Add Spice to Taste Read Online Free PDF Page B

could do was stare.
    “See you in class,” she said, straightening up.
    “Yep.” I coughed. “See you there.”
    She turned and walked out with a swagger that drew the attention of several men as she passed.
    I could feel my face flush and was really glad when the waitress came over. “I’ll have the waffles. And coffee.” I handed her the menu. “Thanks.”
    “You want cream with your coffee?”
    “Yes, please.”
    She nodded and moved away.
    Outside my window, I saw Brit cross the street in the direction of the school. Her swagger had turned into a casual wiggle. When I told myself that this was going to be an interesting class, I didn’t realize just how much. I stared after her for a while, then watched other people walking past. The waitress arrived with my coffee and cream and a few minutes later, my waffles. I ate with gusto and when I finished, I was ready for the day’s class.
    Good recipes today, and I was going to get to show off the tagine that I’d gotten in Casablanca, one of my favorite pieces in my cooking collection.
    I thought about the tagine, and what it represented. I knew exactly what every inch of it looked like, even when I didn’t use it for months. The conical clay vessel was painted cerulean and decorated in circular patterns, starting at the bottom with red diamonds on a black background, and a swath of yellow, red, and orange flowers in the middle with blue and yellow diamonds. The top third was trimmed with dark blue lines in decreasing widths, going all the way around. At the very top, the handle was painted dark blue.
    I had purchased t he traditional Moroccan cookpot during a trip that Brenda and I had taken. We’d been happy then and that trip had been a sort of honeymoon for us, and an adventure.
    The hotel we’d stayed at in Marrakesh had a veranda that was surrounded by drapes and palm trees. Soft sofas waited quietly in the center for hotel guests who wanted to relax in style. Every morning, we would have our coffee on this veranda and I imagined what it must have been like centuries ago and marveled at the splendor of Muslim aristocracy. Although the Middle Eastern tents and gardens at our hotels in Marrakech and Casablanca were enchanting, the markets had called to me like a Siren’s song.
    The day I bought the tagine, Brenda was getting herself a massage in a Turkish bath. I’d heard funky things about those baths, so I opted out and instead set off on my own. I knew that while in Morocco, I’d want to buy a tagine and had left room in my suitcase to accommodate it. When I got to the market in Casablanca, I was nearly overwhelmed. There were so many things I wanted to peruse. The fruits and vegetables were arranged in glorious rainbows and I was heartbroken that I wouldn’t be able to take any home with me. Vivid explosions of spices—fiery red paprika, goldenrod turmeric, powdered mint, and silvery green-gray cardamom—were molded into conical mounds—most like ice cream cones, some like pyramids. Almost every spice market had these mysterious mounds, perfectly round at their base and rising to a fine point, like the tips of a gigantic box of crayons, and I couldn’t figure out how the vendors got them that way or how, after they stuck a scoop into their sides and pulled out a quantity of spice, the mounds stayed intact without caving in on themselves. Landscapes of olives, glistening in the sunlight, had made my tapenade fantasies go wild, and I’d never known how many different varieties of dates existed.
    I sighed. But that was a long time ago. A lifetime. Now I was teaching. And I was alone. And I couldn’t afford to go farther than anywhere the Long Island Railroad could take me.
    I got up, paid my bill, and headed to school.
    At the mailboxes, I picked up my mail. “Hey, Sasha,” I called as I riffled through the flyers and notes that had been left in my slot.
    “Hey, Jo. How’s it going?”
    “Pretty good. I think I may switch back to a Latin