The Summer of Salt

June 7th, 2025

Mima Tiziri’s Salt-Preserved Lemons

Traditional Name: L’hamd-Mraqud(لحامض مقدر)

Purpose: For wisdom that heals like renewal

Recommendations:

Prepare when the heart stirs too soon for the sea to desire its shoreline

Eat when the first bloom of columbine beckons the spring

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to dissolve into something much larger. Mima Tiziri’s salt recipes, however, are all about preserving the spirit—its dreams, its passions, its youth; not so much about surrendering oneself to the tide.

But—as with any advice, Mima’s cooking instructions should be taken along with a grain: of salt, of memory, of metaphor.

Mima's become aware her recollection of time and order is slipping. Because of this, she’s persuaded me into summering along by her side in Taghazout. It’s a small fisherman’s town on the brine-crystaled coast of Morocco, renowned in most recent years for its exceptional surfing. It’s the place she’s lived her whole life; my home-away-from-home during childhood. While I’m here, I’m to transcribe her cherished techniques into cookbook-form. This way, they’ll be sure to survive for generations to come. 

Except, I’m far more drawn to the spell of her recipes than I am the meticulous, step-by-step instructions themselves. Mima’s words are by no means intended as witchcraft, yet they do bear magical pulses. And, though I rarely engage in charmcraft myself, I’ve long been enthralled by its mystery. At six, I observed Mima tend to her herbs with grandeur and reverence; at nine, I listened as she sang love notes for Baba—my grandfather—weaving forever into each breath and word. Sometimes, I even suspected her recipes were used to enchant him—to bind his heart to hers with saffron and salt. Today, I’d be remiss to say I didn’t catch myself wondering how I might channel that magic toward an old, girlish wish I guard for the ocean. To a dream dating back to a time when my heart stirred for a love not yet ready to carry me back with its tide.

“Samira, benti!” Mima shrieks in Arabic. Her voice is gravelly as it drifts to where I’m perched on a stool. “I said, take care not to cut the slices all the way through! The rind must stay intact at the lemon’s belly—the quarters should bloom from the base.” She points her small paring knife in my direction—stares at me with those umber, aged eyes. Her gaze is unwavering.

I finally look up, nodding my head.

“Yes, Mima, yes,” I mutter. My hand scribbles chaotic Darija lettering, but my mind circles a certain, charmed line:

Eat when the first bloom of columbine beckons the spring

كولمليالزهرةاللولةديالعقاربالنعمانكتعيطللربيع

I steal a quick glance out the window, where the ocean coils and crashes down at the shore. It’s well past spring in Morocco, but Mima’s proverbs aren’t bound to the calendar. Rather, they’re subject to mood and interpretation—like poetry. And, I’m 28, I’ve recently unraveled myself from the venomous vines of a thorny relationship, and my life feels abloom with beginnings.

I watch Mima star the lemons just so, then brine them with generous measure.

“Salt the citrus until it dreams of wedding the sea, Samira,” she avers. She dusts the lemons with another large pinch, then turns to me. “Did you get that, my benti? This part matters most. The lemons must dream—they must pine for the sea.”

“Yes, Mima, I got it,” I say. But in secret, I don’t subscribe to it—not one bit. I wonder how such a magnificent dream—the dream of being wed to the sea—can possibly be attributed to a lemon. A lemon did not live out its childhood as a pulse in the clay, wishing to be a pearl of the tide. It did not while away its summers chasing the ocean’s sparkling waves—innocently enamored with its playful, mischievous spirit. Nor has a lemon once stood on the great Taghazout precipice as a naive, impressionable teen—one so in awe of the sea’s vastness, power, and fury that it found itself barely able to breathe.

And as an adult? I could go on. A lemon has never been kept awake by an aching heart; it has never harbored envy while the ocean’s swells made love to the supple, wet earth. A lemon has never once been a hopeless, infatuated fool. It has never dared race the sunset to the shoreline to witness the night coax the tide, then cried itself to sleep—wondering why the sea did not rise and bay for it the same way it did for the moon.

