Petit Riz

guest post by Sarah Sahel

My friends and I, we like to travel. Modern technology helps us feel closer to each other as we grow further apart. We call sometimes, often write emails, and use our pens rarely. Scattered around the globe, we discover a common language, taught in our mother tongue yet offered in unlimited cultural variations. “I’ve brought some pop tarts with me to Kabul; it helps me feel at home,” writes Laura, a talented journalist friend. “This time, my suitcase is full of ham and galettes de pont aven” (i.e. thin biscuits from Brittany), celebrates my roommate Julien, as he arrives from the airport.

“Expatriate” is an identity we do not easily recognize as ours. We like to think that we have outgrown the concept, we, proud citizens of the world. But the palate holds us back, reminds us of the place that raised us and forged our tastes

When I moved to London I started to write my most basic recipes in a little notebook. The irony is that the cover shows a small Eiffel tower and is titled “Paris”, as if the notebook knew what I would use it for. As I moved again and again to other foreign countries, the book became a survival toolkit that allowed me to quickly create a sense of “homeness” wherever I landed. The first recipe that opens the notebook is the traditional gâteau au yaourt (i.e. yogurt cake) — the original one that my mother taught me when I was curious, eight-years-old and followed her graceful dance around the kitchen. Since then I have endlessly revisited the recipe with ingredients I find in my new homes.

I arrived in Casablanca a year and a half ago, but have only owned a proper kitchen for the past three months. The kitchen was quickly filled with souvenirs from France (jars of my mother’s homemade apricot-almond or strawberry jams) and my travels around Morocco (tasteful argan oil brought from the isolated Mirleft, a small town two hours South of Agadir).

On a Friday afternoon, while heavy rains poured outside, I arrived to a spacious yet dark and cold kitchen. I instinctively sought the welcoming warmth of the oven. In a heavy cast iron bowl, I broke two eggs and mixed them with a cup of cane sugar until white. I then added one yogurt (soya, lemon flavor), which instantly made the mixture more unctuous. I poured in two cups of flour and a teaspoon of baking powder, followed by half a cup of sunflower oil. I vigorously blended the ingredients and paused, as I reached a turning point. What personal touch would I give to this childhood recipe today? The cupboard, wide open, offered a plethora of possibilities. I scooped a generous tablespoon of three Moroccan flavors: amlou (a mix of crushed hazelnuts, argan oil and honey that can be substituted by organic hazelnut paste), a strong local honey, and transparent orange flower water. An additional tablespoon of oats and poppy seeds enriched the texture. After 30-40 minutes at 180°C (350F), a golden yogurt cake scented with Moroccan aromas came out of the oven. As I took the first bit, I rejoiced in this harmonious syncretism with my surroundings, confident that the cake tasted better than it ever had. 

Ingredients for the gâteau au yaourt/yogurt cake, directions above

2 eggs
1 cup sugar
1 yogurt
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ cup sunflower oil
1 tablespoon amlou
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon orange flower water
1 tablespoon oats
1 tablespoon poppy seeds