I glanced at the clock and did some quick math. “That’s 20 minutes plus… two hours. Perfect.”

I eyed the fried almonds and my stomach grumbled: two and half hours was simply too far away to think about eating. I shuffled around the bags of anise, flour, and way too many peanuts until I could see the recipe and the long list of ingredients necessary for sfouf, a nutrient-dense powder moistened with butter and honey and served during the month of Ramadan in Morocco.

“I’m making sfouf this year,” I had announced to my husband, anxious to bring some traditions to our table for breaking the fast. Selecting my husband’s Moroccan heritage to celebrate the holy month seemed fitting. Afterall, what did New England have to do with Ramadan? My roots are filled with fall foliage and creamy clam chowder; maple trees and molasses that sticks to your measuring spoon just as assuredly as it sticks to your ribs. So, I stuck to tradition and prepared a menu based on the other side of the Atlantic.

I started pouring the flour into a skillet to toast it, and the gentle shaking of the pan lulled my hand into autopilot and freed my mind to wander down memory lane.

It was getting closer to Christmastime and my Nana called to say she would be coming over to teach me and my cousins how to make Antipasto, a classic Italian dip. We gathered in my mother’s kitchen and sorted the ingredients: stacks of tuna fish over there, jars of jerkin pickles on the other side, the anchovies and olives in the middle. We took turns stirring the reddish mixture in a big lobster pot. My Nana had raised five children: she didn’t know how to make small batches. 

“I never knew our antipasto had anchovies,” I said, as I stirred the thick sauce, the wooden spoon disappearing in the warming mixture.

“It gives it a nice saltiness,” my sister chimed in as she opened another jar of jerkins.

“Mmhmm,” said my grandmother, sticking her finger into the pot to taste test. 

“When do we know that it’s ready for the jars?” asked one of my cousins.

“Hmm, let’s see.” Nana approached the pot. “Not yet,” she responded, mysteriously.

I looked over at my cousin and we smiled at each other. There didn’t seem to be many rules to Italian cooking.

“One rule is ‘Don’t burn the flour’” I said, cautioning myself against getting too lost down memory lane. I put the toasted flour aside and read the next task on the sfouf to-do list: grind up the sesame seeds “as desired.” I shook my head a little in frustration, “I desired a clear recipe, that’s why I looked you up,” I muttered, my empty stomach beginning to gnaw on my patience. Not so different from Italian cooking, I chuckled to myself.

I threw a few handfuls into the grinder and watched as the seeds became a brownish paste. The machine spun loudly, producing more and more fine powder and my nostrils filled with the pungent, licorice scent of fennel and anise. 

I glanced at the clock again and realized it was way past the time for the afternoon prayer. The barley flour, ready to release its fragrance in the toasting process, called to me, but I pulled myself away and went to the other room.

My hands sat gently on my chest, crossed one over the other, cradling myself as the memorized words tumbled silently into the room, and I found my mind drifting again, this time to the cathedral ceilings of my childhood place of prayer.

I was holding the baby Jesus, who was around 8 months old by that point, and from my kneeling position up on the altar I suddenly realized I was caught on my veil. The long train was stuck under my feet and I couldn’t stand up. Joseph was really just too young to see what was going on, and I sat hovering in a squat position, balancing the calm baby Jesus in my arms as the audience in the pews waited for the next line. Finally, Peter from the crew noticed what was going on and came up from behind and gently pulled the veil out from under my feet. I whispered a “thank you” and took my place on the other side of the altar for the next scene. 

My little church up the hill was painted white with a tall steeple climbing up through the maple and pine trees that surrounded it. We held a Christmas pageant there every year, and I loved playing Mary, the mother of Jesus. It fit. I fit. 

There was a small, cement statute of the Mother Mary in a little garden next to my church dedicated to a beloved priest: Father Tom. He was a jolly fellow with a round face and he would always sing a tune to my friend Catherine whenever we put on our white altar server robes on Sunday morning: “Katie! Ka-ka-ka Katie! You’re the only one that I ada-da-da dore!” Her whole life, Catherine has never let anyone else call her “Katie.” 

I often sat in that garden looking at the gray Mother Mary with her long veil, her hands together in prayer, the beads of the rosary flowing gently from her palms. Her eyes looked out lovingly: a familiar face among the statues that had bedecked the alcoves of my childhood parish.

My own long veil brushed the ground as I sat after the prayer wondering if I should grind four cups of almonds or only three, but before I could get back to the kitchen and the buzz of excitement that comes from watching whole ingredients become aromatic powders, something caught in my throat. Something old and familiar, like my Nana’s recipe and Father Tom’s garden. Something that I couldn’t quite make fit. What was I doing anyway, a New Englander making Moroccan food? Where did New England fit into Ramadan? Was there room in Ramadan for the bright red maple trees and the long winters of my childhood? For the steeples and the statues of my heritage? Was there room for me? 

The questions whirled inside my head and I pulled out the fresh sfouf, inhaling a rich, nutty aroma, and as I reached for the clear, golden honey on the shelf the thoughts suddenly stopped. My brain burned clean with the day’s fasting, and in that moment of clarity I paused, staring at the sticky liquid and recalling another sweet substance that hailed from the very trees that surrounded the white steeple of my childhood church. I moved the honey aside, and there it was: the maple syrup. 

With the enthusiasm of a child running to their front door on the last day of school I excitedly mixed the aromatic powder with melted butter and then popped open the bottle with the maple leaf decorations on it and poured the sweet, sticky maple syrup into the bowl of my homemade sfouf.  I glanced at the clock and mumbled a few words of praise as I broke my fast with a new tradition: New England sfouf.