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For the past few months, I’ve been making a different tagine every Friday and inviting friends over to try different recipes. (Another reason food writers are the best kind of friends to have.) We’ve sampled spicy shrimp, cinnamon lamb, kefta, tomato and egg, fennel, artichoke and potato, and Moroccan merguez, to name a few. Since then, a tradition was born. Every week I get texts from hungry friends asking where tagine time (#taginetime, look it up) will be held that week.

So one afternoon after walking home from work, I decided that the time had come to commemorate the great Moroccan earthware pot of joy — commonly known as a tagine — and get one tattooed on my body. Yes. A tagine tattoo. Without much consideration, I walked over to my neighborhood tattoo parlor, handed him a picture of my prized tagine, and 20 minutes later, walked out as a proud recipient of tagine tat. But guess who wasn’t so proud? My Middle Eastern mother. Saying that she wasn’t as thrilled as I had hoped is an understatement.

As usual, I let her have the last word: “You have completely lost your mind! You will be buried with tagine on your body? That’s what you want?!” I couldn’t have asked for more, Mom. 

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