My mom never taught my brothers or me how to cook . I don ’ t even think she was ever taught how to cook . We could only observe her exploring spices , textures , ingredients and flavors . With her astute and confident palate , we just knew that she would always deliver culinary magic . We used to call her the Mozart of cooking — she just had to taste a dish once to reproduce the flavor impeccably .
How did she get that knowledge ? How did she experience food in a way that translated in her cooking ? What did food mean to her ? I can ’ t tell for sure but , as I am typing these questions , I am hit with fireworks of thoughts , emotions , and more memories .
I am in my late 20s . It ’ s 11 am in Tunis . The sun has almost hit the zenith ; my mom and I have decided to go for a walk . This is not an aimless walk though . In the morning I asked her to show me what she would do for fun when she was a kid . Of course , it had to do with food ! When she was around five years old , she and her friend Suzette ( yes , like the crêpes ) would get one franc from their parents ( literally one dollar but that was worth much more in 1950 ) and they would go eat goodies . She ’ s taking me to her favorite bakery and our hope is that it still exists . As we are taking our last turn under the blazing sun , the stakes have never been higher for a bakery to be open and … it is ! We are ridiculously excited ! Inside , I look to her to order what she and Suzette would eat . Pizza ! So , in Tunisia , bakeries sell pizza and you have to imagine the thickest deep dish dough you have ever seen , then
double it , spread thick with homemade tomato sauce with onions , olives , and anchovies . Don ’ t ask me why , it just is Tunisian pizza . We have the precious delicacy in our hands , and we are standing in the middle of the busy bakery . We look at each other and simultaneously take a bite . Immediately tears appear in her starry eyes . She had the most beautiful , sparkly , and expressive eyes I had ever seen , but they would rarely cry . My eyes get teary too and I don ’ t need any explanations . The intense flavors of our land , combined with the salt of our tears , tells me everything I need to know . Here we are , standing in the middle of the crowded bakery at rush hour , and crying really hard over our slices of Mediterranean rustic deliciousness .
Lesson # 1 : Food is memories . The story of a family , of a culture , the voices of the ones we cannot forget .
It is 10 or 11ish pm ; I am 22 and coming home from a Parisian party to the apartment where I grew up
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