Cultural Bites is the home for my writing, where stories, memories and recipes belong and where our conversation begins.

As we approach the Jewish New Year, a season of renewal and reflection, it invites us to pause, look back and think about what lies ahead. It is a time to turn the pages on the year just gone and begin the next chapter, carrying with us memories of those we have lost, the lessons we have learnt and the hopes for what is to come. For me, this feels particularly poignant as we put the finishing touches to Nourishing the Jewish Soul, and new stories, culinary traditions and more ideas begin to take shape.

Writing takes thought and time. When an idea pops into my head, a memory is sparked, or a festival with traditional and often ritual foods approaches, a story begins to take shape, usually helped along by a strong, freshly brewed cup of coffee. When I put pen to paper, stories come alive, memories, experiences and traditions are relived, and ideas are shared. This is the beginning of the conversation.

I often imagine the discussions this next book might inspire gathered around the table, remembering the tastes of family kitchens and sharing dishes made from recipes passed down through generations, and the nourishment, strength and comfort they bring. Perhaps it is because of my background in hospitality that I believe coffee, tea and cake should be as central to the gathering as the book itself.

Cultural Bites is my table for conversation and sharing. A place to talk about our food, what we eat, and the recipes and traditions that come from our heritage. A place to exchange ideas, discover other food cultures and maybe recognise a little of ourselves in someone else’s story.

Let me start the conversation with Nourishing the Jewish Soul, a narrative that grew from the strength I found in nourishing others in the aftermath of the devastating events of October 7, 2023. Food became a way of giving, connecting and finding purpose at a time when so much felt uncertain. The kitchen became the hub of our community, where we worked side by side each day, finding comfort in simply being together. It was there that I was reminded that food is not simply about what we eat. It carries memory, identity, tradition and belonging in times of joy, loss and hardship. It was there, in that kitchen, that the inspiration for this book came to me, and now it is almost ready to be shared.

It has taken me into Ashkenazi, Sephardi and Mizrahi kitchens across generations and communities; to Sabbath and festival tables, to traditional and ritual foods, and into grief stricken houses after the death of loved ones. Each place held family recipes, adapted but never forgotten, treasured as a lasting connection to those who no longer sit at our tables. At its heart is a simple idea: food can nourish far more that the body. It nourishes our identity, our sense of belonging and, of course, the Jewish soul.

As I move towards the last leg of this journey and with the approaching New Year, perhaps this book marks another beginning for me rather than an ending. There are always more stories to uncover, handwritten recipes to discover in the backs of cookbooks, and culinary traditions to share. In bringing together treasured stories, beautiful memories and delicious recipes, passed down through generations and communities, I sought to carry these traditions forward while keeping their stories alive. It is these small things that make us who we are.

So, pull up a chair and let me invite you to join the conversation that keeps me writing and telling the stories that matter to us all. If you would like to join me for a coffee, there is one waiting below. Every coffee helps keep Cultural Bites brewing and gives me the excuse to put the kettle on, pour another cup, and keep writing.

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Like a familiar cookbook, its pages worn and smudged from use, writing has always offered me comfort, connection and the nourishing recipe for healing.

Many years ago, whilst catering in London, I was forced to give up my thriving business due to severe complications following multiple surgeries on my leg. As I have shared in the posts after my mother’s passing last December, pain and grief are not strangers in my life, shaping the way I write.

These past weeks of slow recovery have allowed me to reflect on my books, the stories I tell, the culinary memories I preserve, and the cultural threads that tie them together. Now I feel this narrative is ready to be stirred again, and renewed with fresh flavour.

Through my own insecurity, I have never considered myself academic. Yet soon after my mother’s death, when her childhood best friend told me I should be proud of my books, likening them to a PhD thesis, each 85,000 - 95,000 words long, something shifted. I had never thought of my work in those terms before, but her words stayed with me, offering a quiet validation at a time when I needed it most.

Cultural Bites is my platform, my literary journey, the place I can explore what matters to me - food, memories, culture and identity - with the taste of Jewish heritage woven through it.

It has not always been easy to see it as the home for my writing, a place where stories can grow and flourish, and this is the right moment for this space to expand.

With the Jewish New Year approaching, and the publication of Nourishing the Jewish Soul on the horizon, I find myself thinking about all the stories, memories and culinary traditions still waiting to be shared with you.

There is so much I want to explore. Stories waiting to be written, memories of traditional recipes and familiar kitchens, of stirred pots and kneaded dough, and plenty of new ideas beginning to take shape.

So I am back, with the kettle on. A new chapter is beginning and the pages are turning again. Please join me around the table, where we can share the stories that comfort and sustain us.

I have spent the past week in Cyprus, mapping this beautiful island by its aromas and flavours, and the people who keep its food traditions alive.

Tracing the wild, cultivated and gathered landscape onto the plate, I came to understand this island through both its food and its topography. Continuing the familiar thread that runs through my writing, Cyprus, like the ancient, biblical land it echoes, reveals itself in its ingredients, what it grows, traditional dishes and the hands that shape its culinary narrative.

Meandering through the lush landscape, wild edibles and herbs protrude through nooks and crannies along the roadsides. Vines trail across trellises and pergolas and olive fruits are beginning to form. Scented flowers bloom on citrus trees, that still carry fruits from last season. From village kitchens to seaside tavernas, traditional dishes and fresh fish define the island’s table. Mediterranean flavours weave through everything, grounding each meal in the landscape it comes from. Everything resonates with my senses, stirring my curiosity for the next flavour or fragrance ahead, and another story waiting to be found.

At the end of a winding, gravel road, we arrived at the Adonis Botanic Gardens, a haven of natural beauty and wild edibles rooted in the land. Aromatic herbs spilled over stone borders, releasing bursts of scent as we rubbed their leaves between our fingers. Carob trees stood proudly with their glossy, leathery foliage, now bereft of the deep, chocolate‑rich pods that have become a sweet, earthy syrup. Delicate wild carrot flowers lift their white umbels like lace above the grasses, and having seeded themselves around disused wheelbarrows, sway gently in the breeze, Clusters of pink and magenta geraniums added splashes of colour to the borders, their soft petals carrying a sweet perfume, often distilled into an essential oil, fragrance or refreshing drink. Each plant evokes the ancient rhythms of the Mediterranean landscape and carries a culinary narrative of its own.

A visit to Sterna Winery in Kathikas revealed fresh, clean wines made from local grapes that have anchored Cypriot winemaking for generations. Grown at altitude and shaped by the dry, stony soils of the Laona plateau, Xynisteri is clean, bright, and fruity on the palate, carrying the character of its landscape. The Syrah rosé is dry and refreshing, and the red, made from Maratheftiko, is deep and rich, its flavour defined by the strength of the grape. The winery’s small cave, carved into the rock beneath the building, keeps the bottles at a steady coolness, allowing the wines to rest and develop in flavour. This is the work of a family rooted in making wines from their own land.

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From local wine tasting to cheese making with a third‑generation Cypriot cheesemaker, I found myself drawn to the parallels between these inherited crafts and the practices and traditions of my own heritage, the very thread that inspired me to write Nourishing the Jewish Soul: Shaping Identity and Culture through the Memories of Food, to be published in October.

We watched Charoula making fresh halloumi and ricotta, a technique she learned by following her mother and grandmother in their kitchens. Today she is a professional cheese maker with her own company, Ioulias, named after her 71 year old mother who still works alongside her.

Halloumi is traditionally made by warming milk and adding rennet to form the curds, cutting and heating them until they firm up, then shaping the cheese before boiling it to set its texture. Charoula’s method differed. Using 100% goats milk, she gathered the warm curds by hand, lifting them from the whey in soft, warm mounds, then pressing them firmly in a whicker basket to release the fat. The fresh halloumi was then placed in plastic bags and boiled for 30 minutes, creating the firm, springy texture that marks true Cypriot halloumi.

With its bountiful landscape, the people who tend it, and the wild edibles it yields, Cyprus becomes a culinary atlas of traditional flavours born in its kitchens.

