Ah, salads. They bring me great joy. I can’t imagine a single day going by without munching on something crisp and lemony. I’ve decided to share some of my favorite salads, the crave-worthy ones, that are twists on old favorites.
It has been a frozen February. The air has a biting iciness to it and it has sent me straight into the arms of my kitchen for some warmth and goodness. It’s been six months since my last post—I have been in lack of inspiration. Probably because I’m on a complex gluten-free, dairy-free and egg-free diet which has limited me tremendously, but with time I have grown accustomed to it, and I have found my ways to culinary satisfaction.
Vanilla strawberry cake has been a long-time favorite of mine. It has the ability to transport me back to my childhood, specifically to the mornings following my birthday when all I had for breakfast was strawberry cake. I remember savoring every slice as I watched the cake diminish in size at the back of the refrigerator. (more…)
In every culture, grandmothers are revered, respected and loved. And in most cultures they are the gatekeepers to a world of good food and secret family recipes.
It was in my grandmother’s kitchen that I started my search for good food. Among the clatter of her ancient pots and pans I was first introduced to the crunch of the pickle, the aroma of white pillowy rice and the taste of extra virgin olive oil.
I don’t know why many people haven’t spent their idle childhood hours toasting near an oven or whisking egg whites to soft peaks, but I do know that it’s never too late for anything.
It was a stroke of genius that brought Beit Sitti (which literally translates to “my grandmother’s house”) to life. Beit Sitti, a little culinary gem nestled in a hill overlooking the heart of Amman is a place where everyone is invited into the proverbial grandmother’s kitchen. People can learn how to cook traditional Middle Eastern fare from recipes that have been passed down for generations.
Last Friday I spent my morning witnessing the preparation of a feast of Arabic brunch delicacies. Surrounded by freshly made hummus and foul, crispy hot falafel and freshly baked manaeesh, I was in brunch heaven. This brunch happens every Friday under canopies of ancient fig and mulberry trees. If cooking isn’t your thing then you can sip ice-cold lemonade and savor the view of old houses and pine trees lining the adjacent hills while you wait for your food.
Beit Sitti hosts daily cooking classes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Guests can choose to cook a full four-course meal from a list of traditional Arabic dishes.
To whet your appetite and sharpen your cooking skills visit: http://www.beitsittijo.com
Most of my memories of summer are linked to things I ate and how I ate them. Under my grandmother’s apricot tree, I would wait as she cooked a fresh batch of jam from the summer’s ripest apricots.
While waiting, she gave me the most important job of all: extracting the kernels out of the apricot stones. I would hammer carefully, breaking open the stones to reveal the bittersweet white kernel hidden within. I loved to eat the kernels, they had the most delicate texture: the soft-crunch. Of course the kernels were meant for the jam, but I always managed so slip some out of the pile.
I would eat the jam piping hot, straight out of the pot. Smelling like fruity caramel, I would slather it onto some toast with a tiny slab of butter. Apricot jam is my breakfast comfort food. It reminds me of childhood, but mostly of how the simplest things can be wonderful. Hot jam on toast, nothing beats that.
For this post, I collaborated with my friend Ali Saadi who gave me invaluable tips on photography and lighting and who let me use his treasure trove of photography equipment.
Recipe
For this recipe, make sure you use the ripest apricots, they’re the one’s that are almost falling apart. They are sweeter and their ripeness gives the jam the texture and warm flavor it needs. Here’s my mother’s recipe. Enjoy!
Prep. Time 1 hour (excluding marination time)
Makes 5 medium jars
Ingredients
(for this recipe, make sure you do not throw away the apricot stones)
16 cups ripe halved apricots with stones removed (about 800g – 1 kg)
10 cups granulated sugar
1 lemon, squeezed
kernels from apricot stones
5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Method
- In a bowl, place the halved apricots and pour the sugar on them.
- Lightly toss to cover all the apricots and set aside. Leave the apricots overnight to marinate in the sugar and release their juices.
- Using a mallet or a hammer, break open the apricot stones and extract the white kernels. Set them aside.
- Place the apricot and sugar mixture in a pot and cook over medium heat until it comes to a boil.
- Stir in the lemon juice and apricot kernels.
- Reduce heat and simmer while stirring for 20 – 30 minutes, or until the apricots melt and the jam has a thick, sticky consistency.
- Cool the jam for 1 hour, then pour into jars.
- Pour 1 tablespoon of olive oil on the surface of the jam in each jar and leave uncovered until completely cool.
- Seal the jars and set aside unrefrigerated.
