7 Nights in Maroc: Day 2

Everything that [my Middle East Studies professor] Sharon said about the friendliness and hospitality here is true. I want to stay here and continue to be taken care of forever! Tonight, the maid prepared a special dinner of fish cooked in a masala-like sauce to honor Allen's return to Rabat. He brings students here several times a year and, each time, the host-families go nuts over having him back. I really like him, too--he puts everyone at ease and never rolls his eyes if you pull out a bottle of hand sanitizer or makes you feel high maintenance for asking for bottled water. In fact, he makes sure that we only drink bottled water, and he only buys it from stalls in the market that he knows don't re-seal the caps.

The only real "problem" in this place is that going to the bathroom is always an adventure. Yesterday evening, while we were stopped on our way to Rabat for our van driver to pray, Allen asked if everyone was comfortable squatting to use the toilet. "Comfortable" might be a stretch, but I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this trip. I squatted yesterday in the bathroom of Mohammed's restaurant, tucking my nose into my shirt, rolling my pants up from the top so they wouldn't touch the ground, being careful to touch nothing but the walls and washing up to my elbows with warm water and hand sanitizer afterwards. I knew I could do it again, but it certainly wasn't preferable even in the best of moments, and I worried that I might not be able to manage if I was peeing in the middle of the night, or sick. Allen mentioned that some of the houses we were staying at would have "western style" toilets, but some would not. I prayed the entire way into the city that I would get placed in one of the houses that did and, miraculously, my wishes came true. In fact, our bathrooms here are cleaner than my apartment back home--I just have to get used to showering out in the open*. They don't have a bathtub or a shower curtain, just a drain in the middle of the floor, so everything gets wet!

Outside, in the streets--especially these winding, cobblestone "rues" in the old medina--everything smells slightly of pee, and I swear I saw shit smeared in the street. Beggars in the market walk around with open wounds--this one man today was lying on the ground, a cut on his leg so swollen with pus that he could hardly move it. I'll never forget the sight--the sad little man, sprawled out on the ground in the busiest street in the market with his hands outstretched, begging for money as people made a delicate path around him on either side. I do not know why or how some countries become more "developed" than others--how "proper" sanitation systems come into being, with a regimented garbage pick up (the litter here is also unbelievable) and landfills and all that. Who thinks of these things? I am the only one of the girls on my trip who seems to be making a point of wearing closed-toe shoes with socks at all times, and I worry that the others might be more susceptible to germs in their sandals and flip-flops.

Despite the filth, though, I am still so happy to be here and remain fascinated with the people--just as much as they are with me. I also haven't slept so well since I left Texas! [Prior to Morocco, I was in Burlington, VT and then Sevilla, Spain, neither of which have air conditioning. In the heat of the summer, this can make for some extraordinarily sleepless nights.] Even though it is hot outside and the houses here do not have air conditioning either, the tiled walls and floors cool the house-- to stay cool, I press my flushed cheek up against the cold wall, or sleep with my back up against it.

This morning, we went to Chellah, where I saw a real African vista!


This view, just a short ride outside the city, cemented for me the knowledge that I am in Africa. Honestly, this place is so magical that it's easy to forget where I am, but, every so often, there's a reminder, like the gas stations with the word "Afrique" on their awnings, and a thrill runs through my body when I remember this important, exotic, diverse, challenged continent that I'm walking upon. Coming here is something that I've wanted to do my entire life, and I sometimes have trouble believing that I am really here. I don't think that the other students on the trip really like me--I must seem unfriendly, or they sense that I'm not going to bond with them because I'm constantly staring out the window in amazement, or have my face hidden behind my camera, trying to capture everything. Quite frankly, they're exactly right--I've waited too long to come here to waste my time hearing about their sex lives or their drunken exploits back in Spain and playing card games in the van to pass the time. I'm not about to let anyone stand in the way of my squeezing as much Morocco as I can out of every moment.