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This holiday marks the biblical grain harvest and the shift from barley to wheat, a transition embedded throughout biblical texts and ancient agricultural law. This shift reflects the agronomic cycle that shaped the Israelite foodways and underpins the Jewish calendar itself, from Passover to Shavuot, known as ‘the Festival of Weeks”.

There are no biblical texts associating Shavuot with cheesecake, blintzes, bourekas, or malabi. Instead, the foods linked to this festival in ancient times, were freshly baked wheat loaves, roasted or parched young green wheat, early‑season barley, and the first fruits of the landscape, figs, olives, dates, pomegranates, and grapes.

The Book of Ruth, read on Shavuot unfolds right in the heart of the barley and wheat harvests, where gleaning was not symbolic but a functioning food system that ensured the landless, widows, and strangers could gather enough leftover grain to survive. Ruth’s story is grounded in this lived agrarian reality, where compassion, law, and agriculture intertwined to sustain the vulnerable and shape early foodways. Her journey is one of resilience and daily necessity, grounded in the labour of ancient kitchens and fields, where grains lay at the centre of survival. It is a story shaped by the journey from land to plate, from the gathering in the field to the grinding by hand, held together by the knowledge that each handful of grain meant another day of bread.

Through my narrative explained in Freekeh, Wild Wheat & Ancient Grains, freekeh is not an ancient grain but the ancient process. Durum wheat is harvested while still young and green, fire‑roasted in the field, and rubbed to remove the charred chaff. This early Levantine technique preserved immature grain and produced the smoky, nutrient‑dense food described in biblical sources as ‘parched grain’ or kali, linking the nutty, smoky staple of today’s Middle Eastern diet directly to the roasting and threshing practices found in the Book of Ruth. The name freekeh, derived from the Arabic verb ‘farik’ meaning ‘to rub’, reflects this final stage of rubbing the roasted wheat to remove its blackened husk.

Dairy entered Shavuot not from the Bible but from the evolving culinary culture of later Jewish life. As communities moved across different regions, climates, and cultural settings, new food customs developed around what had originally been a grain‑based harvest festival.

In the medieval period, Jews began incorporating dairy for symbolic reasons drawing on the idea of a land flowing with milk and honey and from rabbinical interpretations that likened the giving of the Torah scrolls at Mount Sinai to the nourishment received from milk. In practice, dairy often appeared as a small first course before the main meal, layering onto existing grain traditions rather than replacing them. Over time, these practical and symbolic customs spread and took root, shaping the familiar dairy‑focused Shavuot table we know today.

Despite their differences, communities across the diaspora reflect the same underlying cycle of harvest, grain processing, and seasonal eating with the ancient grains at the centre of the Shavuot table, alongside dairy customs that have become central to the modern celebration.

Through a culinary lens, Shavuot is fundamentally about grain, the thread that links our past to the present, connecting the land, culture, and memory across generations and tables. Known as “the Queen of Freekeh” and a devoted cheesecake lover, I naturally embrace both and suggest you do to this Shavuot…

Happy Holidays.

It reminds us that change unfolds gradually, shaped by time and by the generations who came before us, and that it rarely comes easily.

Every year on Seder night, as we gather to retell the story of our ancestors’ journey to freedom, we begin with the reminder that the Israelites left in such haste, with no time for their bread to rise. For the duration of the eight‑day festival we eat only unleavened bread, called matzah. Known as both the bread of affliction and the bread of freedom, the simple cracker is a paradox that sits at the heart of the table and is the culinary anchor to this festival. Placed alongside the Seder plate and its symbolic foods, the matzah becomes a physical reminder that even in times of hardship we remain resilient, sustained by hope for new beginnings

The symbolic foods arranged on the Seder plate deepen this reminder, each one reflecting a different facet of the story of the Exodus.

Bitter herbs, or maror, traditionally taken from the sting of horseradish, symbolises the harshness of suffering. Karpas, parsley or another green vegetable, is eaten as an expression of renewal and growth, dipped in salt water to recall tears of sorrow. Charoset, a fruit‑and‑nut paste made from chopped apple, walnuts, and sweet red wine, evokes both the color and texture of the mortar used in the toil imposed upon them, which when eaten with the bitter herbs, has a sweetness that is said to soften the sharpness of the pain. The roasted shank bone, or z’roa, meaning “arm” in Hebrew, is considered one of the most symbolic items on the plate, as with an “outstretched arm,” we are told, God brought the Israelites to freedom. Commonly represented by a lamb shank, it also recalls the Paschal lamb offering once brought to the Temple in Jerusalem and serves as a symbol of spring. The beitzah, a whole hard‑boiled and roasted egg, was likewise a festival offering in the Temple. Representing the cycle of life, and eaten in mourning, it offers a taste of hope and continuity for the future.

As we navigate such fractured times, these culinary symbols ground us in the understanding that hardship and hope have always shared the same table.

Each year on Seder night we extend the invitation to, “all who are hungry, let them come and eat.” It is meant as an open gesture of generosity, trust, and the comfort of knowing there is always enough food to go round. Yet this year, so many of us find ourselves wondering less about whether there is plenty of food on the table and more about whether we feel safe enough to gather around it. The emotional weight of this Pesach is hard to ignore. Hospitality feels complicated when security concerns sit close to the surface, and yet the desire for company and togetherness, to tell the story, and feel part of a community, remains a nourishing thought.

Using up my left over bread to make a bread and butter pudding for tonight’s supper, I cannot muster the same enthusiasm this year for a festival that I am usually excited to prepare and cook for. The memories are all there: the orange‑and‑pink‑rimmed dishes we brought out only for Passover, the joy of setting the festive table, my father leading the service and hiding the middle piece of matzah, the afikomen, for the children to find, and of course mum’s fried gefilte fish, the taste of tradition itself. It all feels so muted this year, the first without either of my parents, and in such challenging times.

Here’s hoping each of us finds some comfort at the table we share this Passover, wherever we are.

Purim is a festival of joy. It is predominantly about feasting, drinking, dressing up, and dancing, celebrating the Jews’ reversal of fortune and their deliverance from destruction. This year, with renewed threats and tensions with Iran, Purim’s message of resilience, courage, and unexpected redemption feels especially resonant.

The giving of food as an act of charity is one of Purim’s deep‑rooted customs, a practice that echoes our culture and identity. It reflects the same values of compassion, solidarity, and communal responsibility that lie at the core of my writing and the themes explored in my upcoming book. It tells the stories of who we are, where we come from, and the enduring strength that continues to nourish us.

This year, living in Israel with its tensions and uncertainty, I find myself struggling to make my own hamantaschen, the familiar three‑cornered symbolic pastries whose folded shape hides a sweet filling of poppy seeds, jam, or chocolate, and which I love to make each year to give away. But perhaps that struggle is part of the story too: it is in times like these, choosing to create, to bake, to give, becomes its own form of strength.

Facing threats that echo those of ancient Persia centuries ago, the simple acts of nourishment and generosity at the heart of Purim feels more vital today than ever before. They remind us that even in uncertain times, our culture of giving to friends, neighbours, and those in need, and our resilience to carry on, form the shared story that continues to sustain us.

And so I return to the kitchen, to the familiarity of baking, preserving small acts of sweetness and normality, in a world that feels anything but…

A plate of food is a feast for the eyes and the palate, just as a painting, drawing, or photograph nourishes our sight and our mind through colour, depth, and flavour that give artistic flair to every unfolding story. I have recently discovered collage as an art form that allows me to express my narratives through a medium that is both creative and deeply therapeutic.

Last weekend, after enjoying Tel Aviv’s rich and vibrant cultural scene of food, exhibitions, and art-filled galleries, I began a run of talks exploring the theme of food culture that weaves through my books. Increasingly drawn to the stories behind food, the people who prepare it, and the places it comes from, I believe that cookbooks offering personal narrative, memories, and context are far more engaging than those that are simply collections of recipes. This has always been the inspiration behind The Galilean Kitchen, Freekeh Wild Wheat & Ancient Grains and my new publication due out this autumn, Nourishing the Jewish Soul.