*Once you open the jar refrigerate after use.
Most people associate Dubai with towering skyscrapers, huge malls and exotic fish held captive in large aquariums. When I think of Dubai I think of fresh fish, you know the edible kind? This March, I found myself back in the place where I spent a few years of my childhood.
I was ecstatic to be back in the place I once called home. I spent my days soaking up the sun on the beach, zipping along the Sheikh Zayed Highway and visiting the biggest and best Dubai had to offer. Sadly, the shiny new Dubai felt alien to me.
Awash with nostalgia I decided to visit the places that I associated with the Dubai I knew. I drove down the Beach Road and visited my old neighborhood. I walked along the beach and watched as young boys standing on the rocks of the Dubai Marine cast their fishing lines into the sea. I shared their anticipation as they reeled their lines in waiting to size up their catch. With the smell of the salt and humidity I started to feel more at home.
My next stop was the Fish Market. I must admit that I did not visit it regularly when I was living in Dubai, but for some reason, the memory of the Fish Market, which sells fresh fruit, vegetables and just caught fish, was etched in my memory. And so, feeling like I was back on home turf I ventured past the pristine buildings and manicured lawns towards Al-Shindagha to visit Dubai’s Fish Market.
As soon as I stepped into the market my senses were assaulted with the smells, sounds and colors. With every fruit on display (exotic and otherwise), beautiful vegetables and the colorful fish of the Arabian Gulf, the market was a feast for the eyes.
I always compared Jordan to neighboring countries and took pride in the unity that Jordanians have; today, however, I find that that unity is wavering. I used to think that our identity was a difficult one to define, but after exploring Jordan and its cuisine I was able to truly understand what it means to be Jordanian. And so, at a time like this, I wonder why people have chosen to forget what it is that makes Jordan our home.
لطالما قارنت الأردن بالبلاد العربية المجاورة و كنت أفتخر بوحدة الأردنيين، اليوم أجد أن هذه الوحدة تتزعزع. ولطالما أعتقدت أن هويتنا يصعب تحديدها، ولكن بعد إستكشاف الأردن و المطبخ الأردني بدأت أفهم ماهية أن تكون أردنياً. و في مثل هذا الوقت أتعجب كيف يمكن أن ينسى الناس ما الذي يجعل الأردن بيتنا
My culinary journey started in Amman and extended all over Jordan. On this journey I ate, cooked and most importantly, I learned. I met men and women of different heritage, religion, background and race and despite their differences I came to realize that they all shared a love for one single thing: food.
إن رحلتي في فن الطبخ خطت خطواتها الأولى في عمان ثم إمتدت إلى كل أنحاء الأردن. في هذه الرحلة تذوقت، شاركت بالطبخ و الأهم من كل ذلك تعلمت. و قد قابلت الرجال و النساء من كل أطياف المجتمع و خلفياته سواء كانت عرقية، دينية أو أوصولية، و بالرغم من كل هذه الإختلافات لمست حبهم المشترك للطعام
Every teta, mama or person I visited on my journey shared their version and interpretation of what Jordanian cuisine is. Historically, the Jordanian pantry was very limited, with scarcely a few items lining its shelves: rice or wheat, dairy products, meat and the few vegetables that grew in the wild. That got me thinking about the modern Jordanian kitchen and what it has become.
كل جدة ووالدة قابلت شاركتني بحكايتها الخاصة عن المطبخ الأردني. تاريخياً النملية الأردنية كانت محدودة ببضع مأكولات تملأ رفوفها، مما دعاني بالتفكير بالمطبخ الأردني المعاصر و كيف تتطور
I realized that all the dishes that define the flavor of Jordan have been brought into the country by people who have made this place their home. So, that was when I truly came to understand the culinary landscape of Jordan and thus, its identity. All of a sudden, dishes started to make sense; the originally Egyptian Mloukiheh has become Jordanian, the Syrian kubbeh found its home in Amman, we find ourselves unable to choose between Msakhan and Mansaf, the taste of the Circassian Shibs-o-basta lingers on our palate when we are homesick, and the Iraqis and Lebanese are still trying to determine who brought Waraq Dawali to Jordan first.
