At Mahane Yehuda Market, a short walk from our Jerusalem hotel, my eyes are drawn to copious mounds of halva, which we've sampled at hotel breakfasts.
Decorated with almonds or pistachios or coated with dense layers of dark chocolate, halva is made from egg whites, sesame seeds and sugar syrup. The Yiddish word, halva, which appeared in the English language around 1840, is derived from the Turkish term, helwa. This in turn had its origins in the Arabic word, halwa, which means sweet.
Walking through cluttered market alleys, I discover that this linguistic diversity applies to both stallholders and visitors to the market.
Selecting a tub of rosewater-flavoured Turkish delight, sprinkled generously with icing sugar, I discover it is called lokhum in Armenian, but in Israel and Bosnia and Herzegovina it is referred to as rahat lokum. This is also the term used for Turkish delight on mainland Turkey.
My thoughts turn to the writings of AA Gill. When asked what he liked to see when travelling, Gill quipped, "I always say the market. I want to see where the women buy their vegetables. It is as true a reflection of the people it serves as anything; what they have, don't have, what they make and import."
Sweeping past generous displays of dried apricots and sun-dried raisins, I'm reminded of the seven foods often associated with Israel: wheat, barley, grapes, figs, pomegranates, olives (oil) and dates (honey).
Tempted by the date honey, one of my travelling companions chooses a bottle, hoping it won't leak inside her suitcase on the journey home. I settle for gift boxes of Medjool dates.
Travelling south to Jerusalem from the Lake of Galilee, we had passed a profusion of date palms, thriving in dry, arid regions. I'm told by a stall holder at The Shuk, an alternative name for this market, that date plantations are an attractive option for farmers.
Despite their thirst for water, they're less labour-intensive than vegetables. Dates also have a longer shelf-life of 12 to 18 months.
IN THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE
On this weekday, I see local women carefully selecting freshly baked challah, the traditional bread eaten at the Sabbath meal. In South Africa, we're aware of the plaited kitke loaf, used for this purpose.
A few days earlier, at a traditional meal in the town of Nazareth, we had dipped chunks of this bread in hummus or Za'atar, a mixture of olive oil, mid-eastern herbs (such as ground dried thyme, oregano and marjoram) mixed with toasted sesame seeds and salt.
At a stall opposite a coffee shop in the shuk, I buy a bottle of olive oil to remind me of my time in this interesting market.
That morning we had spent time in the Garden of Gethsemane, in the company of old olive trees, some thought to be over 900 years old, laden with green and dark-purple fruit. I discover that an olive tree can regenerate itself from the roots after being cut down.
In his essay, "The Market-Driven Truth", Gill writes that after a visit to a market, you can "examine the rewards of your forage, the amulets of pilgrimage. Oh I didn't get much - just this artichoke, because I liked the colour. Oh well, we got this marvellous chèvre. The man said it was made with his grandmother's goats."
The next day on the bus, the rewards of our visit to Mahane Yehuda Market, established in 1887 on Jaffa street, are shared with our travelling companions: fresh figs, dried apricots, walnuts and plenty of humorous stories.
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