*My host family's house would become a hot-spot for the others to use the bathroom, and they would sometimes walk home with me or Kara in pairs, to get at least one good release in before heading back home to be faced with their holes-in-the-ground. I was astounded one afternoon when, at one of the other host family's houses, I discovered a seemingly abandoned bathroom in a door off to the side of the hole that housed an oversized sink, an old refrigerator and a "western style" toilet. It was dark and wet, and there were no windows or a light switch, so I propped the door open, dropped my pants and just prayed that none of their little boys would wander in while I was peeing, or that none of the maids would come by and shut the door! Panic rose when I realized that the toilet didn't seem to be functioning, and, thus, wouldn't flush, and I have no idea what ultimately became of the situation. What shocked me the most is that these people had a fully functional (well, maybe not "functional," but capable to say the least) toilet, yet they still preferred the hole. That is just a cultural divide I'll never cross!

7 Nights in Maroc: Day 1

Inspired by Diane Johnson's Lulu in Marrakech, and the fact that I won't be doing any new traveling this summer, I decided to dig out the journal that I kept during my trip to Morocco in 2007. Since it was such a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me, I did my best to record every moment, and I'd like to share that with you now.

Morocco is everything I imagined it would be! I want to move here. I want to marry a Moroccan and live in Morocco and have Moroccan babies. I feel so lucky to be here!

In some ways, I feel as though I'm somewhere completely foreign, yet I also feel this intense sense of familiarity. I have to keep reminding myself that the scenes in front of me are real, and not from Google image searches or one of my books or movies. I can't decide whether or not it's better to know everything about a country before you go there, or not. I've been preparing for this trip my whole life. I gained a feeling of comfort with the culture because of that, but I think I lost the twinge of excitement I get when I arrive somewhere and have no idea where I am.

Anyway, I was most looking forward to hearing the call to prayer. I've read about how it echoes through the city and can be loud enough to wake you in the early hours of the morning. It's not that loud, unfortunately! (Disappointment.) But, beautiful nonetheless. Is it strange to think of it from the perspective of the people who live here, as akin to the church bells on campus back home. Not by meaning, but in that it marks the passage of time and makes one feel comforted.

I keep forgetting I'm in a developing country. Our house is so clean and beautiful and the people on the streets are wonderfully friendly--even the men. I can't imagine any of the things reported by the girls in the previous session--cat calls, getting groped in the souk. In Spain, yes, but here? I can't see it.

Today, we met a wonderful man named Mohammed who told us that "Morocco is our country now," as he showed us around Asilah.




He was so friendly when he met our group, sitting in the sun outside the restaurant where he works, chugging a can of Coke Light. In just a few hours, I developed a most inappropriate crush on him. After he left, Allen explained that every time he brings a group through Asilah, he hires Mohammed to show them around for a few hours, and that, over the years, he's grown to see Mohammed as an adopted son. He said that Mohammed would have been embarrassed to admit that he lives in the shantytowns on the outskirts of Asilah, which is so common here. When Allen explained this, I can't really describe how I felt as being anything other than "final," as though I had just gotten the answer to everything I'd been asking myself all day. Yes, I do feel like a foreigner here; no, I will never see Mohammed again--we're not going to exchange email addresses and become pen pals. Coming to Morocco and meeting a wonderful local made me feel so integrated, like I could be a part of this--like I am a part of this. But, realizing in a split second that I am world's away from my new friend made me feel a thousand times more removed. I expect that is the nature of Morocco--it pulls you in and pushes you out simultaneously. I think there are many layers to life here that will begin to uncover themselves as time goes on, Inshallah.

Cooking for One: Give Me One Good Reason Not To

You know those crisp, early fall evenings when you just want it to be Thanksgiving already? It's as though, practically overnight, a little button switches inside my brain, sending my body into a pumpkin frenzy. I start burning pumpkin candles, eating Kaddo Bourani and making Pumpkin Custard--my "healthy" version of pumpkin pie, which is actually pretty healthy already. Just follow the Libby's recipe, substitute brown sugar for white sugar, and forgo the pie crust. Instead, bake it in a glass baking pan and scoop out the sweet filling. A pan of Pumpkin Custard in the oven fills the house with a divine, homey smell. A friend came over for dinner once, just as I had taken one out of the oven, and the first thing she said was "it smells like a home in here." In the midst of one of my periods of pumpkin overload, a roommate suggested Rachael Ray's pumpkin pasta. "I made a ton of it last year," she said. "I can't remember what it was for, but I made a ton and it was really good."

