A hot day. A canvas marketplace somewhere in one of earth’s most ancient lands. The heat of a torturing sun was tempered, only just, by a murmur of a breeze from where - the Mediterranean? Must have been. Aromas drifted on the haze: the sweet tang of dried fruits, the heat-amplified reek of spices, an earthy blend of nuts and grains and flours and grinds, and that must-eat-now scent of seed- and herb-flecked bread, probably just out of a stone oven. It was near lunch time. Puffs of blue smoke drifted out of the inky darkness of one of the tents. Someone was grilling something. Let’s hope they keep the flames well clear of the canvas, I said to myself. Don’t worry, I replied. They’ve been doing it for years. The smoke was redolent of mint and garlic. For a moment there was no sound. The market was eerily silent. Noon approached. Time stood still. Then the market buzz resumed and the aromas drifted on the breeze and the griller kept barbecuing. The marketplace stood in a place wher...
Recipes and ruminations from a small house in a big city.