We can all make a delicious pan of chicken soup, yet each bowl tells a different story, rooted in memory, landscape, and tradition. My Grandfather Used to Say, an exhibition I visited at the Dvir Gallery featuring nine artists working across sculpture, painting, and photography, reflects on the fragility of memory through many different mediums. The stories behind the art in this gallery resonated deeply with my writing, sparking renewed inspiration to bring the two together.

Many years ago, while holidaying in Aix‑en‑Provence, I was recommended a restaurant by my father where the signature dessert was inspired by the chef’s imaginative interpretation of Cézanne’s painting palette.

I can still picture the dessert: a golden, oval biscuit taking centre stage, its perfectly cut thumb‑hole echoing the place where Cézanne would have held his palette. Lightly dusted with icing sugar, a delicate brush lay beside it, while splashes of red, yellow, orange, blue, green, purple, and white, made from fruit coulis, creams, and jams were smeared across the plate like strokes of paint. It was as if the chef had created an edible work of art, one that tasted every bit as good as it looked. Although not in the same league, it was from this memory that I created a collage of an edible palette, one that conjures the colours, richness, and flavours of an artistic plate of food.

Exploring how communities express their identity through food is the essence of my writing, collage, talks, and my next book. Bringing people together through food, sharing our tables, preserving history, and honouring the memories of the matriarchs who nourish us with tradition, offers a rare neutral space in what has become an increasingly divided world and allows us to glimpse how food and art preserve memory and give us the tools to express ourselves in ways that sustain us and restore the body, mind, and soul.

As many of you know, this book was borne from the deep rooted instincts to feed in challenging times, so often described as a defining cultural marker of Judaism. The idea of nourishing the soul through traditional dishes like chicken soup, gefilte fish, hamin, and kubaneh, together with food memories passed down through the generations, has created flavours, aromas, and stories that shape our identity and culinary heritage. With my mother’s recent passing, the book now holds her memory too, preserving the tastes of my upbringing alongside those of all the contributors, reflecting a cuisine shaped by migration, resilience, and tradition.

“To know a community is to know its food,” wrote Gil Marks (1952–2014), the American food writer and leading historian of Jewish cuisine. His words capture the essence of my storytelling as I explore the Ashkenazi, Sephardi, and Mizrachi staples that keep rituals and traditions alive, at the Sabbath table, during festival meals, and in the dishes that comfort us in times of loss. Filled with handwritten recipes scribbled on stained index cards and scraps of paper, the pages of my book preserve the traditional Jewish dishes that nourish us through the continuous circle of life.

It is from the diverse landscapes of the Jewish diaspora that our cuisine has evolved, shaped by climate, available ingredients, and the flavours of surrounding cultures. Ashkenazi cooking grew out of the cold climates of Central and Eastern Europe, relying on the affordable and accessible staples of root vegetables, grains, poultry, and preserved foods. Sephardi cuisine emerged from the fresh, sunny flavours of the Iberian Peninsula, influenced by olive oil, fresh herbs, and citrus, while Mizrachi food developed in the heat of the Middle East and Persia, draws on rice, legumes, lamb, date syrup, and deeply aromatic spice blends for its soulful dishes. Together, this rich tapestry of Jewish culinary identity lines the pages of my book and form the emotional architecture of a shared history, and the dishes that bind us together as a community.

As January draws to a close, the landscape offers its first hint of renewal, as snowdrops pierce the wet soil, cyclamen brighten the hedgerows, and wild edibles return with familiar abundance. These early signs of spring feel like my companions as I walk my own path towards publication. After the long winter season of nurturing, shaping, and nourishing the manuscript, a new title is emerging, and ready to take its place at the table.

Along the way, I’ll share design updates, invite you to vote on cover ideas, and offer sneak previews of the stories and recipes that have shaped this journey, with extra bites, news and offers for paid subscribers.

With each glimpse, taste, photograph, and snippet, Nourishing the Jewish Soul will whet your appetite, stir your curiosity, and feed your heart with the flavours, memories, and stories of a culinary heritage steeped in tradition, ritual, and love.

Please join me on this road as the book comes into its own.

In the Jewish tradition, we nourish the body, mind and soul in times of grief and loss, as well as on joyous occasions, offering essential sustenance when most needed. As I recently wrote ‘Nourishing loss’ as the closing chapter of my next book, I couldn’t have imagined how soon it would become a poignant narrative in my own story.

Rooted in biblical symbolism and cultural tradition, foods served to mourners are meant to be simple, sustaining and comforting. Round foods, seamless in their form such as lentils, eggs and bagels are some of the traditional foods eaten after a Jewish funeral and during the seven days of mourning, known as the ‘shiva’. These foods highlight the culinary significance of the cyclical journey of grief and the circle of life; no beginning and no end.

It was in the book of Genesis 25: 29-34, that Jacob prepared a lentil “stew” for his father Isaac whilst mourning the loss of his own father, Abraham. A bowl of warming lentil soup, made from red, green, or brown lentils has come to be known as ‘Mourners’ Soup’ in many Jewish communities. Each bowl is infused with tradition and served with love, offering comfort to the fragility of grief. Mejadra the ancient Levantine staple dish of lentils, cooked with rice or bulghul wheat, onions and warming spices culturally resonates in challenging times in both Jewish and Arab kitchens, with simplicity its defining strength.

The culture within both religious and secular Israeli communities, is one of communal support, where friends and neighbours provide the first meal after the funeral called the Meal of Condolence’. This is supposed to relieve mourners of the burden of cooking while showing solidarity in their loss. Comforting, nourishing dishes and sweet bakes are prepared and brought to the mourning house throughout the first seven days, a communal space where memories are shared, emotional strength is offered, and gentle healing begins.

In Britain it is more personal with visitors for prayers often from the synagogue or relatives. Food and hospitality is still provided, however it reflects more of a Anglo-Jewish Ashkenazi culture with platters of smoked salmon bagels, hard boiled eggs on challah rolls, cakes, biscuits and plenty of tea. Outside catering is more the norm, replacing the informal, familiar homemade Sephardi bourekas, Yemenite jachnun, grated tomato and zhoug, and the sweet, soothing babka.

After mum’s funeral, back at the house and before the shiva, platters of bagels with smoked salmon and soft mini rolls with egg mayonnaise adorned the table together with chocolate rugelach, and plenty of ‘Jewish’ strudel biscuits, a family favourite of sweet, sugary pastry filled with jam and currants, reminiscent of many afternoon teas at Grandmas. Tea was a plenty, served in mum’s beautiful bone china cups and saucers, and a a glass of wine for those of us needing something just a little bit stronger…

Nourishment serves as a source of strength, not only for those who receive it, but also for those who provide it. It is often considered a shared gesture of compassion and solidarity in times of loss and hardship, reinforcing the memory and traditions of a life that was. Food memories are a powerful tool for navigating grief, strengthening our resilience in suffering through the taste and smell of a comforting kitchen or familiar dish. Through remembering the much‑loved dishes or recipes of those we have lost, food becomes a simple way to care for ourselves and each other, when everything else feels too overwhelming to bear.

Mum will be remembered for many things, and her fried gefilte fish for festive gatherings is certainly among them. As lovingly recalled in her eulogy, these crisp‑coated, golden patties with their soft hake filling are a cherished food memory for us all. The delicate taste and smell of freshly fried fish will live on in our hearts and in the pages of my book, Nourishing the Jewish Soul, to be published next autumn.

May her memory be a blessing…

This evening ushers in the Jewish New Year, a profound festival that interweaves solemn judgment with joyful hope. It is marked by symbolic dishes of sweet, festive and nourishing foods alongside liturgy steeped in aspiration, reflection and renewal.

Among the traditions of Rosh Hashanah is the custom of eating simanim, evocative foods that carry spiritual hope for the year ahead. Abaye, a 4^th century Babylonian rabbinical scholar listed five foods which he considered to be good ‘omens’ for a favourable year ahead, gourd, black eyed peas, leek, beet leaves and dates. Over time, the Jewish communities enriched the list, adding honey for sweetness, pomegranates for abundance, fish heads to lead rather than to trail behind and carrots for prosperity, forming a tapestry of taste, tradition and ritual.