This particular young lady rarely cooked anything fancier for dinner than a bowl of pasta with butter and parmesan cheese, while, several days a week, I cooked delicious, gourmet meals for myself that were large enough to last through 4-5 meals. Seeing her simple meals always made me feel like I overindulged, and I was slightly miffed by the way she worded her suggestion. "Wait," I thought, "what do you mean 'what it was for?' Why not for yourself?" I hadn't seen the recipe, but it sounded like it would be cheap to make. Pasta, a can of pumpkin...maybe some olive oil or butter? None of those ingredients struck me as any sort of delicacy. They did strike me, however, as inexpensive, everyday ingredients put together in a way that would add variety to one's sack lunch or dinner-for-one-in-front-of-the-TV, especially if that person wasn't so inclined to put a whole lot of effort into their meals.

In fact, when I looked up the recipe, I learned that it's full name is "Penne-Wise Pumpkin Pasta," and that it was created to be a tasty, healthy meal for those on a budget. Granted, there's a little bit more to it than dumping a can of Libby's and some pasta together, but I still resented the idea that, for some people, tasty meals were reserved only for dinner parties, impressing men, or eating out. What is so wrong with cooking yourself a nice meal and having it to look forward to when you come home from work, or to bring in a sack lunch to heat up and enjoy during a break from your soul-sucking job? Doesn't it make everything so much more pleasant?

When I started reading Giulia Melucci's I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti a few days ago, which is a memoir of Melucci's life long search for romantic love, failed relationships, overarching love of the culinary arts and how those two areas of her life have always intertwined. At first, I thought Melucci to be a kindred spirit, but I was shocked when I read her admittance that, during a dating dry-spell, her cooking "slowed down outside of relationship and domesticity," and that cooking for others (i.e., a man) is part of its appeal. I've always thought it of utmost importance to do stuff, to have interests and hobbies--to build my life around things that I actually like doing. Things that I do for myself, rather than to impress others. Cooking for myself is chief among those things that I like doing, and I like that it also seems to say "hey, look at how good I am at taking care of myself."

My point is, if you like doing something, why not just do it? Why wait around for someone to do it with? As someone who has never been in a relationship, it probably comes naturally to do nice things for myself--I mean, what's the alternative? Being bored all the time and waiting for someone to walk into my life so that I can finally start living it? Ugh, no thanks. It saddened me when Melucci reluctantly admits that she doesn't begin cooking for herself until later in life, and that doing so is part of her acceptance that "being alone" is probably her destiny. She fills the chapter in which she discusses this with self-deprecating quips like, "if a single girl cooks a fabulous meal, and no one tastes it but me, does it really even exist?" and mentions how saddened she is by those delicious, impromptu meals made to keep leftover ingredients from going bad. You know, the kind that no one but she will ever taste because they can't ever really be re-created. But, what on God's green earth is wrong with that? Not that I care all that much what men think these days (No, I haven't turned into a lesbian, I just literally don't care anymore--take me, or leave me.) but aren't people who respect themselves enough to eat well, have hobbies and do things just ridiculously attractive? After all, I can't recall anyone ever saying "I married her because she was the most boring woman I've ever met!"

The Importance of Salad Dressing

I've been known to, on occasion, go through periods of eating nothing but salads. For about a year in college, I ate from the cafeteria's salad bar at least once a day, if not twice. Weekends were the worst part, because I could always count on some vital ingredient being left out all together or looking too suspect to eat. However, an offense far worse than wilted looking spring leaves was when they didn't have the right salad dressing. Being the food snob that I am, there are some things that I simply refuse to eat, and ranch dressing (except with the occasional carrot stick) is chief among them, followed by anything from McDonald's and any Budweiser, Coors or Miller brand beers. The only "acceptable" dressing my school's little cafeteria had to offer was a raspberry vinaigrette, which was quite tasty, although I'm certain it was high fructose corn syrup in disguise. Back then, though, it was good enough for me. Apparently, the other students thought so as well, as it was often missing from the spread, and after it had disappeared, no amount of begging the cafeteria employees could bring it back--one woman even deigned to tell me that they never had such a thing! Anytime they didn't have it, the Rolling Stones "I Can't Get No Satisfaction" played in my head as I allowed my day to be ruined by my failure to obtain the key ingredient to the salad I had spent the entire morning daydreaming about. I would curse every dime of tuition I paid to the institution and settle for an inferior sandwich, or, on some particularly maddening days, a burger, and eat it, stewing alone in the corner seat of the dining hall.

