There are many such houses in the medina, built on a well-tried pattern of comfort and privacy. In one corner is the kitchen, its noise and smells hidden away from the central court. At the door stands Maria, Mustapha's wife and a cook of renown. Twice a day she goes to the market, where the produce is prime, thanks to the abundant water from mountain streams. Now, in high summer, glowing mounds of apricots, peaches, oranges and the local soft-skinned lemons jostle zucchini and eggplant.
Tomatoes are small, pock-marked, and incomparably sweet.
Maria likes to make salads of cucumber with mint, green pepper marinated with cumin and coriander. She flavors grated carrot with rosewater, and sweet potato with cinnamon and sugar. The spice market is a world of its own, shaded, redolent, the merchants sitting cross-legged with hanging scales in one hand. The butchers, too, are apart. Chickens are generally tough, well-aged hens from the farmyard, and appreciated as such.