The traditional greeting is to wish for a “sweet and fruitful new year”, expressed through the familiar taste of crisp apple slices dipped into a pool of golden, runny honey and the vibrant, freshness of the pomegranate, bursting with juicy seeds. More than just festive treats, they are edible blessings representing new beginnings and a craving for sweetness on the palate and in life itself.

For Ashkenazi Jews, apples were seasonal, early autumnal fruits and abundant in Eastern Europe. Bee honey served as a practical and affordable substitute for the ancient date syrup. Sephardi communities preserved the original custom by dipping sweet apples into date syrup, (silan) and including fresh dates at the festive meal. Mizrachi communities embraced the tradition with their own culinary twist, making a sweet apple preserve, often scented with rose water and known as ‘dulce de manzana’, which they spread on the traditional challah. These ingredients formed a cultural bridge to the seven agricultural species listed in the Bible and to the lasting image of the Promised Land “flowing with milk and honey”.

The deep amber honey cake, a nostalgic symbol of sweetness is traditionally baked in Jewish kitchens around the globe in preparation for the High Holy Days, evoking memories of generations past and the fragrant promise of a peaceful year to come.

Dough sweetened with honey and combined with grains and spice, date back to ancient Egypt where bakers prepared dense breads as daily staples and religious offerings. The Romans and Greeks adapted recipes, adding fats, fruits and nuts, which produced a lighter textured and more flavoursome cake, contributing to the evolution of the medieval spiced honey cake, adopted into the cuisine of the Ashkenazi Jews. Known in Yiddish as lekach which means ‘lesson cake’, the honey cake became associated the religious scholars, as teachers smeared honey over the student’s wooden slates, which they were allowed to lick clean to taste the ‘sweetness’ of learning.

Steeped in cultural resonance, honey cake fills our kitchens with the sweet scent of memory and tradition, yet despite many delicious recipes not everyone seems to delight in the eating of a piece of honey cake after the festive meal and there is often leftovers. I like to transform it into a “proper pudding” for the many holiday meals, creating a simple, layered and indulgent apple and honey trifle.

Line the bottom of a glass dish with a thick layer of homemade or shop bought leftover honey cake and douse it in whisky or an alcohol of your choice. Poach large pieces of peeled apple in apple juice until soft, but not mushy, which once cooled, place over the layer of cake. Cover with a layer of vanilla custard followed by whipped cream. Top with crumbled honey cake or biscuits and toasted flaked almonds…

Honey is traditionally more than just flavour, it is nourishment for the soul, which we are reminded of in the Book of Proverbs “Pleasant words are as a honeycomb — sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.” May we all enjoy a sweeter new year, filled with strength, peace and happier times.

Shana tova u’metuka…

Challah, gefilte fish, chicken soup and kneidlach remain the familiar staples of our cuisine, yet many other beloved dishes, once savoured at the Sabbath and festival meals, have quietly faded from our tables and lost to cultural shifts, assimilation and economic mobility. One such dish, quietly forgotten is P’tcha or Fisnoga.

I have vivid memories of my father delighting in the arrival of a plastic container of a solid, yellow, savoury jelly, known to us as ‘fisnogy’, made by a dear family friend who bought this ‘delicacy’ to our house, and to “the other gentlemen on her list” every time she made it for her family. Gloria Morgan, considered by all to be a ‘hamishe’ cook, learnt how to cook the traditional dishes of her Ashkenazi heritage by her Romanian mother, and no doubt her mother before her. From the Yiddish meaning ‘homely’, the term ‘hamishe’ was affectionately given to these women who lovingly prepared comforting, nourishing, traditional Jewish dishes from cherished recipes passed down through the generations, sustaining large families and preserving memories of their past.

‘Fisnoga or p’tcha, depending on which corner of Eastern Europe you hailed from, is the humble dish of calves feet jelly, a beloved dish of the Romanian and Hungarian Jews that graced the Sabbath tables, eaten simply with a piece of challah bread as the festive appetiser. A nourishing, resourceful and very affordable dish, calves feet were easily obtainable in the kosher butchers of the shtetls, where every part of the animal was used in cooking, to prevent wastage. Rich is collagen, the feet would be meticulously cleaned than immersed in cold water and slowly brought up to the boil. They were then strained and returned to the pan, covered again in cold water and simmered for 4-5 hours, skimming the water from time to time for any fat particles. The stock was strained again, and left to go completely cold, when it would form a stiff jelly. Pieces of onion, garlic, salt and pepper gave for a richer flavour, with a touch of vinegar to clarify the jelly. Once clear and before it had solidified, small pieces of leftover meat may have been added, however traditionally sliced hard boiled eggs were placed into the stock, before setting.

Despite this being a traditional Sabbath dish, prepared in advance, served cold and without needing refrigeration due to the natural gelatin in the connective tissues of the feet, preserving the jelly, Florence Greenberg, the doyenne of Jewish Cookery, listed Calf’s Food Jelly in the ‘Invalid Cookery’ section in her 1947 Jewish Cookery Book, blending ritual and remedy in the same dish. She suggests when cooking for the sick or convalescent “each dish should be as nourishing as possible”. I surmise that this is the reason it is sandwiched between beef tea and coddled eggs…

Although a treasured Sabbath dish of the Ashkenazi Jews of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the modern palate is unaccustomed to the taste of a cold, savoury jelly and less forgiving of its glistening, gelatinous texture, often met with some hesitancy or aversion by those unfamiliar with its cultural roots. Yet to all those who grew up with the earthy scent of the nourishing broth wafting through the kitchen for hours each week, this polarising dish is a comfort, a portal to our culinary heritage and a testament to the ingenuity of all those Jewish women who transformed the necessity to nourish, into a culinary treasure.

As I continue shaping my manuscript, Nourishing the Jewish Soul, for its completion by the end of November, I will be sharing with you in the coming months, glimpses of the memories, stories, and dishes of a culture deeply rooted in love and resilience. In times of celebration, mourning, and survival, Jewish food has been more than sustenance, it is our identity and our culture, preserved through the memories of food.

Our journey has begun…

Bowls of piping hot soup, bread and cakes straight from the oven, and cool soothing dollops of ice cream all conjure fond memories of the pleasing aromas and rich flavours from our upbringing, that evoke surges of joy and happiness, together with feelings of safety, much needed in times of hardship.

The concept of resorting to food for emotional comfort was first referred to in the second part of The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha published in 1615. When Quixote returns home, he is pampered by his niece and housekeeper who have been instructed by the priest to serve him food that will “strengthen and fortify his heart and brain” in the hope of aiding some lucidity to his chaotic mind. However it wasn’t until the late 1960’s that the term ‘comfort food’ was coined by an American journalist writing for the Palm Beach Post in an article describing the high calorific foods adults crave in times of emotional stress, which he typically characterised by pieces of chocolate, a bowl of pasta or a plate of fries…

Memories of familiar and satisfying foods are fondly associated with our heritage and cultural traditions, and often remind us of our mothers and grandmothers kitchens where they affectionately nourished us, in times of both joy and sadness.

Just a few weeks ago, I was delighted to have signed a publishing contract with Green Bean Books for my next culinary title, ‘Nourishing the Jewish Soul… identity and culture through memories of food’. This book delves into the deep-rooted characteristics of feeding, often cited as the identity and culture of the Jewish people, supported by a collection of familial food memories from respected matriarchs, contributed by food writers, chefs and home cooks from Ashkenazi, Sephardi and Mizrachi communities. I have often mentioned in previous posts, that this narrative came to me as an idea for my next book following the devastating and traumatic events of October 7th 2023, when the culture of feeding gave me, and so many others some resilience and a feeling of solidarity that was integral to the country’s tenacity. This same ethos in the current conflict, is our sustenance.