It was then that I realized it was time to take matters into my own hands. Back then, I enjoyed going to the grocery store just about as much as one does having a root canal, and went to great lengths to avoid it. I ate a lot of leftovers, scrambled eggs and occasionally made meals out of Pop Tarts, but when those ran out, I was faced with the dilemma of eating the dregs of my pantry, which, for years, included a box of rice noodles whose origins were unknown and a box of Saltine crackers purchased by a friend when I had food poisoning. One evening, on the way home from school, I decided to avoid the grocery store once again, and prayed that maybe I would get too involved in that night's episode of Lost to get hungry. Since there was a fat chance of this happening, and I knew that I had already finished all the eggs, Pop Tarts, packets of oatmeal and pancake mix (breakfast foods for dinner were also a college staple) days ago, I realized, as I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, that I would probably have to have to eat the rice noodles, if I wanted to avoid the grocery store one more time. I consider what happened next to be my finest act of culinary heroism, because I marched into the small kitchen of my apartment and, as if by magic, pulled out a box of cous cous and a yellow onion. I never figured out how the onion had materialized in my pantry, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? A simple meal of grilled onion and cous cous kept me away from the grocery store for two more days, and serves as a lifelong reminder that, yes, one often can make something out of nothing.

Suffice to say, in those days, it usually took an act of God to get me into a grocery store, so I took myself and everyone around me by surprise when, in the middle of the day on one of those wretched, no-dressing days when the world and all it's inhabitants were against me, I drove straight from the salad bar to the grocery store and bought a five year supply of Newman's Own Light Raspberry & Walnut dressing and a package of 8 Mini-Round Gladware containers. From then on, I slept the peaceful sleep of a human being who knew that her day would never be ruined by an incompetent lack of salad dressing again.

Every morning, I would fill up one of the Gladware containers with my dressing of choice, seal the lid tightly and enclose it inside a Ziploc bag to avoid any mishaps, and drop it into my backpack or purse. My college experience happened to be blessed with professors who cared very little about formalities, preferred to be called by their first names and could not give less of a shit whether we ate lunch or got up to go to the bathroom during class. The semester that I started bringing my own salad dressing to school, I usually ate my lunch during the first few minutes of my grant writing class, impressing both my professor and peers with my salad dressing ingenuity. Secretly, I hoped that I would become known around campus as the Girl Who Brings Who Her Own Salad Dressing to School and that, maybe, a Facebook fan club devoted to me would pop up one day. As far as I know, this never happened--more evidence of the fact that the world is so much less interested in you than you might think (a fact of life that can be comforting, especially during embarrassing moments, like when you show up to a conference in dirty jeans, a sweater and tennis shoes and realize that you failed to get the memo about business casual attire). But, it did allow me to live in relative culinary peace, brought the price of my salad by weight down to a very reasonable amount and, most important, taught me that, very rarely, does the world provide what you want. You've got to go out there and find it yourself.

Meredith's College Salad

2 large handfuls leafy greens
Chopped red onion, to taste
4 yolks of hard boiled eggs, crushed
Chick peas, to taste
Shaved cheddar cheese, to taste
Raisins, to taste
Croutons or toasted walnuts, to taste
2 tablespoons Newman's Own Light Raspberry & Walnut Dressing

Fill the bottom of a large, styrofoam to-go container with the lettuce, and sprinkle the following ingredients on top, making sure to end with the salad dressing. Pour the dressing lightly over all areas of the salad, making sure to reach all corners. Close the lid and shake.

My Dirty Little Secret

I did something this afternoon that I once vowed I'd never do. Looking back, I realize that I probably set myself up weeks ago, when I began a ruthless assault against the stacks and stacks of "stuff" piled high in my room, including the books, which, for many years, I've refused to weed out. After all, one can never have too many books, right? Well, when it gets to the point where you start to seriously consider constructing furniture out of them, then the answer is probably yes. Anyway, I should have known yesterday that I was just a few steps away from counting them entirely when I was struck with the brilliant organizational idea to divide them into two piles, one of those that I've read, and one of those that I have yet to read.

