Couscous Fridays
"Fatima's Friday couscous brings the neighborhood together. When widower Hassan moves next door, she discovers cooking for one more changes everything. 'Ta'am el hob' (طعم الحب) - The taste of love."
Every Friday, the smell of Fatima's couscous summoned the neighborhood like a call to prayer.
"Khalti Fatima," the children called, "wach kayen el t'aam?"
"Dima kayen." Always. She ladled stew over semolina, her generous figure swaying with practiced rhythm.
At fifty-two, she'd been widowed ten years. Her children had scattered—France, Canada, Qatar. But Fridays remained sacred.
"Alache tzidi tteyybi haka barsha?" her sister asked. Why cook so much?
"El dar khawya bla nass." The house is empty without people.
"Allah yrhmo."
The new neighbor arrived on a Thursday—Hassan, sixty, recently retired, recently widowed himself.
"Sbah el kheir," he greeted over the courtyard wall.
"Sbah el nour." She wiped flour-dusted hands on her apron. "Mnin rak?"
"Constantine originally. But my wife was from here."
"Allah yrhemha."
"Ghudwa jum'a," she found herself saying. Tomorrow is Friday. "Nji djiblek t'aam?"
His eyes lit up. "Wallah?"
"Ma nkhalli jari yekol wahdou." I don't let neighbors eat alone.
She brought enough couscous to feed an army. Hassan cleared his plate twice.
"Ya latif," he groaned. "Ma klitch haka mn zman."
"Your wife didn't cook?"
"She was Kabyle. Different traditions."
"Ah." Fatima gathered dishes. "Kol jum'a, tji 'andna."
Weeks turned to months. Hassan became a Friday fixture—arriving early to help prepare, staying late to help clean.
"La la," Fatima protested. "Rajel ma ydirch el vaisselle."
"Rajel ydir koulech l'mra elli ttayyeblo haka." A man does everything for a woman who cooks like this.
She blushed like a girl.
"Nass yhedrau," her sister warned. People are talking.
"Khalihom yhedrau."
"Fi 'omrek?" At your age?
Fatima squared her substantial shoulders. "Fi 'omri, n'ref wach nhab."
It happened on a rainy Friday, guests cancelled, just the two of them.
"Ta'am ktar mn el 'ada," Hassan observed. Tastier than usual.
"Zidt shi haja."
"Wach?"
"Hob." Love.
The word hung between them like steam from the couscous pot.
"Fatima..."
"Ma tgoul walo." Don't say anything. "Kol."
But he was already standing, rounding the table, taking her floury hands in his.
"Ana zeda," he said softly. Me too. "Mn el jum'a el loula."
"Khdab." Liar.
"Wallah." His eyes held truth. "Enti ta'am el hob."
Their first kiss tasted of saffron and seven vegetables. Fatima trembled—it had been so long.
"Ma tkhafich," he whispered. Don't be afraid.
"Ana kbira..."
"Enti kamla." He pulled her close, hands finding her hips. "Kamla w jamila."
They made their way to her bedroom—the one she'd shared with her husband, empty these ten years.
"Hna?" Hassan hesitated.
"Weqt jdid." New time. "Hob jdid."
She let him unwrap her like a gift. Hassan groaned at the sight of her—all curves and softness, a woman in full bloom.
"Mashallah," he breathed. "Ma ritch jamla haka."
"Khdab."
"Wallah el 'adhim."
He worshipped her body with a patience born of age, kissing every curve, every fold, every inch of her.
"Hassan," she moaned.
"Hna." Here. His mouth found her center. "Khallini nduq."
She came apart under his tongue, crying out for the first time in a decade. Hassan held her through the tremors.
"Dour," she gasped when she recovered. Your turn.
"Enty el loula."
"Dert." She pulled him over her. "Tji."
He slid into her warmth and they both sighed—two lonely people finally finding home.
"Ya rabbi," he groaned.
"Aktar." She wrapped thick thighs around him. "Aktar, ya Hassan."
Their lovemaking was slow and sweet, two mature bodies remembering pleasure. Hassan drove deep and Fatima rose to meet him.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya, habibti."
They crested together, waves of release washing away years of solitude. Hassan collapsed beside her.
"El couscous ya bred," she said eventually.
"Khou, ma yehemmch." He pulled her close. "'Andi koulech hna."
The neighborhood adjusted quickly. Widower marries widow—nothing scandalous there.
"El ta'am wla ktar bnin," the children reported.
"Normal," their parents said. "Tzawjou."
But Fatima knew the secret ingredient hadn't changed. It had just doubled.