فإستنتجت أن كل الوصفات و الأطباق التي تحدد نكهة الأردن جاءت إلى هذا البلد مع العائلات التى إختارت الأردن موطناً لها. و هكذا إستطعت أن أفهم المطبخ الأردني و هوييته. و فجأة إنحل اللغز، فالملوخية المصرية أصبحت أردنية و الكبة السورية لاقت منزلها في عمان و وجدنا أنفسنا نحتار بين المسخن و المنسف و أصبح طعم الشبس وباسطا عالقاً في خيالنا عندما نشعر بالحنين للوطن، و أما العراقيين و اللبنانيين ما زالوا يختلفوا عن من أحضر ورق الدوالي إلى الأردن أولاً
And that was when it finally hit me. It was simple. These colorful dishes made their way into Jordan and created our culinary identity. They were welcomed with open arms, and they have now become a part of each and every family. They are dishes that we love and that we cannot, not even for a moment, imagine our lives without. What I learned is that the Jordanian identity does not really differ from its kitchen. Let us not forget who we are, and what Jordan has come to represent. For without all the people who have made Jordan their home, Jordan wouldn’t really be.
و أخيراً فهمت و بكل بساطة أن كل هذه الأطباق بأنواعها و ألوانها و نكهاتها المختلفة وجدت طريقها إلى الأردن و جمعتنا. فلقد تم إستقبالها بشهية مفتوحة و حب لتذوق الطعام و أصبحت كل عائلة تستمتع بتناولها و أخذ كل طبق منها حيزاً في عقلنا و قلبنا. هي أطباق لا نمكن أن نستغني عنها ولو لثانية. و تعلمت أن الهوية الأردنية لا تختلف عن مطبخها. دعونا لا ننسى من نحن و من يمثل الأردن، فالأردن لن يكون كما هو حقيقةً بدون هؤلأ الذين إختاروه، أحبوه و عاشوا فيه
Recipes to come…
I was having lunch with some friends yesterday when the subject of lentils came up. Some thought they were a waste of calories, and others thought they were so healthy that they would go for lentils whenever they got the chance. I, for one, love lentils, but to be fair I don’t love just any lentils, I love red lentils that make lentil soup.
“It’s probably the most widely ordered soup,” said one of my friends, and I would probably agree. When it’s cold, and when I’m feeling a bit homesick nothing can remedy the situation better than a bowl of hot lentil soup.
I don’t know what it is about the soup that makes me feel better; drinking does in fact comfort me, but I think the process of making it that is the most powerful.
Cooking is my way of unwinding and getting centered, but come to think of it, it’s not that either. I think it’s the fact that so many healthy local ingredients go into lentil soup that I know for certain that I would make my mother proud. It’s also the sort of soup that anyone can make.
You can make a thick soup and enjoy it with slices of bread and butter and make a meal out of it. Or, you can thin it down and pair it with a salad and a grilled piece of meat. Whatever you do, lentil soup is a hearty, heartwarming dish that is packed with protein and vitamins.
Recipe
Time (1 hour)
Serves 5
Ingredients
- 2 cups red lentils
- 2 tbsp corn oil
- 5 cups boiled water
- 1 medium onion, finely chopped
- 1 leek, trimmed and finely chopped
- 1 carrot, peeled and cubed
- 1 zucchini, cubed
- 1 potato, peeled and cubed
- 1 celery stalk, chopped
- 1 tsp ground cumin
- 1 tsp salt
- ½ tsp freshly ground black pepper
- 1 pinch turmeric
- 1 loaf Arabic/ pita bread cut into small squares (2cmx2cm)
- ½ cup fresh chopped parsley
- 1 lemon, cut into four wedges
Tools
- 1 pot
- 1 wooden spoon
- 1 baking sheet
- Hand blender
Method
- Preheat oven to 160C.
- Wash and soak the lentils in cold water rinsing out any starch in them. Once rinsed, place the lentils in the sieve and let drain.
- In a large pot heat the oil and add the chopped onions and leeks. Sautee until soft.
- Add the rest of the vegetables and sauté for a few minutes.
- Add the lentils and the boiling water
- Finally, stir in the cumin, salt, pepper and turmeric and cover.
- Simmer on low heat for about 30-45 minutes or until the carrots and potatoes are tender and ready.
- Place the bread squares on a baking sheet and toast in the oven until golden and crispy. About 6-10 minutes. You can also use the grilling option instead.
- Remove soup from heat and puree it with a hand blender until smooth and creamy. If you feel that the soup is too thick add some boiling water until the soup reaches the desired consistency.
- Garnish the soup with some fresh parsley and serve with some toasted bread and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice.
Ever since I read the story of the farmer who had a giant turnip growing in his vegetable patch, I knew that turnips were special. As a child, I didn’t really understand why. With time, I grew, and my relationship with food changed. All of a sudden there was room for turnips and I finally understood them.