I come from a long line of book lovers. No, scratch that--I come from a long line of people who have a sickness and can exert absolutely no control when it comes to buying books. In my family, Knowing exactly how many books you have is like counting the calories in a piece of cheesecake--you're better off just not knowing. But, this afternoon, standing above those books in their neat piles on the floor of my bedroom, I couldn't stop myself from counting. It was as though the devil drove me to do it--tentatively, at first, and then obsessively going over them three times to make sure that my numbers were exact.

Ok, are you ready to hear the grand total? I'll tell you as long as you promise not to tell anyone else. Without counting a fair number that I have on loan to a friend right now, I own 295 books. Yes. Nearly twice my body weight. Actually...even that estimate is a little bit padded, because that is actually just the number of read-able books I own, and does not include textbooks, cookbooks, photography books, reference books and travel guides...or the two sitting next to me on the desk that I'm getting ready to send to a friend. (I promise I wasn't trying to further pad the number, I just forgot about those two.)

Out of those 295 books, I've read, from cover to cover, 84 of them. Out of the 211 remaining, unread books, I have partially read 36 of them. The even dirtier secret is that, just last week, maybe because I subconsciously knew that I would soon feel compelled to find out the number of books I own and publish it on the Internet, I filled two extra-large LL Bean boat and tote bags full of books and sold them to Half Price Books. Without re-filling the bags or searching for the sale receipt, both of which I am much too lazy to do, it is impossible to say how many were sold, but I think that, for the sake of everyone involved, that is a number better left unknown.

I doubt that I'd feel as guilty about admitting the total if it weren't for the fact that the number of books that I've read isn't even half of the number of those that I haven't. I'm not sure if the fact that I read non-fiction, which typically takes longer to get through than fiction accounts for anything, because it seems to me that this would cause a sane person to simply buy fewer books. However, the fact is that honestly, I don't feel that guilty about it. I love books. God, I love them so much. Each book is an opportunity to learn about life by sharing someone else's experiences. I tend to feel lost when I don't have anything to look forward to--when I'm not planning a fantastic trip or a fabulous dinner, and I often feel overwhelmed by my desire to experience, well, everything, and knowing that there's not nearly enough time for it all. It is a great comfort to me to know that I have more than my body weight in unread books, each of them bound to fill my soul with new adventures. And, even now, in the bleakest moments following the realization of my addiction, I still swear that there is nothing, absolutely nothing in this world better than a brand new stack of unread books.

Shame On You, JetBlue. (Yeah, I Said It.)

Transcript of the letter of "concern" I just wrote to JetBlue:

Ok, I love JetBlue. You guys consistently have the lowest fares for the places I fly and the staff and crew have always exceeded my expectations for customer service. I was thrilled to hear about the partnership with Aer Lingus, which is my favorite overseas carrier--great service, great food, even their planes are cute!

The only thing that I don't like, and I mean REALLY don't like is that, in order to keep my TrueBlue points, I had to get an American Express card. It's not the fact that I had to apply for a new credit card to get them--I was ready and willing to do that! It's the fact that it's with American Express, who, in my opinion, provides the worst customer service. Along with millions of Americans, I was recently laid off. Which meant that my source of income was cut off, which meant that I had trouble making payments to my credit card. And I'm not talking about thousands of dollars worth of debt--I'm talking about small, monthly payments. $300. $25. $90. When I lost my job, I called Visa immediately and explained the situation, and asked what they could do to help me. (I had about $1500 worth of debt on that card that I had been working to pay off at the time I lost my job.) They bent over BACKWARDS to help--cancelled late fees and adjusted my rate. American Express could not be bothered to help--they've only made the problem worse, tacking on another $30 late fee when it took me an extra two days after my billing cycle ended to scrape together the $350 that it took to pay off my purchases that month. When I called to explain my situation, they even had the audacity to not only refuse to help, but to condescendingly tell me that I would "be hoping things would turn around for me." I'm sorry, but have you watched the news lately? Things aren't going to turn around for me, or any of the other millions of Americans who've recently lost their jobs anytime soon. What irks me the most is that I was never irresponsible with my credit card, and I'm not sitting on about $9,000 worth of credit card debt, which is the national average. No, I'm lying awake at night trying to figure out how I can make the $30 payment before May 13, when I'll get charged another $30.

