In my childhood home we ate couscous only in one way. Hand made and steamed over a pot of soup. It was almost impossible to enter our small kitchen when mom would make couscous. In one bowl there was the semolina that mom would wet slowly while stirring so that no clumps would form.
"What will we have for lunch?” I asked as I was standing in front of the open refrigerator, enjoying the cool breeze that it provided. “I really feel like salad” answered my better half as she sat right across from the air conditioner. “Salad? We eat salad every evening” i said. “Not that kind of salad” she replied, “you know what I mean”.
“Is there nothing else to eat?” I asked opening the pot on the stove. “No” said mom, “sit down and I’ll fix you a plate.” “No,I don’t like it, I’ll make something.” “What will you make?” Mom insisted, “salad” I answered opening the refrigerator. “But salad is not a meal”.
One of the things I like most is finding new recipes or revising old recipes. When we host or are being hosted, these are the times when the joy of creation rests upon me and I turn the guests into guinea pigs for dishes I have never made before. One of the times last year that that we were invited to friends, I asked what we should bring, the answer was a salad. “What do you think about black lentil yam salad?” I asked my better half. “Yam?” she looked at me playfully, “isn’t that one of the vegetables that you don’t eat?”