And, a lemon has not spent a quarter century living for the village’s most enigmatic myth: that the sea is a commanding, well-desired being—one who falls in love with a human woman once every hundred years.

But I have. I have dreamed and endured all those things. And, I have always believed I’m the one. The one for the ocean.

Mima doesn’t know this, but years ago, I jarred my own lemons; brined them with the salt of my own aching, soft skin—sealed them with the wish he’d rise from the sea’s depths to find me.

“We now press the lemons,” Mima reminds me. Her voice trembles as she lifts the citrus-blooms over the jar's brim, then attempts to lay them at its base. She's so petite, she must stand on her tip-toes to do so. “Remember to press them in firmly; their juices should release like tides being pulled by the moon. Then, Samira—“

“Salt them again,” I finish softly.

Mima looks at me and smiles. The creases around her eyes form deep, narrow valleys—forgotten basins where decades of memory and wisdom entomb themselves, preparing for rest.

My heart aches upon seeing her struggle. It’s painful to watch her wrestle with the rituals she loves so much. I rush to assist her.

“That’s it, my benti—gently so, salting with each blossom laid down.”

I nestle them into the glass, allowing their juices to form as an ocean. Mima adds more pinches of salt as I do so.

When we finish, we feel certain the lemons dream of wedding the sea. The jar glows on the countertop—a crystal universe containing a thousand luminous suns.

There’s only one thing left to do.

“Make a wish, benti,” says Mima, cupping a bay leaf in the crib of my palm.

I close my eyes—praying to Allah that glorious things will flourish this summer. Then, I drop the leaf into the jar, and we seal the lid before saying goodnight.

Later on, while Mima is sleeping, I tip-toe down to the garden. There, I uncover the jar I buried years ago from the loamy, damp earth. Upon brushing it clean, I hold it up to the moonlight. The lemons’ bright yellow hue has succumbed to time, but they glimmer, still, like suns.

I pray to Allah again, then twist off the lid and consume them.

I fall asleep and dream of the sea.

June 14th, 2025

Mima Tiziri’s Salt-Cured Sardines

Traditional Name: Msalḥa Lḥout(مصلحة الحوت)

Purpose: For measured dance of dream and wake

Recommendations:

Prepare when the past is so restless, it paints each cloud in the sky as its soulmate

Taste when the present is courted by sea foam

While Mima harvests her lemons from the fertile, sown rows of her garden, sardines must be procured from the market at sunrise. Moroccan cuisine demands this: that each ingredient be fresh from its source.

The morning sun is barely a saffron stain on the skyline, but the village blushes with life. Below a canopy of clay rooftops and dwindling stars, the Taghazout streets swell with a palpable energy that blooms from the salt-infused air. This weekend, the World Surfing Cup will be held down by the shore, which happens to be where the day's catch is traded.

It’s a long walk to the sand. As I weave past the pastel and earth-hued homes, I squeeze between swarms of sun-weathered shoulders—the majority of which cradle surf boards. Despite my infatuation with the ocean and those who conquer its waves, I’ve never attempted the sport.

Maybe the ocean will teach me.

My senses run wild amid the cultural tapestry of Taghazout. Markets and ḥānūt venders are open for business, and the scent of fresh msemen and harcha bread float on the air. I become enveloped in a cloud of savory indulgence—hovering high above the mixed-language chorus of tourists; above a symphony of clinking teacups and the drumbeat of crashing, fierce waves.

With every corner I turn, I catch a glimpse of the ocean—a blue apparition that reels me in like a fish on a hook. A visceral thrum wells up at my core upon drawing nearer. I can hear him—the sea—calling my name: Samira. Each syllable crashes in along with the water, and I start to believe my wish has been granted.

I have the brined lemons to thank for that, I know—for their power to summon and sweeten the past.

