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Hardcover: 96 pages
Publisher: Chefs Press; Second edition (November 1, 2015)
ISBN-10: 1939664020 ISBN-13: 978-1939664020
Dimensions: 9.1 x 6.6 x 1.1 inches
Shipping Weight: 1.6 pounds
Alternatives methods of shipping until December 19th, 2015, in time for Xmas
For a signed copy of Edible Flowers, please send a check in the amount of
Total including tax and postage via media mail in the US: $20.00
Make check out to: Kitty Morse,
Address: La Caravane Publishing, PO Box 433, Vista, CA 92085
Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org
Pay via Paypal through my website, www.kittymorse.com. Just click on the book cover.
Tell me who to sign the book to.
I ACCEPT CREDIT CARDS BY PHONE, thanks to the magic of my iPhone and my SQUARE. Send me a message, I’ll send you my phone number and we can go from there.
Better yet, come and pick yours up if you are near Vista, CA.
I am always happy to ship signed copies and I can bundle books together.
Mint Tea and Minarets: a banquet of Moroccan memories: $30 includes tax and postage via media mail in the US
A Biblical Feast: $20 includes tax and postage via media mail in the US.
Edible Flowers is currently on these, and many other shelves:
Farenheit 451, Carlsbad, CA
Myrtle Creek Nursery, Fallbrook, CA
Barrels and Branches Nursery, Solana Beach, CA
A Day in the Life, Oceanside, CA (quirky store on the Coast Highway next to the treasure-filled Estate Sale Warehouse)
Hotel del Coronado, Coronado, CA
Solo on Cedros, Solana Beach, CA
The Spice Way, Encinitas, CA
The (world-famous) Golden Door Spa, Escondido, CA
Old Town Temecula Tea and Spice, Temecula, CA
Mission San Luis Rey, Oceanside, CA
Summers Past Farms, El Cajon, CA
The World’s Fare, Vista, CA
Books Inc, Palo Alto, CA
Mission San Antonio de Padua, Jolón, CA
Mission Santa Barbara, CA
Chaucer’s Books, Santa Barbara, CA
Tecolote Books, Santa Barbara, CA
Small World Books, Venice Beach, CA
Marina del Rey Garden Center, Marina del Rey, CA
Boswell’s Milwaukee, Wisconsin
The Book Tavern, Augusta, Georgia
Quail Ridge Books, Raleigh, N. Carolina
Kitchen Arts and Letters, New York City
Moravian Bookshop, Bethlehem, PA
The Twig, San Antonio, TX
. . . more stores and nurseries in the pipeline!
The book is also available on Amazon.com. OR you can order a signed copy by sending me an email. Total cost is $20.00 including tax (in CA) and postage in the US ONLY. email@example.com.
Exciting news! I am to be a guest on A Growing Passion, a wonderful garden show hosted by Nan Sterman on San Diego’s KPBS station. Nan has gathered a number of “experts” who will show and tell how to preserve the harvest. Should be fun! The show airs Thursday, April 16 at 8:00 PM and repeats Saturday, April 18 at 3:30 PM. The subject of this episode is preserving the harvest – pickling, canning, preserving (make your own Moroccan style preserved lemons!), fermenting, and more. For information on upcoming shows or viewing the current show online after it airs visit www.agrowingpassion.com
I had the pleasure of speaking to a Global Studies class at C-SUN (Cal-State University Northridge) a few weeks back. I was thrilled to receive this feedback from professor of art history Peri Klemm, PhD.
“Subject: Inspired… “I made some Moroccan garbanzo beans for dinner with cinnamon, turmeric and other seasonings!! I loved meeting Kitty today, so fun! “Thanks, Erin
Love to inspire someone to try Moroccan cuisine!
On another occasion, I was hosted by culinary students of Vista High School. Chef Kim Plunkett is in charge of a wonderful program that prepares high school students for a career in the culinary arts. One graduate is now employed at the Biltmore in New York City.
Upcoming classes and appearances:
Thursday, May 21, 2015. 6PM
Second time around! Join me for an informative evening and sip a glass of iced mint tea.
