When mom was confirmed for the grant to study in Egypt in 1976, the university sent her (and, by extension, me, of course) to Tunisia, where she was to study Arabic at Bourgeiba Univeristy. While there, we stayed with the mother and sisters of my mother's good friend Bechir Chourou. Bechir's mother, who I know only as El-Hajjah (the Pilgrim; this is a common honorific for matrons in the Arab world), was a committed socialist: by decree, food and all other resources in the house were to be shared by all. This was fine; this wonderful lady was happy to provide all the food herself, and she was a wonderful, wonderful, cook. The problem was this: Tunisian food is SPICY.
When I was first her guest (there were three such occasions; each time lasted 3-4 months), I was not yet 6, and I was unaccustomed to hot food. My mother, of course, maintained an independent food supply for me but, on the third or fourth time she came into the kitchen to see my food being shared by the members of the household, she decided that she would engage in subterfuge; she decided to hide the food she bought for me! Don't misunderstand—my mother was always a generous soul, and she was quite happy to do what she could to share the burden, but the problem was maintaining a supply of food that I could eat without suffering!
Mercifully, this did not have to last very long. By the end of that trip I was happily gobbling down the wonderful Tunisian bread dipped in the delicious incendiary concoction they call Harissa.
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