I must also thank the sardines—for the need to steward them back to our stove. Mima has had me on house arrest. She’s kept me busy with recipes, gardening, and a number of other chores that serve the purpose of preparing for the inevitable eclipse of her wit.

“There is much for you to preserve here, Samira,” she tells me.

While I'm honored to be of help during this time, it’s nice to have a break—to have an opportunity to breathe. I’ve missed the heartbeat and charm of Morocco dearly. Mostly, however, I’ve missed the ocean.

I select a small trinket from a woven basket and exchange it for a few crumpled dirhams. Mima will like it. It will stir her memory—the scent of saffron, the glint of copper, the design: reminiscent of the henna that adorned her hands on her wedding day. When she and Baba said "I do" to forever.

I continue descending. Each time I turn, I’m granted a new perspective of the sea—of the magnificence I know is my soulmate.

Finally, my feet meet the sand.

Sardines, I think—reminding myself why I’ve come.

But I can’t help it—I run toward the water. My heart flutters as the waves rush to greet me.

I’m here, I think to him.

The water embraces my toes with swift force, and we are at last reconnected. The sensation of sea foam washing over my skin is euphoric. It’s a cool, crisp nostalgia that pries my childhood loose from a bottle.

However, something is off.

What is it? I ask him, trying to interpret his movement. As his velvety waves encircle my ankles, I grow attuned to the realization that something is not how it was.

Then, I look up and see him. He’s tall, tan, and shirtless, and the morning sun glows on his skin like the honey of sunset on water. He’s holding a surf board and looking right at me.

He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on—and I know, in my bones, that this is the hundred-year moment. This is the moment the sea returns love to the woman who's waited in its outflow and wake.

June 20th, 2025

Mima Tiziri’s Salt Chermoula

Traditional Name: Chermoula(شرمولة)

Purpose: To steady the limbs—and the dream that guides them

Recommendations:

Prepare when the earth leans toward the sea with passion and hope

Taste when momentum rises beneath the breadth of your will

“Paddle hard this time,” he instructs me.

I nod my head. I hear his words, but I’m too mesmerized by his existence to listen. He has these mint-green eyes—storm-washed and wild—that remind me of the great waters that cradle earth’s core. His name is João; he’s a two-time world champion rider from Lisbon. He has a Portuguese accent that drives me mad, and—he’s been teaching me how to surf. He really is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He's my ocean.

“Now!” He exclaims.

My heart pounds. I catch sight of the wave—it approaches with glass-like, steady momentum.

I align my board with the swell, then begin paddling.

“Harder!” João urges.

Using strong, certain arms, I begin to paddle with all my might—then prepare for the lift. The last few times I’ve done this, I've failed. The surge comes with more speed than I expect it to.

Then, it hits—powerful, swift, unrelenting—from beneath me. My reaction is like lightning. I push my chest from the board and sweep my feet underneath with one agile, confident movement.

As I balance, I realize I’m owning the wave. I become a pearl of the tide—riding into the shore.

June 22nd, 2025

Mima Tiziri’s Brined Black Olives

Traditional Name: Zitoun l-kḥal(الزيتون الكحل)

Purpose: To reveal what’s hidden beneath

Recommendations:

Prepare when the sea falls silent

Eat when the tide rushes back with its memories

“Not yet, Sami! Remember, you must discard of the damaged ones first.”

Mima’s voice makes me pause with a stone in my palm. I break from my trance, then gaze at the cluster of crushed olives before me.

“Sorry, Mima,” I say.

“Ya benti, I know that look.”

“What look?”

“Love will blind you from things—like bruised olives. If you’re in too deep, you’ll miss the signs on the surface.”

I fight back a smile. Mima means well. She simply sees echoes of her own life in mine, that’s all. Lately, I’ve begun to connect the dots of her love story with Baba via her recipes, just as I’d intended to. She speaks of him with a teasing edge, but they were soulmates. With each recipe I safeguard, I find myself preserving a piece of their romance.

