Tuesday, 31 July 2012

Moroccan Breakfast

We piled into the car at 7am with our favourite cab driver Abdou (actually he's not our favourite anymore. Abdou got greedy so we gave him the flick after breakfast) and headed to an orange farm a few miles out of Marrakech. A friend of ours Hicham who owns the farm, and also owns riad Casa Taos where we were married last year, had promised us a real Moroccan breakfast cooked up by the family that runs his farm.

After shadow boxing with Adbou (he was beginning to give us all the shits so I was feeling like slapping him around a bit) for 30 minutes out the front of a petrol station by the side of a busy road we were eventually met and guided down a long rough old road to a neatly set table nestled amongst the trees of a beautifully well kept orange orchard. Smiling faces of the farming family rushed out to meet us and quickly ushered us into a small old building where Mum was preparing msemmen (Moroccan crepes) on a small gas stove. Back outside under a tree Dad was cooking khlii (a type of preserved meat) and eggs on a little coal BBQ under the close supervision of his daughters who were heating up the pans ready for pancakes and batbout (chewy pita like breads). The Moroccans like their carbohydrates and with all these mini kitchens going everywhere Steve and I were dying for some to refuel our energy tanks.

The local girls grabbed our cameras and filled in while we ate and as soon as we finished we were marched off down the long rows of orange trees to pick fresh vegetables. The honey from breakfast came straight from their beehives, I went in for a close look until Steve threw a rock and had me chased out by angry Arabic bees.
Steve on the boom.

Local Speilberg.

Bread and pancake making.

"I love your shirt, it's just like mine."

Jane running away for a new life.

Carbs, carbs, carbs.

Moroccan cucumber.

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