I can take or leave shopping.
Unless you’re talking foodstuffs.
In which case what time are we leaving?
Seriously, what time?
You know what? I’ll just go wait in the car until you’re ready to go.
Needless to say when Turner suggested we take an overnight trip to Marrakech, and part of that trip was for the sole purpose of procuring spices, I practically pushed her out of the way and ran toward the door yelling, “SHOTGUN!”
So after enjoying a breakfast on the roofdeck of our riad, Turner and I wound our way through the Marrakech medina, because that’s the only way you can walk through a medina. MOROCCANS HAVE NO CONCEPT OF SYMMETRICAL STREET GRIDS. It’s all one f-ing maze after another, I tell you. Maddening, except that when you’re wandering you might suddenly find yourself in the middle of an open air market surrounded by vendor upon vendor hawking an array of colored spices that would make Rainbow Brite weep with jealousy.
I wanted to buy kilos of everything, even if I didn’t know what they were for. But I thought that might look a little suspicious at customs, so I settled on a small bag of pungent orange powder that Turner dubbed “Fadma’s Mix.” (Fadma being the woman who comes to cook and clean for them twice a week.)
I haven’t used the spice yet since I’ve been back, but I have a feeling that once I start I won’t be able to stop. I’M LOOKING AT YOU, TRADER JOE’S COUS COUS.