“You know,” says Mima, your grandfather once tried to impress me by cooking.” She gives a snort, “He burnt the fish, forgot the rice, and just when I thought I could trust his bread, I bit into a spoiled olive.”

I giggle—I’ve heard this story.

“Then, when I mentioned it, he—“ Mima pauses, pinching her forehead. “What was I saying?” She asks.

My heart drops.

“Baba’s burnt fish—his spoiled olives,” I say.

Mima’s sparkle returns. “Yes, my benti—thank you.”

She recites the rest of the memory, then retreats to bed—leaving me on my own to finish the recipe.

I realize I didn’t write down how much salt to throw in. I give what I think is sufficient, plus a few pinches more.

Probably too much, I think. But I brush it off. I seal the jar and head toward the beach to meet João. Tonight, we're surfing the tide.

As I wait for him, I sink my feet into chilled, fickle lap of the waves.

Something's off again. However, João appears down the shore before I can pinpoint what it is.

I run and dive into the strong, steady swell of his arms.

June 29th, 2025

Mima Tiziri’s Salt-Rubbed Fig Preserves

Traditional Name: Tine Mraqud b Lmelḥ(تين مْرَقّد بالملح)

Purpose: To hold tenderness within armor

Recommendations:

Prepare when loves feels serendipitous

Taste when bliss has forgotten its sword

"I brought you this," I say to him. I smile as I pull the small jar from my purse.

It's Sunday afternoon post surf, and we lie in bed—limbs tangled, half-clothed.

"What is it?"

"Tine Mraqud b Lmelḥ—fig preserves. My grandmother's traditional recipe."

He takes the jar from me and kisses my forehead.

"And is there lore to this one, too?" He teases.

I smile.

"One bite and you'll love me forever," I say, laying my head on his chest.

He laughs tenderly.

"I don't need figs to love you, Sam—though I have heard wonders about the salt here."

We fall asleep with grins on our faces—wrapped in each other's arms.

July 31st, 2025

Mima Tiziri’s Salt-Baked Fish

Traditional Name: Hout Mtbakh b Lmelḥ(الحوت مطبخ بالملح)

Purpose: For surviving the storm

Recommendations:

Prepare when the soul craves its freedom


Consume when the heart meets the truth of its world

Mima isn't feeling well today. We began preparing the salt crust, but she realized shortly after that she forgot to have me fetch more bay leaves from the market.

"Can't make baked fish without bay leaves," she muttered, "no matter how pure the salt."

I watched her retreat to her bedroom—her steps shadowed with frustration. I'm now left with an unbaked sea bream on the counter.

João's been bragging for weeks about how he grills a great sea bream, so I decide to call him.

"Come over and help me?" I ask. I'm far from helpless, but he's always happy to sweep me away—just like the ocean he is.

"Of course," he says.

Mima won’t mind. She’s never cared much for visitors, but these days, she spends so much time in bed, she barely notices when he comes sauntering over.

While I wait, I flip through the summer's growing collection of recipes. There's so much here—including pieces of Mima and Baba's love story, scattered like salt between lines. I'm admiring a photo of them in the cookbook when something catches my eye. It's a letter—sticking out of the knife drawer.

My heart quickens. I pull it free and unfold it. Several pinches of salt fall toward the floor, and—though I don’t yet know the letter’s words—my hands tremble.

December 14, 1955

My dearest Tiziri,


I love you more than words can possibly hold,
 but we must stay apart.
 


Though our world will not let two women love freely,
 remember me. Send a kiss my way with every pinch of salt.

My heart shall remain with you always.

Forever yours,


Amina

My breath stalls. Mima—In love with a woman?

I glance again at the photo of Baba. A tinge of seawater stains his heart.

That's when I realize Mima's proverbs were never about—never for—my grandfather. They were for her true love.

I admit, I feel a quiet pride for Mima. But João never arrives, and the waiting consumes me.

João—my sea. He simply disappears, just like the tide.

And the ocean hereon tastes of nothing but salt—my dream for love dissolves into the depths of its vastness, just like a myth.