The concept of ‘comfort food’ extends not only to warming bowls of soup, nourishing stews or rich, creamy puddings, but wraps itself around the notion that it is as comforting and restorative to the one that feeds, as to the one who is fed, giving mutual purpose and inner strength. There is also a comfort in the ritualistic act of feeding, which gives a deeper, emotional and spiritual meaning to everyday life and its milestones, and allows us to connect with the homely smells, tastes and textures that we so often craved when anxious, fearful and vulnerable. This longing to nourish is often heightened by the missing desire to belong and for the togetherness of family and friends at our table, especially when faced with circumstances and events beyond our control.

In the midst of the current war and the heightened restrictions placed upon us here in Israel, comfort eating, cooking and food writing have given me a much needed focus in such uncertain and chaotic times. Knowing that I have a deadline for the manuscript has given me a timely lifeline allowing me to concentrate on something other than the incessant news notifications and permitted me some enjoyment when connecting with foodies who are so kindly contributing with the memories of their upbringing.

I am very excited for this my third book, embracing the physical and spiritual comfort gained from the ritualistic foods of the Sabbath and religious festivals and the memories of being fed to bursting by a formidable Jewish mother. The need to nourish has become our armour, transforming vulnerability into strength and distress into comfort, beautifully illustrated by the taste of a fresh piece of challah bread that has been dunked into a soothing bowl of chicken soup…

It is here that we start the journey together, Nourishing the Jewish soul…

Stay safe…

Exploring culinary experiences and traditions, gives me enthusiasm to write and share with you the foods of my heritage, pivotal to the celebration of each Jewish festival.

Food is deeply woven into the identity and individuality of each holiday, reinforced through the memories of flavours, aromas and textures, that connect us to ancestral roots, biblical themes, local ingredients and traditional recipes, and strengthening each festivals cultural meaning

Shavout, from the Hebrew word meaning ‘weeks’, is celebrated exactly seven weeks after the Passover, when Moses received the sacred books of Judaism from God on Mount Sinai. It commemorates the journey to liberation for the Israelites and marks the aligning of the festival’s agricultural roots with the season of the grain harvest. Traditionally the Book of Ruth is read on Shavuot, the story of a widowed Moabite woman who committing to the Jewish faith of her late husband, loyally followed her mother-in-law to the land of Israel, where she toiled the wheat fields during the harvest in Bethlehem, to support them both.

Despite the biblical links to the wheat and barley harvests, the culinary traditions of this agricultural festival, is to feast upon dairy based foods, the origins of which stem more from traditional homilies, rather than dictated by any such dietary laws. Milk, a primary source of sustenance, is compared with the divine nourishment received from the sacred laws, and said to coincide with the Sabbath, when the slaughtering of animals is forbidden. This culinary custom is also thought to symbolise the promise of the biblical landscape “flowing with milk and honey”. Additionally, two loaves of challah are traditionally placed on the Shavuot festive table, serving as a reminder of the double portion of manna received by the Israelites to sustain them throughout the Sabbath, as well as a means of giving thanks for the wheat harvest.

Shavuot is possibly my favourite of festivals in culinary terms, as I relish the eating of all things dairy. Customary foods both savoury and sweet, are prepared for this festival, specifically cheese blintzes, kugels, bourekas, sambusak, Malabi and of course, the ubiquitous cheesecake.

The cheesecake has become an iconic dessert within the Jewish cuisine and reflects the diversity of the cooking styles amongst all communities of the diaspora, through the influences of regional ingredients and local tastes.

The Ashkenazim of Eastern Europe used local and affordable farm cheeses that were readily available to them, which typically produced a sour flavour and a dense texture. They were usually baked, which gave a crust to encase the soft centre. Once settled in America, the Eastern European Jews continued to bake their traditional dessert, which through culinary assimilation gave rise to the classic ‘New York Style’ cheesecake.

In contrast, the Sephardim of the Iberian Peninsular drew on their Mediterranean ingredients and regional flavours, producing a lighter cake by using locally sourced ricotta and infusing fresh, citrus notes into the more custard style mixture. Many were chilled rather than baked, which has since become a very Israeli way of making a cheesecake.

The Middle Eastern Mizrachi communities too put their own spin on the Jewish dessert, using local dairy products including labane made from goat or sheep’s milk, which gave a refreshing tang to the sweet cheesecake. The Mizrachim liked to add a touch of indulgence to their desserts, incorporating pistachios, almonds and dates to mixtures and often substituted honey for sugar. Spices, including saffron were also often used, showcasing the traditional flavours and affluence of these communities.

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The current trend in cheesecakes is notably with the ‘burnt Basque cheesecake’ also known as the ‘cheesecake San Sebastian’, which was created by self taught chef Santi Rivera in San Sebastian in Basque country, Spain, for his father’s bar. The trademark of this soft, creamy textured, rustic looking dessert is its crust less, ‘caramelised’ almost burnt exterior, achieved by baking it a a higher than average temperature, and removing it from the oven when there is still a slight wobble in its middle. So long as you keep a close eye on the last 10-15 minutes of baking, to ensure it doesn’t actually burn, you will be met with the delight of deep caramel flavoured edges that simply merge on the palate with the creamy, vanilla notes of its interior…

This year for my Shavout bake, I am wading into the baking realms of the Basque country, and making their cheesecake for our annual shindig. Taken from a fundraising collection of donated cheesecake recipes by globally celebrated chefs, foodies and bakers, The Ultimate Cheesecake Cookbook: Recipes From Around The World published by Green Bean Books is full of sweet and savoury ideas to liven up your festivities, with all proceeds going to Chai Cancer Care.

As I look forward to this coming weekend, despite knowing that my waistline and cholesterol levels will take a heavy battering, I am heartened in the knowledge that a slice of such a guilty pleasure also provides protein, calcium and many of the essential vitamins and minerals our body needs to maintain its health and wellbeing… that’s my story, and I am sticking to it.

Happy holidays & enjoy!

Open hearted hospitality at its core, this is a cultural celebration of unity, prosperity and culinary richness, evidenced by an overflowing table of beautifully crafted sweet treats and traditional delicacies, made predominantly from flour, sugar, oil, honey, dried fruits and nuts.

Traditional Jewish families living in Morocco at the turn of the 19^th century customarily ‘sold’ their chametz to their Muslim neighbours before the Passover began, who then used it to bake cakes and biscuits for their Jewish friends, in time for the festival’s ending. Delighted at the neighbourly spirit, the Jews opened their doors to the whole community and warmly invited everyone to share with them their table of festive sweets.

Having never been to an authentic Mimouna celebration until now, I was very excited to experience the traditional festivities and customary practices that it holds for the Maghrebi communities.

I arrived to be greeted my by dear friend Iris, who with floured fingers placed them upon my forehead, like a welcome stamp and blessed me with happiness, as a symbolic gesture to signify the return to abundance and joy following the period of restraint and scarcity. Flour, made from wheat, is the universal staple that embodies physical and spiritual sustenance, and this delightful salutation is offered to fill each guest with nourishment for the year ahead…

Moufleta, a thin, delicate crepe is traditionally served at Mimouna, significant by its humble ingredients that emerge into a rich and unctuous celebratory food. The moufleta batter is a simple mix of flour, water, oil and salt, which is spread very thinly onto a hot griddle and quickly turned over to cook, before another pancake is placed on top. This process continues until about 10 crepes are piled on top of one another and flipped repeatedly until all are slightly crispy at the edges, but remain soft in the centre. Once removed from the pan, they are generously smeared with butter and drizzled with honey, rolled up in a serviette and handed round to each guest.

Other sweet delights included morzia, a delicately spiced, sticky raisin jam, javen, a shiny, bright white sweet nougat, that is spooned into a little bowl and resembles the texture of uncooked meringue, almond paste filled dates and individual handcrafted sugar paste fruits, individual pecan pies and sfenj, the traditional Sephardi doughnuts doused in granulated sugar. Made from her mother’s recipes, this traditional fayre is a celebration of the culinary richness of the Sephardi cuisine and a symbol of the abundance and prosperity that has become the very essence of Mimouna.

