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By Root 1044 0

the dough, I was about ready to collapse into a deep sleep. But I managed to shake off the sleepiness and move on to cooking the tajine, since it needed to simmer a while. Red onion, garlic, and several spices later, the terra-cotta tajine that I’d brought back from Morocco was slowly cooking the chicken and olives inside. I got to work on the green-pepper dip next, the taktouka. Gripping the peppers with tongs, I held them over a high stove flame until their skins became blackened and crispy all over. I then covered them in plastic wrap to let the skins become soggy and easy to scrape off. Next I thinly sliced the roasted flesh of the peppers and sauteed the slices in a pan with chopped fresh tomato, onion, garlic, and spices. The tomatoes broke down into a loose sauce with just barely visible cubes of onion that coated the sliced peppers. The tingling smells of paprika and roasted peppers wafted to my nose as I stirred them in the pan, just as we had in the cooking class. Really, it was a lovely dish.

When Ben got home at seven, the apartment was engulfed in the aroma of cumin and coriander from the chicken. It was just finished cooking, and I hadn’t had a spare moment to rest yet. But the food was all ready to eat: a freshly baked loaf of bread, the warm taktouka, and the lemony chicken and olive tajine. I was proud of this feat, and, once I tasted the results, I was duly impressed with the outcome. Stained yellow with turmeric, the chicken meat fell cleanly from the bone with the touch of a fork. The salty olives were soft and warm, and the onions and garlic had cooked down to a thick yellow sauce that was perfect for soaking the bread.

I tried to tell Ben everything about my trip over dinner. I was winding down from my third or fourth wind and got hit with another fatigue spell once there was a full meal in my belly. Ben was reticent throughout the meal. There had been a strange look of shock on his face when he walked into the apartment and saw me. I had been standing in the kitchen, as usual, which was situated awkwardly close to the door. The scenario was exactly the same as it had been countless nights when Ben came home from work: a cutting board and knife planted in front of me as I chopped up vegetables or dropped some pasta noodles into a bubbling pot. This time, the preparation was all done and I was just clearing some bowls and dishes into the sink.

Ben listened to my tales about riding camels and tasting the food in the stands of Marrakesh, and politely complimented the dinner I made. I showed him the terra-cotta tajine and told him about how well I had learned to bargain with the street merchants by the end of the trip so that I’d gotten it for a steal. He had very little to say about his week, by contrast, and seemed reluctant to go into detail about it. I got a strange feeling from this, but by eight thirty, I didn’t have the energy to talk for much longer. After finishing the dishes, I fell into a deep, long night’s sleep.

“How’s your jet lag?” Ben asked on the phone the next day as we chatted from our respective office cubes.

“Better,” I said. “Gone, I think.”

“That’s good. Hey, do you think we can talk tonight?” he asked.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Well, I just think a lot of things have changed ... you know?” he said.

“Hm. What things?” I asked.

Ben hesitated. His next words came out nervously. “I think we should just talk later.”

I laughed. “Whoa, you’re scaring me now; what’s up?”

There was a long moment of dead silence on the other end.

“Okay ... let’s talk, then,” I said.

I was disturbed after the phone call, but I had no clue what he could be getting at. Something must have happened, but I wasn’t sure what. Whatever it was, there was no use dwelling on it or trying to guess, so I just went on with my day as usual.

I left work at six and got home, as usual, about fifteen minutes before Ben. As I dumped my things on the dining table, I looked around the apartment once more. Yesterday, when I’d first arrived home from my trip, I did notice a few changes around the apartment. No major rearrangements