With the hue of a beetroot and the tang of a radish the turnip has burrowed its way into the Middle Eastern kitchen. We welcomed it with open arms— stuffing it, pickling it and even giving it a star role in soups and stews. My mother went a step further and dedicated an entire section of her vegetable patch to turnips. As a result we found new ways to eat turnips; one innovation was a crisp salad my mother made from turnip leaves (turnip greens) topped with turnip root shavings. She dressed it simply with fresh lemon juice, extra virgin olive oil and a sprinkle of fleur de sel, in reverse order of course. The salad was satisfying in a way that shamed all other green salads.
But I digress. This post is dedicated to pickled turnips and other winter roots. Along with beets, turnips are pickled as part of our winter repertoire of savories and preserves. This recipe is a classic that is rooted in my grandmother’s kitchen notebook and one which we have continued to use, time and time again, in spite of our innovations.
Recipe
Ingredients
- 3 beets, boiled
- 2 beets, fresh
- 1kg turnips
- ¼ head cauliflower (optional)
- 4-5 garlic cloves
- 1 sprig fresh rosemary (optional)
- 1 green chili (optional)
- 5 tbsp coarse salt
- 2 liters cold mineral water
Tools
- Knife
- Chopping board
- Sieve
- 2 large bowls
- 1 medium sized pickling jar, sterilized
Method
- Boil the 3 beets until well-cooked (about 1 hour)
- Trim the turnips of any greenery or remains of the roots. If certain areas of the turnips are bruised, peel away the skin. Make sure to keep as much of the skin as you can on the turnips, this gives them a crunch even after they are pickled
- Slice the turnips into semi-circles (about ½ cm thick), or into large cubes (approx 1cm by 1 cm)
- Place the turnips in the sieve and sprinkle 2 tbsp of salt on them. Toss them to make sure the salt has coated all of them.
- Place the sieve with the turnips on top of a bowl, and let the water drain. I usually add a plate to weigh the turnips down and to allow the water to drain properly. Let stand for about 2 – 3 hours
- Peel the beets and cut them in the same way you cut the turnips
- Slice the garlic cloves in half (lengthwise)
- Peel the cooked beets and cut them (see steps 3 and 4)
- In a bowl pour 2 liters of water and add the salt, stirring with a spoon until all the salt has dissolved
- Once the turnips have drained their water, discard it
- Place the turnips, beets, cauliflower, garlic, rosemary and chili in the jar, layering them as you go along
- Fill the jar with the salted water making sure it just covers the vegetables
- Pour 2 tbsp of vinegar concentrate (acetic acid) on top and seal the jar for two weeks
In case no one noticed, I’m obsessed with pomegranates.
I had given myself one year to find the perfect recipe for pomegranate molasses. I didn’t need the year. I barely needed the six weeks it took me to find it either. The recipe, so simple, was sitting right under my nose. I had started my search with my grandmother, who admitted that even though she was supposed to know how to make it, didn’t. I found myself in a pickle. If my grandmother, who was famous for her preserves, did not know the secret to making pomegranate molasses, no one would. Again, I was wrong. I found the recipe in her sister’s kitchen in Damascus. She had jars of dark purple molasses lining the shelves of her pantry.
The recipe according to her was something that I should have known all on my own. “It’s so simple!” she said. And it was.
All I had to do was boil the juice and reduce it to syrup. Don’t be fooled though, this recipe does require a great deal of manual labor. Has anyone ever peeled three kilograms worth of pomegranates? It took me three hours to pry out every last seed from its nook, and I was left with stained fingers.
Stained fingers aside, I made the molasses, and successfully I might add. I compared it to a bottle I had recently purchased from an Arabic specialty store that shall remain unnamed. The store bought molasses was dark brown in comparison to my freshly simmered concoction; it also lacked the tang that the homemade version had. With my molasses bottled, I was ready to put it to use: my salads (especially fattoush) now had the kick they needed, sautéed spinach, fried kibbeh and pureed eggplants now have a new companion that will make them taste… different.
Recipe
Prep. Time 2 hours (plus peeling time)
Makes 2 cups
Ingredients
- 3kgs sour pomegranates (10 cups pomegranate seeds or 5 cups fresh unsweetened pomegranate juice)
- 1 lemon wedge (a quarter of a lemon)
- 1 – 3 tablespoons caster sugar (optional: depending on how sweet you want your pomegranate molasses to be)
- 1 tablespoon olive oil
Tools
- Blender
- Sieve
- Tablespoon
- Wooden spoon
- Small-medium cooking pot
- Funnel
- Sterilized bottle or jar
Method
- Peel the pomegranates and make sure that the seeds have none of the bitter white skin attached to them.
