America vs. Morocco: The War of the Cookies
Yesterday I was feeling rather stupid. I have read for hours and hours and could hardly stand reading anymore, for the mere fact that I had little else to do. It didn't feel like a freedom so much as a time-filler. I wanted to do something effective, learn something new about the community, make some strides toward actual work, meet someone new in the community. However I had tried to visit my counterpart in her office and she wasn't there and the internet cafes were full. It is near Laid Kbir and my language is still elementary, so it wasn't the day for trying to meet artisans or some government official. I just felt like my life was on hold and figured everyone in the community must be wondering what I'm doing. Except, in reflection, half of them are sitting in their homes watching TV all day, so the thought probably never crossed their minds. I closed my Newsweek (contribution by Peace Corps) and found my host sisters in the bathroom, cutting each other's hair. Wash britu ntyybu gato Merikani? (Wanna make some American cookies?). They agreed and I headed out to buy the ingredients.
We made chocolate chip cookies.. a bit hard without American measuring cups, grams do me no good and Moroccans are convinced that all cookies should be very dry and chock full of flour. This was my third time fighting with the natives over the amount of flour to add to my cookie dough. I measured in a "cup" of brown sugar and a "cup" of white. Nadia protested.. too much sugar. Yep. Lots of sugar, that's the way Americans like 'em. ... and then I made them use a spoon instead of their hands to mix it. It is just as inconvenient for a Moroccan to use a spoon to mix a batter as it is for Americans to use their hands to eat stew or mix batters (myself excluded..I'm used to it at this point, but on the days that I feel tired of the foreign culture I just grab a fork and it makes my day :-).
We dropped them on the cookie sheet and another fight ensued about just dropping them ... no rolling them in flour and making little balls. They had a hard time accepting it, but finally took two spoons and ceremoniously dropped cookie dough batter on the sheet. I smiled. Then came baking... first, there is no such thing as temperature on most ovens here. I tried to explain that to Nadia. She place her hand on top of the metal oven: "It's 350 degrees now," she smiled. When the cookies had risen and were just showing a hint of brown I removed them. They protested, pointing to the centers of the cookies and trying to prove they weren't cooked all the way yet. That's the way we like them in America, I insisted.
Then they got smart.. they started humming and begged me to teach them the American Slow Dance.. the Waltz. We waltzed around the kitchen, humming along and then I remembered.. the last batch of cookies were still in the oven. I reached for it and they exclaimed.. wait, wait! They're not ready yet! Moroccans like their cookies "red" (browned, but they use the word for red in arabic, not brown). They laughed.. we were trying to distract you and hope you would forget. I grinned.. okay, fine, those are Moroccan cookies and the white ones are American cookies. We had reached a truce.
Guess which ones got eaten? Of course, the brown ones, blackened on the bottom.
We made chocolate chip cookies.. a bit hard without American measuring cups, grams do me no good and Moroccans are convinced that all cookies should be very dry and chock full of flour. This was my third time fighting with the natives over the amount of flour to add to my cookie dough. I measured in a "cup" of brown sugar and a "cup" of white. Nadia protested.. too much sugar. Yep. Lots of sugar, that's the way Americans like 'em. ... and then I made them use a spoon instead of their hands to mix it. It is just as inconvenient for a Moroccan to use a spoon to mix a batter as it is for Americans to use their hands to eat stew or mix batters (myself excluded..I'm used to it at this point, but on the days that I feel tired of the foreign culture I just grab a fork and it makes my day :-).
We dropped them on the cookie sheet and another fight ensued about just dropping them ... no rolling them in flour and making little balls. They had a hard time accepting it, but finally took two spoons and ceremoniously dropped cookie dough batter on the sheet. I smiled. Then came baking... first, there is no such thing as temperature on most ovens here. I tried to explain that to Nadia. She place her hand on top of the metal oven: "It's 350 degrees now," she smiled. When the cookies had risen and were just showing a hint of brown I removed them. They protested, pointing to the centers of the cookies and trying to prove they weren't cooked all the way yet. That's the way we like them in America, I insisted.
Then they got smart.. they started humming and begged me to teach them the American Slow Dance.. the Waltz. We waltzed around the kitchen, humming along and then I remembered.. the last batch of cookies were still in the oven. I reached for it and they exclaimed.. wait, wait! They're not ready yet! Moroccans like their cookies "red" (browned, but they use the word for red in arabic, not brown). They laughed.. we were trying to distract you and hope you would forget. I grinned.. okay, fine, those are Moroccan cookies and the white ones are American cookies. We had reached a truce.
Guess which ones got eaten? Of course, the brown ones, blackened on the bottom.
posted by Rachel Beach | 12:40 PM
1 Comments:
good move with sticking to cookies. i tried couscous... big mistake!
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