JetBlue, I'm sorry if you've felt like this has been a tangent, but my point is that your company is one that constantly exhibits the highest quality of customer service, yet you've chosen to partner with American Express, who, at least to me, exhibits the lowest. So, from one of your most loyal customers, all I can say is: :(

Shrimp Pasta with Roasted Red Pepper and Saffron Sauce

Living off unemployment leaves one with few luxuries in life, but the smell of the water during my beautiful afternoon walk around the Jefferson Memorial and Tidal Basin left me with an unstoppable craving for seafood. Getting caught up in the moment, I texted an (employed) friend and asked if he wanted to meet me at Legal Seafoods. Very quickly after, I came to my senses and realized that, regardless of the fact that I do deserve to be rewarded every so often, I simply could not afford to splurge on a seafood dinner. Fortunately, my friend already had other plans, and I was left alone. (Due to my irrational fear of dining alone, I know that my wallet is always safe when someone is unable to meet me for dinner or drinks.) On my walk back to the Metro, I did my best to shelve that seafood craving, only to be hit with a sudden inspiration when I remembered the Roasted Red Pepper and Saffron Sauce that had been sitting in my freezer for several months, waiting for a "special occasional." I decided to improvise my favorite seafood dish (Pasta with Salmon in a Cream Sauce) by using the frozen shrimp I had splurged on at Whole Foods several weeks before when I decided to make jumbalaya. On the way home, I bought some smoked salmon, a bag of baby arugula, a bottle of Newman's Own Raspberry and Walnut Vinaigrette and some toasted walnuts. The sauce was runnier than I'd remembered, so I added some flour after heating it up, and cooked the pasta while I peeled the shrimp. Once I realized how much more expensive peeled and de-veined shrimp are, I became a lot less grossed out by their little exoskeletons! When the pasta was ready, I poured in the sauce and let it marinate for a few minutes while the shrimp cooked and I cut up the salmon. I threw the salad together and poured a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and sat down to enjoy this wonderful meal. As I waited for The Real Housewives of New York City came on, I became unbelievably proud of the fact that I'd prepared this beautiful gourmet meal in less than twenty minutes and mostly with ingredients I had lying around my own kitchen. Shrimp pasta runs between $17-25 in most restaurants, the tip and a glass of wine could easily push the bill past $30, and I'd probably be too much of a pig to save some for leftovers.

When I think about how much money I spent on restaurants before I became interested in cooking, it really makes me sick. In order to save money, I tried to go back to my college staples--frozen vegetables, yogurt mixed with granola, frozen chicken breasts...but after tasting so much good food, I couldn't go back to eating those same, boring meals, knowing what yummy treats lied waiting just around the corner. Realizing that I wanted to look forward to every meal, I threw myself into the world of fine cooking. I've been continually shocked to see how much money it has saved me, despite the cost of ingredients. Building a kitchen can be expensive in the beginning, and my grocery bills for one meal usually cost about as much as I would have spent one one dinner and a drink. It can look expensive, but the difference is that, buying ingredients from the store for one dish, you'll have enough for 4-5 meals. Think about it--lunch for a week for $25! It's easy to freeze leftovers and use ingredients, especially ones like shrimp, interchangeably. Chances are you won't use that whole can of chicken broth, or the whole onion, but I can think of very few dishes that don't call for chicken broth or onions. In fact, the only reason I thought to add roasted red peppers to this sauce was because I needed to use one I had leftover. See what I'm getting at?

Next time you're ready to pamper yourself and can't afford to eat out, try this!

Roasted Red Pepper and Saffron Sauce (adapted from Tapas by Suanna Tee)

2/3 cup dry white wine
2/3 cup chicken or fish stock
large pinch saffron threads
1 roasted red pepper
2/3 cup light cream
squeeze of lemon juice
salt and pepper to taste

Put the wine, chicken stock and saffron into a pan and let simmer for 15 minutes. Puree the roasted red pepper, and add it to the simmering sauce. Remove from heat and add the cream, squeeze of lemon and salt and pepper to taste. The flavor of this sauce is enhanced by the juice from shrimp or scallops. You may add (cooked) shrimp or scallops to the sauce before putting in the roasted red pepper, if you wish, or cook the sauce separately and drizzle it over the shrimp or scallops later. This is wonderful with angel hair pasta and smoked salmon. (The smoked salmon adds a delicious, full salty flavor--I don't think baked or sauteed salmon would be as good.)