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It commemorates the Israelites freedom from oppression in Egypt, which through the food traditions and cultural themes of this religious celebration, evidence the storytelling of their liberation and salvation.

Pesach commences each year with Seder night, where communities gather together around the Seder table and retell the biblical story of the Exodus. Reciting the narrative, singing songs and uniting around a laden table, Seder meaning ‘order’ serves as a clear structure for the evenings preparations and formality, which through the eating of ritualistic and symbolic foods and drinking of the directed four cups of wine, marks the journey from captivity to deliverance.

Beginning with the edict, “let all who are hungry come and eat,” the Seder is an open invitation for anyone in need to join families in the ritual feast, in the spirit of hospitality, inclusivity, and the unwavering joy of feeding.

The Seder table sets the stage for the festival to begin with the customary Seder plate at its heart. On it sits the symbolic foods that connects us to our past through the recurring themes of freedom, resilience and hope, all of which still carry a heaviness in our hearts, as we yearn for an end to the present conflict and the release of the all the remaining hostages.

Matzah is unleavened bread which we eat during the eight days of the festival and a symbol of both the inflicted oppression and the redemption to freedom. It is known as the ‘bread of affliction’, and acts as a reminder of the suffering the Israelites incurred in slavery, and the haste in which they left Egypt and deprived of time for their dough to rise. It was therefore baked flat and hard, like a cracker, which allowed for basic sustenance and the humility to begin their new found liberty.

Three whole cakes of matzah are placed in a white, decorative cloth, often compartmentalised for each piece, which like the Sabbath challah, shows respect for these ritualistic traditions.

During the storytelling, the matzot are broken into small pieces and passed round at specific points, to be eaten with other symbolic foods on the plate. The middle cake, called the afikomen, from the Greek word meaning "that which comes after" is traditionally broken in half at the beginning of the Seder and hidden for the children to hunt for, after the festive meal, and considered a playful meaning to the discovery of redemption.

The excitement of looking for the afikomen conjures fond memories of Seder night for most of us, igniting feelings of joy and family unity, remembering loved ones who are no longer with us, and the delight of a ‘prize’ for finding the piece of matzah. I seem to remember in our house, it was usually chocolate…

The Seder plate holds the symbolic foods most closely associated with the story of the Exodus and representing the principal themes of its narrative. Flavours and recipes of each component centre around the traditions of the individual communities and their culinary heritage, embracing diversity in the festive fayre.

Maror or bitter herbs, typically characterised by pieces of harsh, pungent greens, reminds us all too intensely of the suffering and hardship of the Israelites in slavery. By eating bitter herbs, in amongst small pieces of matzah, we are said to be tasting their pain and savouring their freedom. Ashkenazim traditionally use the strong, peppery horseradish root, which was the available, affordable edible in the colder climates of Eastern Europe and renowned for it bitterness.

Charoset is a sweet, thick paste made from grated apple and finely chopped nuts, mixed together with red wine, is symbolic in its colour and texture to the mortar used by the labouring Israelites, and eaten as a contrasting reminder that even in hardship, there is a underlying hope of sweeter times ahead. Sephardic tradition sweetens their dip with a variety of chopped dried fruits including dates, figs and raisins, which when mixed with red wine and warming spices of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves is reminiscent of the flavours of their heritage.

Karpas, usually parsley or celery leaves signifies growth and renewal and a symbol of springtime, when nature reappears following the harsh winter months and the time of the year when Pesach is celebrated. Before the vegetable is eaten, it is dipped in a bowl of salted water which signifies the tears of the Israelites during their years of slavery. The contrasting tastes of this dish is said to symbolise the journey from darkness into light and the bitter suffering that emerges into a glimmer of hope, reinforcing the central themes of the festival. Mizrachim traditionally dip pieces of the humble potato into a bowl of vinegar, as opposed to salt water, adding even more sharpness to substantiate the narrative.

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Zeroa is the roasted lamb’s shank bone that sits on the Seder plate, representative of the ancient sacrifices offered up at Passover in the Temple of Jerusalem. It also serves as the reminder of the divine protection given to the Israelites during the plagues that befell the Egyptians before setting them free, as the blood of the sacrificial lamb was smeared over their doorposts, so that God would ‘pass over’ and spare their their firstborn from death.

Beitzah is a whole roasted hard boiled egg, the traditional food of Jewish mourners, that signifies the cycle of life, with no clear beginning or end. It has become the symbol of remembrance and the resilience of the Jewish people.

As the preparations are well underway for Pesach which begins at sundown on Saturday night, the cultural and spiritual themes of this biblical narrative deeply resonate with us all and the current climate of conflict. As tradition dictates and we open our homes to feed family, friends and those in need, we can only hope for the freedom of all those absent from our table and unable to feast with us this year, and unite in the struggle for peace.

Happy holidays…

Purim, the festival that rejoices in triumph over adversity and celebrates survival, is upon us. In short, it is the courageous story of Esther, a Jewish woman living under the ancient Persian rule of King Ahasuerus, and who without revealing her true identity, becomes his queen. When Haman, a senior royal official calls upon Ahasuerus to destroy all the Jews within his kingdom, it is Esther’s guardian Mordecai, who persuades her to reveal her Jewish identity to her husband, and expose Haman’s wicked plan in order to spare them.

Courage, resilience, heckling villains and applauding heroes are the cultural themes that run through this festival. They are all wrapped up in the jubilation of the many ancient traditions that involve eating and drinking to excess, masquerading in fancy dress, giving gifts of food to those in need, as well booing Haman through the use of a ratchet and cheering for Mordechai with party blowers when reading the Purim story from the scroll known as the Megillah.

Jewish tradition can often link fasting with feasting by means of balancing solemnity with jubilation and scarcity with excessiveness. Purim observes a day of abstinence prior to the day of indulgence, giving historical and spiritual credence to the story, as Esther fasted for three days before approaching the king for her people’s survival. Once salvation was granted, there followed a day of celebration and indulgence, with the added edict to imbibe copious amounts of wine to the point of inebriation.

Drunkenness is generally discouraged within the Jewish religion, in favour of moderation and averting any foolish behaviour, “wine is a mocker and beer a brawler; whoever is led astray by them is not wise" Proverbs 20:1. It is therefore a welcomed tradition from the ancient teachings within the Book of Esther, that encourages drinking in order to blur the lines between the “curse of Haman and the blessings of Mordecai”, and rejoice in the victory of survival.

The Jewish tradition of feeding goes well beyond the need for physical nourishment and fulfilling the mandate of sustaining the body and mind to simply survive. This year as we excessively eat and drink, Purim presents a poignant reminder to us all that there are hostages still held in Gaza, evidently lacking in foods containing protein and essential vitamins and minerals needed for basic nourishment. I was shocked beyond dismay by the recent televised interview with former hostage Eli Sharabi, who was released from captivity on February 8th 2025, gaunt and emaciated, having lost almost 30kg in weight during his 15 months incarceration. He talked of sharing what little food he had with his fellow hostages and how every crumb was savoured and made to last, so that their stomachs were not completely empty throughout the long night, and how the basic act of opening a fridge for a piece of fruit or a vegetable, could never be taken for granted. Explored in greater detail in my forthcoming book, he too spoke of the food memories from around a laden festive table and the dishes of his heritage, provided comfort and acted as a means of survival, by fostering a resilience to the pain of true hunger.

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The giving of food as an act of charity is another one of the deep rooted customs specific to this festival, and our culture, and highlights the importance of fostering goodwill and kindness to one another, which in turn provides strength, unity and sustenance to both the givers and receivers in equal measures. Eating and drinking together, regardless of circumstances, nurtures a comforting spirit of solidarity and which is considered a force to overcome adversity, and forms part of the Purim story.

