Jallab: Sunshine in a bottle

When I push open the door of the shop, a rush of scents, colors and taste sensations are waiting for me. I’ve been a customer for five years now, and it’s the same scenario, every time I walk through the door. The owner, an obese man who sits near the entrance, stares straight ahead and talks relentlessly on his portable, pausing only to transfer nuts from his paw of a hand to the corner of his mouth. A moment of recognition comes over his face and a smile when he sees me. He rarely walks around the store, content to stay on his wooden chair by the door. Brightly colored posters, advertising discount international phone cards and money transfers, cover the walls. Lebanese music floats from the radio, with occasional comments from the announcer in French and Arabic.

A quiet, energetic young man fills the shelves with packages of spices, couscous, dried rose petals and mint. He works carefully and quickly, moving methodically down the narrow aisles. In contrast, time stands still at the self-service display of olives. A woman slowly dips a spoonful of olives from the container into a plastic bag. There’s no need to hurry, as the olives tumble down and slowly fill up the bag. As I stop to watch, the olives gleam with an oily brightness, some as large and plump as grapes. The display of nuts beckons me and I pick up a bag of feves - fava beans. Fried, sliced and salted. I can almost taste them, imagining the greasy ecstasy of the crunch in my mouth.

Next my eyes move to the bottles of jallab, a syrupy molasses made with dates and rose water. Its siren call of sweetness is what brought me to the shop today. I keep a bottle in my kitchen and use it to make beverages, add to salad dressings, or sauces. I grew up in a land far from date palms and the bright sun that matures dates into succulent sugary delights. But I have seen date palms and even slept underneath them.

My mind travels back to the Western Sahara in Mauritania. I had a small tent and I chose to set it up in a grove of date palms. I hurried to erect the tent because when the sun sets in the desert, it's like a light switch has been turned off and blackness replaces the blazing sun. By the time I set up camp, huge stars appeared in the night sky. A sweet hypnotic fragrance drifted from the blossoms on the date palms. The scent enveloped me and I felt a profound sense of tranquility. I dreamed deeply that night, sheltered by the palms, as their branches gently moved in the night wind.

Back in the present moment, I add a bottle of jallab to my basket and smile. For a brief moment, I can almost hear the wind whispering in the palms.

Here’s how to use jallab: http://www.kitchencaravan.com/recipe/refreshing-middle-eastern-drinks

Hear the music playing in the shop, live on Radio Orient: http://www.radioorient.com/

Smooth stones, shiny stones

Pierre, my father-in-law, and I are standing next to each other, carefully examining stones. I collect stones whenever I go, a habit that I've had since childhood. Pierre likes stones too and he is appreciatively touching a smooth stone that I gathered from a beach on the Normandy coast. He has Alzheimer's and is starting to lose his short-term memory and the ability to sustain a thought. It makes conversation difficult at times, so I am replacing the words we cannot find with stones. Gentle round stones, rough stones, crystals, rocks from distant mountains and pebbles from the beach.

The stone in his hand has tiny holes in it, created by the ceaseless action of waves. Pierre meditatively moves his fingers over the stone. Then he drops it and begins looking for another rock to examine. I hand him a piece of quartz and it glistens in the sun coming through the window. Pierre looks at me, his blue eyes uncertain and hesitant, then he smiles. "This rock does not come from a beach," he says with a solemn certainty. I smile and say "yes, that's right," and I feel tears come to my eyes. But my father-in-law has already moved away, slowly and carefully making his way across the room, distracted by something new.

I take a short, deep breath and then put the rock back on the table. I follow him, and when he turns, I have created a reassuring smile on my face.

Do you know someone who has Alzheimer's? Learn more about the disease and information for caretakers at this site. Info is available in seven different languages:

http://www.alzheimer-europe.org/?content=findmorehelp&engine=assoc

Under a luminous grey sky

Paris is a city of dreams for many people. For me, it's my home and a place of very specific realities. It's a place where almost everything in my life had changed or was lost, and then was re-born again. Some streets still have the power to create a brief, piercing nostalgia in my heart. But most often I walk past these snapshots of visual memory and see and feel only the present. The layers of time rest gently on me today.

As the train takes me from the banlieue towards the center of the city, I watch the anonymous towers of apartment buildings flash past the window. The sky is a luminous grey bowl and creates a pearlized monotone of the landscape. Inside the train, all of us are clothed in winter coats, shadows and our private thoughts. Hands hold tickets, a paperback book, or rest passively on laps. The cold wind has dried the hands of a woman sitting next to me and she carefully rubs creme on them. As passengers, we study her motions, restlessly eager for something interesting to break the monotony. When the train stops at stations, people silently move on and off the train, and a breeze enters the compartment before the door slams shut again.

The window next to me has letters scratched on it, a series of random curves and what looks like SCR. I wonder about the hands that did this act and why. Did other passengers watch with disinterest or curiosity? Who got nervous and moved to another section of the train? Who smiled and nodded?

The train shudders and jerks to a stop. I jump to my feet and join the press of people who exit the train. Within minutes, I’m walking on the street and the train is gone, taking away the echoes of my thoughts, the warmth of my seat now occupied by another traveler.