I was busy putting the final touches to a pizza I made to take along for lunch at a friend's house. I poured a good glug of olive oil. BabelDad interjected: "That's olive oil from Algeria! You must really like those two friends of yours!". Actually, yes, I do.
You see, this is not JUST olive oil. This is extra virgin oil extracted from one batch of olives coming from a single olive producer in a small village of Kabylie, that my parents bought for me from a long-time family friend, that my mother poured in a plastic bottle, wrapped and secured the day before we took the plane back to England, knowing she would not see her daughter and granddaughters for another year.
Likewise, that is not just couscous. That is semolina grains that my mother watered, rolled, steamed and laid down to dry on the roof terrace under the warm spring sun of Algiers, counting the months and days till our arrival.
Food is really charged with emotion, isn't it?