Say Cheese

I want to talk about food.

I should note it’s past 1am on a Friday night in Morocco and I’m wide awake, just to, you know, provide my viewers with appropriate context for this unusually philosophical post. But as I was “making” my dinner tonight– I’ll explain the sarcastic quotations in a second– my mind started drifting into the realm of food possibilities in Morocco. And how they compared to what I was feeding myself. Take a look:


It’s my Moroccan food pyramid! Seriously, though, my dinner was two wedges of vache qui rit formage (laughing cow cheese to all of you uncultured people) and a round Moroccan bread loaf. I felt like I was in the Groundhog Day of Morocco as I polished it off, remembering that I had eaten the exact same thing for breakfast that morning.


“Sarah,” I hear you saying to me through your computer screens at this un-godly hour that isn’t actually un-godly for people in America…”You are living in the land of the tajine. The land of the couscous. The land of the freaking spice rack of life! Why would you do this to yourself?”

I want to let everyone in on the most sacred of Peace Corps Morocco secrets: this is how volunteers feed themselves. Not all the time, of course. And I’m not talking about the all-star volunteers like Lauren and Michelle  who make fancy things like apple pies and healthy salads and complicated pasta sauces from scratch and at the same time learn to make Moroccan dishes better than the Moroccans who taught them. I’m talkin’ bout your Joe the Plumber PCV who teaches Moroccans how to make pancakes (since that’s the only thing you know you won’t embarrass yourself with in the kitchen) or grilled cheese sandwiches (shoutout to my buddy Bryant). This is our bread and buttah, the fountain of youth (and processed goodness). Why? Because it’s so freaking easy. You walk up to your corner hanut guy and ask for bread, which is 1 DH and freshly baked. You ask for two wedges of cheese (that’s right folks- you can buy exactly how much you need to prevent this from happening). BAM. A meal with absolutely no nutritional value and maximum satisfaction for a grant total of 3 DH– less than 50 cents.

Do you see now why I’m feeling so inspired?

On that note, here’s a poem about cheese by some Russian dude:

O, you delectable concoction!

I love you Swiss,
I love you Finnish,
If you are blue,
I still will finish,
I love you white,
I love you yellow,
I love you when you mozzarella.
(I love to use you as a verb,
I’m smitten by you,
I have no words).

With wine and pasta it is fun
To shred a little parmesan.
But it is even, much more funster
To bite in to a fresh made muenster.

I coulda, woulda and I shoulda
Make a cheap rhyme while using gouda.

Ah yes… and there is provolone
So good to eat when home alone.

I love the French for they make brie
Menage a trois- or cheese for three.

When I discuss mano-to-mano
I give him some of my romano.

My large-hipped aunt, whose name is Greta
Can’t keep her fingers off the feta.

Lorraine- what eyes, what lips, what knees!
But why compare her to the cheese!

Well, I am off to make fondue,
So I will bid you all, “Adieu!”


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