Unlike so many other Jewish festivals which has many customary dishes that make up their festive meal, Purim simply has hamentaschen as its symbolic fayre, meaningfully connecting to its many themes. Translated from the Yiddish to mean ‘Haman’s pockets’ or ‘Haman’s ear’s’, these triangular pastries are typically filled with poppy seeds, which was the ingredient of choice for the Ashkenazi Jews of Eastern Europe, from where they originated. Hidden fillings and stuffed foods are popular on Purim, suggestive of the concealed identity of Esther and the hidden miracle of the Jews survival. Modern fillings for hamentaschen include fruit jams, chocolate and caramel, although the poppy seed mixture remains the traditional filling for these festive biscuits.

The festival of Purim is full of joy and overindulgence, giving and receiving, courage, resilience and solidarity, so spare a thought for all those unable to join the party this year, and lets hope that in the coming days they will return to our communities and share our tables and food, once again.

Happy holidays!

Hailed as the New Year for Trees, the festival of Tu Bishvat is marked each year by the ecological awareness of the biblical landscape and a cultural celebration of Israel’s natural environment.

Originally considered a religious and agricultural festival, Tu Bishvat honoured the renewal date for animal tithing by the Jewish farmers, who were commanded to sacrifice their kosher animals at the holy Temple of Jerusalem. In Medieval times the festival was given a deeper spiritual significance, marking the changing of the seasons, the growth and renewal of the fruit bearing trees and the celebration of nature’s circle of life. Typically falling during the late winter months after the often much needed rains, the new year for trees signifies a spiritual connection to the changing seasons and an environmental responsibility to our agricultural heritage.

Tu Bishvat is traditionally upon us when the green countryside of Israel’s lush north is awash with pink almond blossom, one of the early blooming trees that has become symbolic of the onset of the new season of Spring and nature’s rebirth. It is significantly a festival that celebrates and respects our environment, but as with every Jewish holiday, whether religious or cultural, the foods that we eat and the wine that we drink remain symbolic of our ancient biblical traditions and teachings.

It is observed with a ‘Seder Meal’ of foods containing fruits and nuts, and as tradition dictates in the Passover Seder, it is also customary to drink four cups of wine at this Seder by way of celebrating the cyclic nature of the four seasons, using white, rose and full bodied red wines to represent the bleak winter flowing into the emergent spring and finishing off with the ripe, abundant harvest.

The Tu Bishvat celebratory meal was founded during the 16th century in Safed in Ottoman Palestine by Rabbi Yitzchak Luria, also known as A’ari, meaning ‘the lion’ and derived from the acronym ‘Ashkenazi Rabbi Issac’. He became famous within the religious circles for his mystic and spiritual teachings. Together with his disciples, they instituted the seder by means of a symbolic feast to commemorate the seven species, listed in the Bible as “wheat and barley, and vines and fig-trees and pomegranates; olive-trees and honey” Deuteronomy 8:8. Each one represented the agricultural bounty of the ancient land of Israel and were the reputed sacrificial first fruits offered up to the altar in the Temple. Over the centuries, the customary meal has cemented our connection to nature and the spiritual significance to the produce of the land of Israel, undoubtedly influenced by the culinary customs of our heritage.

Every seder includes the ubiquitous braided bread, which must be made from the flour of one of the five grains of wheat, barley, spelt, rye or oats, if it is to be determined a challah in Jewish law. The dough is often embellished on Tu Bishvat with date syrup, raisins and figs, enriching the bread and our connection to the fruits of the land. This is endorsed by the plates of almonds, dates, grapes, dried figs and raisins that are spread across the table for snacking on before, during and after the meal.

The Ashkenazim feast upon the sweet stew known as tzimmes, made from beef, carrots and dried fruits, typically prunes or raisins. Dessert is a compote of a combination of dried apricots, apples, pears and raisins, cooked with honey, cinnamon and a glug of sweet dessert wine. The Sephardim celebrate by preparing a sweet porridge like dessert, made from wheatberries or barley, cooked in water and topped an array of chopped nuts and dried fruits, which is known as ashure or Noah’s pudding. It has long been associated with the early Jewish communities of the Near East and the agricultural rituals of the farmers during the spring wheat harvests and the Mizrachim indulge upon stuffed vegetables and grape leaves filled with a mixture of jewelled rice, heavily laden with sweet fruits and spices. Their meal is often finished with the sweet treat baklava filled with chopped nuts and doused in lashing of honey.

Tu Bishvat is the cultural and spiritual festival that celebrates new beginnings, rebirth and the agricultural growth cycle, which in true Jewish tradition rejoices in feeding our loved ones and feasting on the fruits of the ancient biblical landscape.

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This past year has tested us all as we experienced the hostilities and challenges of living in rural northern Israel, yearning for the release of every hostage still held in Gaza and hoping for an end to this war, on all fronts. Its consequences have affected each and every one of us, albeit in so many different ways. The realisation of such devastation caused to the countries infrastructure, economy and individual livelihoods came even more evident to me when I returned home from spending the last few weeks in England with my family and friends, whilst promoting the culinary culture of The Galilean Kitchen and the Lost Crops of our Heritage from the lush, ancient landscape.

With renewed hope encouraged by the release of the first three hostages in this fragile ceasefire, I arrived back recharged and determined to complete my current manuscript, ‘Feeding Us… food of memories’. This is a testament to so many of us that gained strength and comfort from the giving of food during these difficult times, only to be confronted with another sad reality of how these past 15 months has affected us all on a very personal level.

Located upon the ridge of the Naftali mountain range that lies between the Upper Galilee and Lebanon is Kibbutz Manara, founded in 1943 by Zionist youth workers and young Polish and German immigrants. Boasting stunning views of the northern agricultural belt, tourism was once Manara’s principle financial streams with scenic views from its cable cars that descended from the cliffs to the valley below, and the discernible shop, selling souvenirs and locally sourced products from this alluring region.

Following the events of October 7th 2023 and Hezbollah’s subsequent support that targeted the Israeli communities bordering Lebanon, the few hundred residents of Manara, together with thousands of other inhabitants of nearby towns and settlements, were forced to evacuate their homes. Less than two weeks after that fateful day, a barrage of anti-tank missiles were fired from over the border, hitting the kibbutz and leaving a trail of destruction to its buildings, but thankfully without causing any loss of life.

It has only been since the Israel Lebanon ceasefire of 27th November 2023, that residents have started to return to their homes and visitors have been allowed back up to these once considered tourist beauty spots. A couple of weeks ago, whilst I was still in the UK, a few friends of mine, took a trip up to Manara and wandered into the shop that was once a bustling haven of mementoes of this beautiful region, only to find the contents of the shelves strewn across the floor amidst the rubble and debris of the attacks, of which lying within this dirty mess was a number of my much loved books…

The far reaching consequences of this conflict remains evident, which depending on circumstances, geography and the degree of personal resilience, has enabled each one of us to find our coping mechanism to find a way through. I have found my strength through the giving of food. Volunteering to cook for so many in need of nourishment and sustenance, has fuelled me during these gruelling times, and given me an understanding of the importance placed upon feeding, as much as eating, within our society, and the inspiration to publish again.

I was saddened at seeing the vibrant pink cover of The Galilean Kitchen displaying my name, discarded on the floor of a war torn building, yet I was heartened to know that it will only be paper and words that are essentially thrown away when the clear up begins. It is the food of our heritage which forms the melting pot of Israel’s culinary culture and identity, that remains steadfast and gives us the strength and resilience for some renewed hope, in which peace can prevail.

Going forward, my writing here will now link to ‘Feeding Us’ as I endeavour to finish my book. I will be giving you a taste of the delicious food and the meals of memories shared around the family table, from the recipes and stories that connects our past to our culinary future. Please do join me on this culinary journey…

Chanukah, from the Hebrew word meaning ‘dedication’, is the celebration of light, victory and fried food…

The customary eating of latkes and doughnuts during the eight-day festival of light is steeped in history and culinary tradition. It serves as a delicious reminder of the miracle that kept the branched candelabra in the 2nd Temple of Jerusalem alight for eight full days, when only a single cruse of oil, barely sufficient for one day was found by the Maccabees, the Jewish rebels who led the revolt again the Assyrians to restore the Temple, in 165 BCE.

