Our Breakfasts: A Taste of Tradition Noureddine Boutahar

In the countryside of the The Sixties and The Seventies, our breakfasts
were seasonal affairs, woven from the land’s bounty and sustained by the fruits of our labor. Our table depended heavily on home-grown produce, yet it was never the same; it shifted with the seasons, transformed on holidays, and took on special flavors when guests and visitors graced our home.

Each morning, our breakfast was grounded in the earthy taste of homemade bread or harcha—the quintessential Amazigh breakfast semolina flatbread baked from wheat grown in our fields, or sometimes corn or barley, depending on the season. Shaped over a wood fire on a clay griddle, these loaves were often as big as a medium size car wheel, sized to satisfy a family of many mouths, eating in shifts most of the time. The women who prepared and served breakfast often ate last, tucked away in the kanoun—the small space reserved for cooking. The scent of warm bread wrapped around them like a soft shawl as they ate, often while still tending to the meal of latecomers.

Preparing a meal was a ritual that required firewood or dried cow dung, three stones to prop up the griddle, and a raboz (bellows) to breathe life into the flames. At a pinch, if the bellows were busy or the rush was urgent, the women blew into the fire themselves, often at the cost of teary eyes from the smoke. Bread, our dawn companion, called the women from their beds in the wee small hours. They would grind the grain by hand with a traditional stone mill, turning it with the strength of, usually, two women across from each other. Then, they’d sift the flour, knead the dough, and leave it to rise. The soft, rhythmic voices of women turning the grinder, singing traditional and religious songs, became a gentle lullaby to my drowsy ears.

Alongside the bread, there was always fresh butter from our cows and rich olive oil from our trees, ready to be dipped and savored. Mint tea, steaming and fragrant, was our staple drink, though sometimes the luxurious aroma of coffee with milk slipped into the morning air. Two cups were the rule, but we, the children, knew how to stretch that rule, coaxing our way to a third and sometimes even a fourth.

For special days—Eids, visits from guests, or simply a change from routine—there was a stack of sheets of meloui, delicate pastry sheets slathered with butter and honey, and sfenj, my mother’s specialty. These airy, fried dough rings were a rare treat, appearing only two or three times a year, which made each bite feel like a small celebration.

In the winter’s chill, hearty soups, rich with medicinal herbs and spices to ward off colds, joined our breakfast. The scent of garlic, fenugreek, parsley, and coriander from our kitchen garden would drift through the house, calling us to the table. Chickpeas, broad beans, lentils, and chopped turnips added their flavor, scent, and texture to harira, our region’s signature soup. Sometimes, just before serving, my mother would crack a few eggs into the pot, and I’d delight and boast in finding a soft piece of egg in my bowl.

Summer had its own traditions. For us kids, breakfast began in the fig trees. Our family’s orchard was a small treasure trove, with each branch laden with figs in shades of tawny, yellow, brown, maroon, and purple. Armed with a hunk of bread, we’d climb to the highest branches, reaching for the ripest figs. Often, the birds had beaten us to the best ones, but we didn’t mind, biting around their pecked portions and eating figs straight from the branch, dirt and all; hygiene was a distant thought. If one of us found an untouched fig, we’d boast about it to the others, showing off our prize before devouring it or sharing it to let everyone in on the moment’s sweetness. Sometimes, we’d stop by the kitchen garden, picking a tomato, carrot, or turnip, rinsing it in the irrigation ditch, and eating it whole and unpeeled before heading inside for the formal breakfast. The elders would wash the figs we brought in baskets, adding them to the table—a vibrant splash of color against the bread and tea.

In the countryside where I grew up, life often began after a nourishing breakfast and a revitalizing cup of mint tea. My uncle, the hardest-working man I knew, held fast to the motto, "Breakfast is the fuel for champions." He wasn’t a learned man, but he believed deeply in the power of a hearty meal to stoke the fires of energy and set the day on the right track. And so, each morning, breakfast became a veritable feast we eagerly anticipated, preparing us to face whatever the day held in store.