The soles of my feet may never gather dust of exotic lands, but my tastebuds yearn for knowledge of the world. The heavy scents, the novel spices, the untried combinations which have sustained cultures for centuries- and longer. Knowing my passion for food and my affinity for dabbling in the kitchen, my family purchased a tagine for my birthday.

It is large, sensuous, mysterious- and beckoning.

I poured through a tome of VERY intimidating recipes with exotic ingredients I couldn’t wait to source. I ventured into a nearby ethnic grocery store and purchased bottles of orange water and rose water. I returned to the store again the following day and purchased saffron and chicken. I am sure the fellow shoppers and store employees secretly stifled giggles at the white lady buying ingredients she couldn’t possibly know how to use. Or worse…

I realized a couple days later that I should have held more consideration for their culture. I had entered their space dressed in shorts and a tank top without any thought. I don’t know what divine intervention nudged me to the realization, but I genuinely regretted not dressing for the occasion. As an American, and probably more accurately, as a white American, I don’t often consider the implications or messages my attire may convey.

Going forward, I will certainly be more mindful when I shop there. I am so grateful to live in a country where I have the opportunity to experience these tiny pockets of exposure. While I know I will always be the bumbling tourist, I still treasure the illusion of eating like the worldly traveler.

I have cooked in my tagine once- a velvety, heavenly Apricot Chicken. (Recipe courtesy The Spruce Eats.) And as my daughter drives home for her first long weekend back from campus, I am preparing the meal for her. Coming home is a celebration- and a celebration demands a meal.