Moroccan Spice Blend

Thanksgiving 2023. The third consecutive year at Bobby's house. The first with Ava. The first where I am (almost) a homeowner — the closing is next month. The first where James's goat pepper soup is on the menu. The first where Daniel's family sends bibingka from Pearland. The table keeps growing. The food keeps evolving. The family keeps expanding. This is how traditions work: they don't stay still. They grow or they die.

Twenty-five people this year. Tyler and Jessica drove from Midland. Emma carried Ava in a car seat and set her on the kitchen counter, which I allowed because nothing bad is allowed to happen to Ava in my house. Lily and James arrived with the goat pepper soup — a massive pot of it, fragrant with habanero and calabash nutmeg and the specific aroma of West African cooking that I've come to associate with James. Mai arrived with spring rolls. Linh brought wine for everyone else and sparkling water for me.

The turkey. Fish sauce lemongrass brine, cherry wood smoke, five hours. I've made this turkey three years running and it gets better every time because the brine ratio is now perfect: one cup fish sauce, half cup salt, quarter cup sugar, four stalks lemongrass crushed, three gallons water. The skin was the color of mahogany and shattered when you cut it. The breast meat was moist enough to make you angry at every dry turkey you'd ever been served. I carved it at the table and the room went quiet again. Year three of the quiet. I'll take it every time.

Ava was passed around the table like a living centerpiece. Everyone held her. Everyone talked to her. Mai held her longest and whispered in Vietnamese — I caught fragments: something about Saigon, something about the boat, something about how far we've come. She was telling Ava the family story. She was making sure, even though Ava is three months old and understands none of it, that the story is being told. That it doesn't stop with us. That it goes on.

I said grace this year. Mai usually does it, but she looked at me and nodded, and I stood up and said: "We came here with nothing. Look what we have." Mai's words from last year. She heard them come back to her from her son's mouth and she put her hand over her heart and that was Thanksgiving.

Every year the turkey teaches me something, and what it has taught me above everything else is that the spice work is the story — the brine, the rub, the fragrance that hits people before they even find a seat. James’s goat pepper soup filled the kitchen with habanero and calabash nutmeg and I found myself reaching for my own spice jar instinctively, the way you reach for something familiar when everything around you is beautifully new. This Moroccan spice blend isn’t what I used on the turkey, but it’s the same idea: a few carefully balanced aromatics that, together, smell like intention — like someone who knows exactly what they want the table to feel like.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 5 minutes | Servings: 12 (about 1/4 cup total)

Ingredients

2 teaspoons ground cumin
2 teaspoons sweet paprika
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper (adjust to heat preference)
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom

Instructions

Combine. Add all spices to a small bowl. Stir thoroughly until evenly blended and no streaks remain.
Taste and adjust. Rub a small pinch between your fingers and smell it — then taste. Add a touch more cayenne for heat or cinnamon for warmth based on your preference.
Store. Transfer to a small airtight jar or spice container. Store in a cool, dry place away from direct sunlight for up to 3 months.
Use. Rub onto chicken, lamb, turkey, or root vegetables before roasting. Stir into braises, soups, or yogurt-based marinades. Use 1 to 1 1/2 teaspoons per pound of protein as a starting point.

Nutrition (per serving)

Moroccan Spice Blend — The Fragrance That Carries a Table Forward