A Taste of Morocco presentation followed by a sampling and book signing
Macy’s School of Cooking
Saturday, May 23, 2015
Address: 1555 Camino de la Reina – Mission Valley – San Diego
Observe and have fun as I cook with renowned Chef Bernard Guillas of La Jolla’s Marine Room at the beautiful Macy’s School of Cooking. Watch us prepare a sampling of Moroccan dishes. Come early. First come first seated. Line starts forming 45 mns ahead of time! A book signing will conclude the class.
Tomato, fava bean, and preserved lemon crostini
from Mint Tea and Minarets: a banquet of Moroccan memories
Tagine of Eggs with Olives and Cumin
from Mint Tea and Minarets: a banquet of Moroccan memories
Orange Slices in Orange Blossom Water with Candied Almonds
How to preserve lemons, Moroccan style
Iced mint tea, Morocco’s national drink
Saturday, May 30, 2015
For members only. Why don’t you join? I will lead a farm tour of North San Diego County for the Culinary Historians of San Diego. My admiration for California farmers developed long before the farm-to-table movement became popular. The California Farm Cookbook is still in print and available on Amazon.com. It features a number of farmers from San Diego County including the farm we will visit. www.CHSanDiego.com or find them on Facebook.They generally meet on one Saturday morning a month at our gorgeous Central Library.
I flew across the pond to Morocco in early November to take care of Dar Zitoun, our family riad, 90 kilometres south of Casablanca. My memoir, Mint Tea and Minarets relates the story of this local landmark which I hadn’t visited in FOUR years. Although Dar Zitoun has been in the family for over half a century, it is time to put it on the market and hand over the keys to the next buyer. It is now “staged” for a sale.
In Morocco, I had the pleasure of reconnecting with old friends who always make my trip worthwhile. I am no longer conducting tours, but I can assure you that Morocco remains a welcoming destination.
First impressions: Air France rocks! And the connections between Paris and Morocco are excellent. I have no idea how the 800 passenger Airbus gets off the ground, but a complimentary glass of champagne and a smiling Air France flight attendant (yes, even in “cattle car”) did much to lessen my fears. While Charles de Gaulle airport is geared to luxury and comfort with soft music, a MUSEUM, and comfortable seating throughout, the Delta terminal at Kennedy is the “wretched” refuge of “huddles masses,” sitting and lying around on the floor. Is this the impression we want to give our visitors? Hats off to the TSA, however. Passport control now consists of scanning your passport into a machine.
Morocco sits squarely in the twenty first century. TEXTING is the norm. Freeways, skyscrapers, traffic jams to rival downtown L.A’s, Casablanca’s state of the art train station and sleek electric trams have transformed the landscape (downtown is now a giant pedestrian mall, how cool is that?) I browsed around the Galeries Lafayette, the iconic French store, at the Morocco Mall. STARBUCKS, KFC, MacDos and Pizza Huts are leading the fast food invasion. A royal wedding in Rabat topped it all off (I wasn’t among the guests, but I did meet up with Mrs. Chirac, wife of the former French president, in the Rabat medina!) Rabat’s recently opened Musée d’Art Contemporain is definitely worth the detour, as is dining in a riverfront restaurant in the new marina along the Bou Regreg.
These pictures will explain: The NEW Casablanca Train station/Casa Port.
Of course, this is a momentous date only for me, and for my mother. I just wanted to hare what being an American means to me after 50 years! This piece was first published in the Los Angeles Times, pre-Internet, I believe!
AUGUST 15, 2014
An Immigrant’s story
My first experience with the America I had read about in magazines took place in late childhood. My father, who ran commuter buses for the men working on American air bases, sometimes obtained permission to take us to the bowling alley in the military outposts outside Casablanca. It was while listening to the continuous roar of bowling balls, that my brother and I discovered the addictive crunch of corn flakes and chicken in a basket.
