Back in the UK, I used to have a tagine. Lovely thing: red-glazed, almost too tall for the oven, with those splendid proportions that allow the conical lid to do its magic drippy thing and steam the food below. I doubt if I used it once a year, but it looked grand on the shelf there.
Out here? No tagine, and I'm not in active pursuit of one, because see above under "once a year". Granted it might be more often here, because I cook more dinners for numbers of people, bendy or otherwise, but even so.
Still, I am fond of tagine-type dishes, Moroccan spicings, that sort of thing: so last night I totally faked it.
Boneless chicken, sizzle-sizzle in olive oil to get some colour on. Chicken out of the pan, sliced onion in, sizzle-sizzle. Garlic, ginger. Ground ginger, cumin, turmeric, cinnamon (less of the cinnamon, because a little is plenty). Fresh mint leaves. Chicken back in, sploosh of chicken stock, squeeze of honey, handful of dried apricots. Simmer simmer. Lots of chopped cilantro, scatter of toasted almonds. Done.
With herby saffron rice and roasted brussels? A feast fit for m'wife.