Taste

'Bibouches', or escargots, or snails...which I won't be eating during my visit

I’ve eaten many a delicacy in my short time in Morocco: malawi, a yeast pancake dipped in preserves or honey; heavily sweetened mint tea on the reg; coconut cookies to die for; spiced chickpea and lentil stew. But let’s face it, it’s much more fun to recount the bad tastes.

I can honestly say that, so far, I’ve only had two that were memorable enough to be included, and they are both related to ‘libn’, known in English, perhaps, as buttermilk. Or, in my humble opinion, as plain old rancid-ass milk.

After the hammam my second night with the family, we returned to the house languid, warm and slightly red in the face from hours of steam and scrubbing. After returning home Habiba proudly served up a giant platter of milk glasses, meant to cool us all down. I took mine happily, indulged in my first sip and promptly choked. My first assumption was that I was accidentally given a bad glass, one with milk that had gone rotten. ‘Laysa mushkila’ (no problem) – I’ll just tell Siham and she’ll replace it for sure, I thought. But no – to my dismay, I learned, everyone’s milk was sour like mine, and what’s more, everyone else was gulping it down and smacking their lips in satisfaction. By some great miracle, I succeeded in choking down the entire glass, telling myself ‘It’s kinda like Gogurt’ :) When I asked what it was, and why (in God’s name) were we drinking it, I got an animated response. Siham gesticulated that in order to make libn, she shakes the crap out of a pint of milk (for one or two hours, that is), then leaves it sitting outside of the refrigerator for two days. When the smell is just right, it’s a treat for all. Gross.

Though vegetarian I am, my taste buds are fairly adventurous, and they truly relish a good shock now and then: I love hot Indian food, for example, or sour pickled green beans. Heck, I’ll buy the moldiest cheese I can find then leave it out to mold a bit more. But there is no imaginable circumstance in which I expect myself to EVER warm to the idea, or the taste, of libn. It’s just wrong.

After the hammam night, I’d hoped I’d said my final goodbye to libn. But, alas, then came afternoon snack the next day. (Sidenote: Moroccan families eat 5 times a day: breakfast, snack (usually savory), lunch, snack (usually sweet), dinner). )

Siham set down a giant bowl of what looked like rice pudding in front of me. I began to salivate thinking of the sweet Indian dessert, often with coconut milk and vanilla bean. My mind tricked me into taking a giant bite, and I found I’d been fooled once again. Libn with couscous is NOT the same as rice pudding, or even close. I couldn’t do it again. I began to interview Siham again as to how libn is made, and why it’s made, for goodness sake. Luckily, she caught on quickly to the fact that I ask a lot of questions when I don’t want to do something (friends and family, take note ;)).  With downcast eyes and a slight frown, she accepted that libn is just not my thing. But not eating in a Moroccan household is not an option, so she presented me with sugared couscous instead. I can’t say the gritty, sandy consistency of my replacement dessert was exactly enjoyable, but I’d rather ingest an entire beach than ever drink libn again.