When I reached the age of fourteen, my parents sent me to America for the summer to visit my grandparents in Milwaukee. I fell in love with my new freedom, the tall Dutch elm trees lining the city streets, a new dance called the twist, and turkey club sandwiches. I tried hard to convince my parents that I should remain in the US to finish high school, to no avail. Little did I suspect that three years later, my mother, brother, and I would cross the Atlantic for good to join my maternal grandparents who had emigrated to Milwaukee a decade earlier.
Our vessel bore the unpronounceable name of Hravtska. It proudly proclaimed its Yugoslav registry with a bright red star on the funnel. This did not bode particularly well I thought when we embarked upon our transatlantic adventure in the Cold War days of 1964. We boarded the New York bound Hravtska during a stop in Tangier. She was also scheduled to stop in Lisbon to take on a load of cork.
In retrospect, the tearful farewell to seventeen years of happy childhood in Morocco would prove less painful than the two weeks of permanent seasickness I endured on that aging Yugoslav tub. While my younger brother occupied himself making friends with crew members, my mother and I sailed across the Atlantic flat on our backs in an effort to maintain seasickness at bay. Our fluttery stomachs excused us–thankfully, I can safely say–from sampling the heavy handed creations of the galley cook whose culinary expertise was limited to stuffed peppers, cabbage rolls, and greasy escalopes of leathery meat. Revolting smells insinuated themselves throughout the passageways and under the door of our cabin. To this day, I feel my stomach beginning to turn at the mere mention of stuffed peppers.
“You just sit on deck and look at the ocean. That’s how you get accustomed to the ship’s motion. Your stomach will settle in a couple of days,” promised the crusty cook in his heavily accented English.
We tried to follow his advice. We dressed in all the warm clothes we owned, wrapped ourselves in blankets, and went on deck that afternoon to inhale the brisk marine air. The experiment failed. Our stomachs still rebelled at the rolling motion of the ship. Two days west of Lisbon, however, worried cries from fellow passengers lured us on deck, almost making us forget our plight. Two American military jets were drawing menacing circles high above the ship. Had the sight of the red Communist star on the funnel sounded the alarm on some far away American base? With the rest of our bedraggled travel companions, we stood on deck, and waved madly at the planes in an effort to convince the pilots that we had no intention of invading the Azores.
Our fluttering stomachs calmed down as the promise of setting foot on dry land grew near. The night before sailing into New York harbor, however, I thought the sea gods would swallow us whole. Our freighter heaved and croaked like a tired beast. I clung to the sides of my bunk, too terrified to even wretch. I remain convinced to this day, that had it not been for the tons of cork in its hold, the Hrvatska and its human cargo would now be resting on the bottom of the ocean.
The next morning, sea and sky joined at the seam in a steely line. Upon entering the port of New York, the captain invited his passengers to gather at the bow to watch the Statue of Liberty come into view. She radiated reassurance as yet another load of hopeful immigrants basked in the glow of her torch. A chorus of sea gulls joined in the welcome, drawing wide circles around her crown. For the older passengers, a new life in America was the fulfillment of a long awaited dream. For the younger set, accustomed to westerns and rock and roll, the adventure ahead held a multitude of promises.
Not much activity enlivened the dock on that Sunday afternoon in August. We stepped off the ship’s gang plank into a nondescript processing area, where customs officers officially proclaimed us “resident aliens,” a status I had thought until then described visitors from outer space (a status I retained until I acquired my US citizenship nine years later.) We sat on our trunks, waiting to embark upon the next leg of our journey to Milwaukee to join my mother’s family. What would our new life in America hold for us?
That first afternoon on American soil set the tone for things to come. My encounter with the generous stranger took place at the stamp machine. I had fed it my only dime. It swallowed it but gave me nothing in return. As I stood in front of the dispenser wondering what to do next, the woman handed me a coin.
“Here, you need another dime,” she said. “Just insert it here, and the stamps will come out there.”
I thanked her as she walked away. I did as she said, and the machine cooperated. I was able to purchase the stamp I needed to send my first letter from America.
In later years, my American life evolved into so much more than I could ever have envisaged. I often think of the stranger’s spontaneous offer of help on the day I started my new life.
For me, the dime still shines!