender. Use the rind, not the flesh.

Kitchen

Lamb dumplings, with preserved lemon

Tuesday, January. Lamb and preserved lemon, folded into thin wonton skins. The pleat is the same as my grandmother's. The kitchen smells of cumin and sesame at once. Zahra walks through, peers, says nothing, smiles.

Lamb & Preserved Lemon Dumplings

about thirty · serves four

Filling

500g lamb shoulder, hand-minced4 spring onions, sliced thinA thumb of ginger, grated2 tbsp soy sauce1 tbsp preserved lemon paste1 tsp sesame oilA pinch of white pepper

To finish

Round wonton wrappersWater for sealingChilli oil and black vinegar

Mix the filling with your hands. Don't overwork it.

Wet the rim of a wrapper, drop a teaspoon of filling, fold to a half-moon, pleat the seam from one corner across.

Steam over rolling water for eight minutes. Eat at the counter, chilli oil, black vinegar.