- Place the seeds in the blender, and run the blender for about 1 minute or until the seeds have been pureed into juice. Make sure you do not over blend the seeds because the hard pips will become difficult to separate from the juice.
- Run the pomegranate juice through a sieve, stirring it with a spoon to ensure that all the juice drains through. Discard the pulp.
- Rinse and dry the sieve and run the juice through it again to ensure that no bitter pieces of the pips are left in it.
- Pour the juice into a pot and add the lemon wedge. Simmer on very low heat. If you would like to have a sweeter tasting molasses, add the sugar at this point making sure it completely dissolves. I personally prefer my molasses to be tangy and sour, so I do not add any sugar to it.
- Continue to simmer the juice (about one hour), stirring it with the wooden spoon to ensure that none of it caramelizes and sticks to the edges of the pot.
- Once the juice thickens has a more syrupy consistency, it will be ready. The juice should be reduced to about 2 cups.
- Turn off the heat, and pour the molasses through a sieve and into a heatproof container. Let cool for a few minutes.
- Pour the molasses into the sterilized bottle/ jar using a funnel. Leave the bottle/ jar uncovered until the molasses completely cools.
- Once cool, pour the olive oil into the bottle/ jar to seal the molasses and to ensure that no bacteria/ fungus buds on the surface. Seal with the designated cap and store in the fridge. The molasses should keep for about 3 weeks to 1 month.
My trip to Damascus came with no expectations. It was not my first trip there, but for some reason, every scene in Damascus was full of the charm that one only encounters during the first visit to a new city.
I wore the soles of my shoes out on the cobblestone streets of Old Damascus, discovering hidden alleyways, old churches and a million different souks. I found candy factories that would have remained hidden if the smell of hot melting sugar did not bid me to look past the green canopies and non-descript doors left ajar (I’m sure they were left open for wanderlusts seeking all that is sweet to take a peek inside). I rediscovered childhood treats I used to devour by the bag: pastel shoe-shaped sweets that were half hard candy and half marshmallow, colorful lokum and shiny black licorice pellets. I also stumbled upon a specialty shop that makes candy Christmas tree ornaments, from colorful sugar flowers, to birdcages and ornate sugar eggs. Covered in glitter and dust I wonder how I ate those when I was a kid.
My trip to Damascus was filled with serendipitous findings: neroli essence that I have been on the hunt for since 2008, a recipe for pomegranate molasses, courtesy of my great aunt, and a halawa (halva) factory that reminded me of just how underrated halawa is (I had it fresh out of the oven, and it’s all I’ve been having for breakfast since!) More from the Damascene sweet front were the bags of Ghazl El-Banat that I bought; they are the Arabic version of cotton candy, laced with flour and orange blossom essence and topped with unsalted pistachios, boxes of neatly arranged mabrouma, baklava, and other nutty Arabic sweets drenched with aromatic syrups, and a tub of natef; a gooey white spread (almost like a soft marshmallow) that is used to top semolina cookies filled with pistachios called Karabeej Halab.
Damascus, a city so old it dates back to the Stone Age, has so much to offer from a cultural, historical, and culinary perspective. The souks in the old city weave a maze of smells, flavors and intricate workmanship around old mosques, palaces, churches, schools and public baths that one cannot help but imagine what the city was like once upon a time. The old city, which was heavily influenced by the Ottomans still boasts archeological relics and Ottoman traditions both in society and elsewhere: the kitchen.
I got lost in the spice souk, what the people of Damascus call the ‘bzouriyeh’, discovering new aromas and spices to uplift my dishes. I fell in love with the fabric souk, colorful and inspiring, with buttons and ribbons galore and antique fabrics that would make your grandmother cry. Last but not least, I walked down an alley riddled with brass workshops selling antiques dating back to a time beyond our imagination; this alley led me to the best lemonade of my life. Even though it was a cold December evening I risked getting a cold by tasting the zesty lemonade that was churned into a slushy in an antique ice cream machine.
I sealed my trip with one of the most memorable meals of my life. In a quaint kitchen of an old Damascene home I sampled Ottoman dishes that are on the verge of extinction and was reminded how important it is to document recipes. Last but not least, in a city not too far from Syria, I met a journalist, Carole Corm who had just published a guide book about Damascus (get it here), I bought the book and have been itching for a brand new trip to Damascus to discover new things and put this gorgeous guide to use!
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