We tied off our camels on the outskirts of town. We’d been riding for several days with our guide Hameed. A sandstorm was coming, and he’d decided to take us to his home to wait it out. It was August, and the temperature had climbed to over 110°F in the shade. Merzouga was a dusty village tucked up against the five hundred foot tall Erg Chebbi Sand Dunes, the gateway to the Sahara Desert in the south of Morocco.
Hameed disappeared into town to coordinate logistics. Desperate for shade, we stumbled into a stand of date palms and knelt by one of the stout trunks. A dirt trough bisected the grove and gurgled with fast moving water.
Sun-painted shadows lay solid along the ground, unmoving in the still air. Luckily, the open irrigation ditch cooled and dampened the atmosphere as it lingered in the palm canopy. I put my hand in the water. It felt ice-cold to the touch. A startled frog hopped away disappearing into the diagonal shadows made by the fronds.
Hameed returned, and we walked into the middle of town, with its lone power line sagged low along the dirt road, and the rooftops shimmered with heatwave. The sky was already turning orange with the advancing sandstorm. A block from his family home, we stumbled into the beating heart of a Berber wedding.
Dozens of villagers stood around the edges of a small walled home. Although we were crashing the party unannounced, a man immediately took my hand and pulled me into the compound, motioning that our group sit on the ground near the eldest members of the bridal party. Children and veiled women sat in every free spot on the floor. One ancient man sat in the only chair. The air was humid and strong with the smell of people, farm animals and dirt.
The bride, her hands stained with intricate henna paisleys, sat on a box draped in brightly colored rugs. Her hands nervously clasped around a family heirloom, she was flanked by her mother and grandmother. I couldn’t tell her age because she wore a floor length, white drape and a vibrant headdress that looked not unlike an overturned handbag. Her youthful eyes were only partially visible behind red and yellow embroidered stripes.
Outside, we could hear the groom and his entourage approach. He too was clad in white robes with a white turban wrapped around his head and covering his mouth. Across his chest was a multicolored sash of reds, blues, green and yellows. The groom led a parade of family and friends dressed in their cleanest clothes, followed by a ragtag pack of dusty town children, and a few stray dogs. They stopped outside the home–and as if by magic–the groom’s best man appeared holding a skittish lamb by a bit of rope, seemingly too short for the job.
With the husband-to-be in position in the street, we were ushered outside so that the bride could be brought to meet her future husband, presumably for the first time. As she walked into the street, the entire village encircled the new couple, and eager spectators pushed and shoved to catch a glimpse. By now, the mob had erupted into song, drumming, and clapping. Dogs barked. Children laughed.
The sheep was brought into the middle of the circle, and laid on its side. The singing, the heat, the dust, the body odor of so many excited people made it hard to concentrate. I felt a bit faint. My stomach turned. But I refused to look away.
I reached blindly for my camera when a determined looking man grabbed me by the wrist and brought me to kneel in front of the animal for the perfect shot. Maybe he thought I was the wedding photographer. I was so close that I could smell the grassy scent of the wool. I could see the sheep’s nostrils flare against the dirt and blow dust into the air with each exhale.
The groomsman leaned down and stroked the animal’s head and neck while he whispered a prayer in its ear. Despite the increasing tempo of the drumming and the shrills of singing, the sheep immediately relaxed. It’s breath slowed. It’s weight shifted. Two more men bent over to hold the animal in place, although it no longer seemed necessary. Someone handed the groomsman a knife. A few of the children covered their eyes. He found his mark, and the crowd erupted with ululations.
That animal would go to feed more than 100 celebrants. Not a morsel would be wasted. Not one village belly would go hungry. The party would go on all night.
Lamb as Celebration
I love lamb. Maybe because it’s long been a symbol of celebration, ceremony, and sacrifice. The nomadic peoples I’ve been lucky enough to spend time with hold the animal in special reverence, reserving eating it for moments of significance—feasts, weddings, and communal gatherings—where it embodies abundance and gratitude.
Or maybe I love lamb because it’s so literary. It’s woven into the fabric of biblical scripture, mythical stories, ancient rites, and pastoral traditions. Lamb is allegory, metaphor, symbolism, not to mention delicious. It represents sacrifice, purity, trust, truth.
It also doesn’t hurt that roasting a whole lamb over fire is to create a spectacle, a meal that is as much about the anticipation as it is about the eating. And every bite connects us not only to the land, or to the ancients, but also to each other in a way that few feasts can.
So when my friend Farmer Erik called to say he was selling a six-month old ram raised on alfalfa and veggies from his organic farm, I saw it as a sign. It was time to break bread and to eat meat together again.
So, last Saturday, I rose before dawn, and wrapped my kitchen table in plastic trash bags. For eight hours of devotion, I seasoned, skewered, basted, and roasted this beautifully raised 60 lbs of meat. By 3pm, my backyard held nearly one hundred congregants with their potluck offerings. The pool teeming with their hungry children.
And on the sixth hour, the lamb rested. It was the centerpiece of our not-so-sacred Last Supper of Summer. And as the magnums of wine flowed, and the fresh loaves passed, we didn’t need a preacher to tell us this was a miracle. The meat spoke for itself, and its sermon was delicious.
RECIPE: Whole Lamb Rotisserie; The Perfect Spit
Whole animal roasting takes confidence, finesse, and a bit of luck. Most of all, it takes time. There are so many variables that can go wrong. Too much heat; not enough seasoning; equipment failure; too little cook time; too much. The only given is that with enough salt and smoke, the lamb will always be delicious. It’s just that some efforts and techniques are more delicious than others.
So, although I wouldn’t call myself an expert, I am offering the following operating manual for a successful rotisserie lamb roast, including ingredients, tools, and step-by-step instructions for sourcing, seasoning, securing, basting and heating. Enjoy the fruits of my labors, and my love of lamb.
Sourcing
First off, you need to find the meat. Procuring a whole lamb is easier than you might think. My local organic veggie farmer raises 4-8 lambs a year in the middle of Southern California, processing them at different ages, always making sure to keep a breeding pair for the next season. There are also several distributors, retailers and processors who sell whole animals in Southern California.
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