I love my in-laws and I am extra blessed to be with them now in Meknes, Morocco, celebrating Eid, the end of the holy month of Ramadan.

My in-laws live between London, England and Meknes, where they are from. Their flat in London is the same flat where my husband Aziz was born. It’s a comfortable three-bedroom council flat in South London, situated in a block of similar buildings with names like Dickens, Shakespeare, and Chaucer.

When Aziz was growing up he and his family were the only Moroccans in the neighborhood, save for his 9 cousins in the adjacent building. Jamaicans, Chinese, Indians, Bengalis, Turks, and British made up his friend group in and out of school. Aziz grew up eating jerk chicken, chicken biryani, egg foo young, kebabs and of course couscous.

My in-laws, Haj and Haja, migrated separately to the UK in the late-60s. They were both recently divorced and various family members encouraged them to make the life change. Invited to the UK as ‘guest workers’, they boarded their flights alone, no English, no idea of where they were headed or what would unfold.

After two years in the UK, Haj working at a hospital cafeteria and Haja working and living at a girls school as a cleaner, they serendipitously were on the same flight back to Morocco for a long awaited visit home. Story goes they were seated next to each other. Haja asked Haj if he could help her find her way to her parents from Tangier airport. He ended up taking her, staying with her family for two weeks where they wed. Upon their return to London they started their own family beginning with Jamal, then Aziz then Jawad.

For the next 50 years Haj worked at the same job in the hospital cafeteria whist Haja cleaned hotel rooms. Their life consisted of work, prayer, eating, sleeping, and taking care of children. But when summer came then it was time to hit the road and the family Takkal loaded up whatever jalopy they had, packed it to the rafters with new appliances, gifts, the odd uncle and aunt, and took off for the three-day drive to Meknes, their second home.

Frugal to this day, food was prepared by the side of the road over the portable boite d gaz (gas canister) and hotels were eschewed while the family slept in the car or outside next to it. Aziz remembers three days of eggs and bread and waking up with a crooked neck. But he was young and the journey was also full of fun and games as the excitement built getting closer to their long awaited summer holiday.

A young Aziz in Meknes with his parents and grandmother (center), 1970s

After hearing countless stories of summers in Meknes, the good and the bad, I finally saw it with my own eyes 9 months into our courtship.

When I first visited the house in Meknes I was blown away by the sheer size and splendor. Ornately carved ceilings revealed crystal chandeliers and just about every inch of the floors and walls throughout are covered with zellige (Moroccan tile). The wooden doors were large and gleaming with gloss and brass hardware. After years of living and entertaining a massive extended family the pantry is outfitted with fine china, linens and every kitchen gadget known to woman.

But all the splendor had me stumped. My in-laws only spend money on absolute necessities. In fact, they have not bought new clothes in ten years, I just asked them. But in the end they are Moroccan and if there is one thread that binds, it is that of hospitality and this is where they entertain.

I’m new to the family. Aziz and I fell in love and married four years ago in London after meeting on Tinder. I was a 50-something Masters student in London and he was working in the insurance industry. Everything happened fast and we soon found ourselves honeymooning in Morocco, buying a house there then setting up our business, Mid Century Maroc, an e-commerce ‘souk’ selling mid-century furnishings found in Morocco.

Marrying Aziz and gaining a new family has been full of baraka (blessings). I was accepted from day one, even though I am neither Moroccan nor Muslim. Haj and Haja have met my American children and extended every inch of their hearts and eternal concern to them as well. We are all considered family and that is the deal.

Home is where I spend time with my in-laws both in London and Morocco. They don’t really go out, and socializing centers around food, tea and more food. I have to psychologically prepare myself for these endless meals. I generally gain a pound with each day spent eating with the Takkals, because you cannot say, ‘no thank you, I’m full’. I’ve tried that and the repercussions are so egregious that gaining the weight that I’ve so scrupulously worked to lose is the better option.

The house in Meknes has four stories with a terrace on top. There are five bedrooms, countless sitting rooms, three bathrooms and three kitchens. The sitting rooms are all very grand and the kitchens have ample space and every pot imaginable.

Besides food, life tends to revolve around the TV where Turkish soap operas with dubbed darija (Moroccan Arabic) predominate. I am secretly in love with Turkish soap operas. It’s all about family drama. Murders, multiple hospital scenes, gangsters, tears, and resting bitch face galore keep me entertained and on top of it, my darija improves!

Other entertainment includes getting to know a distant ‘cousin’ or two as there are always family members here helping Haja with the daily chores and providing great company. They are usually young, and according to her, lazy, but that’s not my take. Compared to the American breed of adolescent/young adult, the Moroccan counterpart is a thoroughbred. Take Sumia, who was just here last week to sweep, cook, shop, and scrub. From 10am until 8pm she was a whirlwind. As I sat (because I’m not allowed to do anything), I became fatigued just watching! There was so much mind numbing back and forth ‘fetching’ going on (kitchen, pantry, bedroom, kitchen, downstairs kitchen, upstairs bathroom). I was waiting for an eye roll from young Sumia, or even a shrug, but it never came. She loves and respects Haja and helping an elder is not only normal, but a privilege.

When it was time for Sumia to go back to her family, we all came along for a family visit to the countryside. I never know where we are going or who we will meet. You could say I am a passive traveling companion when I hit the road with the Takkals and I’m never disappointed.

As we drove to our destination, city scenes quickly gave way to olive tree groves, sloping hills, fruit trees, and poppy fields. When I asked how this particular family member we were visiting was related, there was silence in the car. Blank stares. It was too complicated to explain, I was told. The point is, there are so many Takkals that no one bothers to figure out the ‘how’. We just ‘are’, safi baraka (‘that’s it’, in darija).

A country piste (dirt road) took us to a very typical country house. There we were greeted by the head of the household, an arresting women in her early 90s with amazigh (Berber) tattoos on her face. Plenty of kisses and reams of salutations finally brought us inside the house where couscous, only for us, was waiting. The family even knew that I am vegetarian so there was a special meatless plate just for me.

Manal and her grandmother, matriarch of the country house

After the meal I was ushered around the property by Sumia and shown everything. The vegetable and fruit garden, the chicken coop, the cow barn, the uncles house, you name it, I saw it. The tour was then followed by an hour walk through the brush to a stunning mountainside view. My companion was explaining everything in our view in darija and asking me to repeat. She knows how in love I am with Morocco, learning new things and that I’m desperate to improve my Arabic. I just loved that she was so intent to show me a good time. An endearing moment that I’ll always savor.

We eventually said our goodbyes. By then I had photographed the whole family and then some to the mounting annoyance of my immediate family. They don’t quite understand why I have to take so many photos!

On our drive back to Meknes I felt some sadness. When will we be back? Will I ever see the other matriarch again? Will Haj and Haja see another Ramadan?

As Aziz and I build our memories here in Morocco I have Haj and Haja to thank for never turning their backs on their country. Those summers spent in Meknes laid a solid foundation for Aziz, kept family ties strong and I’ve been the most unlikely yet profoundly grateful recipient of baraka (blessings) from the Takkal family.

Thank you for reading! As a thank you, we want to offer you 10% off your first Mid Century Maroc order. Sign up for our newsletter and get 10% off! You’ll receive your discount code via email. Scroll to the bottom of this page to sign up. Our newsletters are full of design inspiration ideas, tales about life in Morocco, promotions, and more.

Welcome to the Mid Century Maroc family.

Aziz & Brooke