Latkes and doughnuts have assumed their relatively recent reputation as the traditional fayre of Chanukah. The older custom of eating dairy, specifically cheese, is linked to the apocryphal tale of the Jewish heroine Judith, whose beauty and culinary charm saved the city of Bethulia in ancient Israel from the Assyrian army, and allowed for the Maccabeans to take victory. According to the story, Judith invited the General to dine with her, whereupon she fed him an abundance of salty cheese which to quench his severe thirst, he washed down with copious amounts of alcohol. Intoxicated to unconsciousness, Judith cut off his head, allowing the Israelites to attack the Assyrians, who fled in fear. It is therefore from this biblical tale and found subsequently to be written in Jewish Code of Law, that cheese was assumed to be the original celebratory food of Chanukah.

For centuries, Sephardic and Mizrachi Jews simply fried lumps of cheese in hot oil. Following the exile of the Sephardic Sicilian Jews from Spain in 1492, ricotta filled pancakes called cassola were introduced to the Jews of Northern Italy as the Chanukah fayre, which was perceived as the original latke. The Ashkenazim seemingly placed the cheese inside a soft, thin wheat-based pancake which they called a blintz and which ostensibly shaped the latke. Milk to make the cheese, was expensive for the Ashkenazim to buy and coupled with the dietary laws of mixing meat and dairy being sacred to all Jewish kitchens, the prohibited frying of cheese in the cheaper rendered poultry schmaltz, paved the way for the potato latke, which was to become the main staple of the Ashkenazi diet, and the culinary symbol of the festival of Chanukah.

The latke, whether made from potato, other root vegetables, or cheese, served with an apple sauce or sour cream dip, is merely half of the Chanukah culinary story, the other half being much sweeter and usually doused in icing sugar or a floral syrup, have too become truly representative of this festival.

Round pieces of spongy, yeasted dough fried in oil, filled with fruit jams or nutty creams fulfil the modern Israeli term sufganiot, commonly known in Western communities as doughnuts. The Ashkenazim, Sephardim and Mizrachim have all laid claim to their own version of the iconic pieces of ‘fried dough’, symbolic of this cultural festival and in some Jewish kitchens, more iconic than the potato latke. From the Aramaic language sfogga and sofgan, meaning a ‘spongy dough’, this aptly describes the doughnuts absorbent texture and its ability to soak up flavour. In Yiddish it was called the pontshke, which when the Ashkenazim took to America in the mid-1900’s was rebranded as the ‘jelly doughnut’. In spite of the fruit preserve being pronounced as jelly or jam, the large circle of fried yeasted dough was generously filled with a sticky, fruity conserve and drenched in icing sugar, and became the popular global Chanukah snack.

It was during the 1920’s that doughnuts sought their popularity in Israel, heralded by the country’s General Organisation of Workers, known as the Histadrut, in what was then British run Palestine. According to American food history writer for Time magazine, Emelyn Rude, “sufganiot were rather more challenging to make than latkes” and so in the winter months when labour was in short supply, paid work was created for the hundreds of Histadrut members, preparing, shaping and frying sufganiot for the eight-day festival, as well as selling and transporting them up and down the country. So successful was the crusade to publicise the doughnut as festive fayre, that over one hundred years later, they are as synonymous with Chanukah as the lighting of the candles, and with a contemporary face lift, a far cry from the simplistic piece of golden dough with a little bright red jam oozing out and a dusting of icing sugar. Although the yeasted dough remains round, pillowy and golden, the fillings and toppings have elaborated to such extravagant heights fusing flavours from all strands of the Jewish cuisine, paling the humble jam doughnut into insignificance, after centuries of customary eminence.

A great gift this Chanukah

The Sephardi and Mizrachi communities all celebrate Chanukah with their own familial recipe for a yeasted dough ball, that they delight in feeding their families on each year. Handed down through the echelons of time, flavours specific to their region and culinary roots are added to the dough, believed without a doubt to be the tastiest and most authentic to the biblical origins, as each recipe echoes the myriad of cultural influences and traditions practised by their non-Jewish neighbours and from where they assumed their ownership.

Zalabia is the name given to pieces of fried dough or fritters, that originated in the Muslim ruled Iberian Peninsula, and have for centuries been eaten by Christians at the holiday of Epiphany, Arabs on Eid al-Ghtas and Sephardic Jews on Chanukah. Zalabia batter is thin, comprising of eggs, flour, yeast and milk, and depending on the culture and region, flavoured and shaped accordingly. Iraqi Jews pipe the batter into the hot oil in beautiful spirals with a lattice decoration, called zingula or Iraqi funnel cakes. Once deep fried in oil, they are saturated in a fragrant syrup whilst still warm, flavoured with rose, geranium or orange blossom, according to the preference of the cook.

Morsels of fried dough termed awameh, meaning ‘to float’ in Arabic, were served to the Turkish caliphate dynasty by the Ottoman cooks, indulgently flavoured with intoxicating notes of saffron or cardamom, and filled with harmonious flavours of dates and marzipan before being dusted lightly with a soft, powdery sugar. Aptly named in medieval Arab kitchens, these light, fluffy balls of dough, filled with sweet treats for the empire’s sovereign, were tossed into hot oil, whereupon they instantly puffed up and floated to the surface. These popular little fritters were known in more affluent circles as as Luqaymat Al -Qadi, meaning ‘judges’ morsel or mouthful’ which once the Mizrachi Jews settled in the Eastern Mediterranean and parts of the Levant, adopted as their Chanukah doughnut. They are served laced with honey, smothered in cinnamon sugar or sitting in a pool of fragrant syrup, and like all the Chanukah food, fried in oil, simply delicious…

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To all my paid subscribers, you will receive shortly, a delicious Chanukah recipe for the traditional floaters ‘awameh’ given to me by the 2014 Israeli Masterchef winner Nof Atamna.

Happy holidays to you all and however or wherever you are celebrating, enjoy the festive fayre…

The dry, brown topography that is usually beginning to show its first signs of new growth and colour, has been scorched from rocket fires. The expanse of blackened terrain and barren trees overshadow the natural beauty of Israel’s northern landscape, causing consequential damage to its habitat and vegetation. Yet despite such an environmental melee, nature has found a resilience from within, and the olive trees that line the length and breadth of the area seem to have survived the turmoil, as olives still cling onto their branches for dear life, waiting to be processed into oil.

It is only following the first rains of autumn after the long arid summer that the olives, one of the seven biblical fruits of this ancient landscape, are determined to be ready for harvesting and made into delicious extra virgin olive oil. Ancient, gnarled and twisted from over two thousand years of living, the more senior of Israel’s national trees still bear some fruit, but mainly sit proudly adding value to the land and status for the farmers. The younger trees, that line the fertile land wait patiently to be shed of their fruits, which are fully dependent upon many climatic factors as to their size and ultimately the annual yield of oil.

The olives are shaken off the trees and fall with leaves and twigs onto colourful tarpaulin sheets. Tossed into empty sacks and boxes, they are shipped off to one of the local Druze villages that house the few remaining ancient stone presses within the Galilee, preserving the mantra of an old Arabic proverb that “the olive should go from the tree to the stone”.

The craft of crushing olives between large stones dates back thousands of years to the Biblical era, and still considered by many to be the best method for producing high quality extra virgin olive oil. Generations of families are involved in the local production of making the amber nectar, which is mainly used for domestic consumption in an olive oil rich cuisine, that claims its reputation in increasing the life expectancy of the Middle Eastern populace.

For every 5 kilograms of olives collected 1 kilogram of oil is gleaned, and with around 81,000 acres of olive orchards across Israel producing approximately 16,000 tons of extra-virgin olive oil annually, there is excitement looming for the olive oil season and the arrival of this year’s consignment. Yet, tragically with so many groves inaccessible for harvesting both on the northern and southern borders or irreparably damaged from fire, our natural survivors have borne the brunt of this conflict which will undoubtedly impact the amount of precious, organic liquid that will be produced this season and available for our kitchens.

Unrefined, stone pressed olive oil, high in unsaturated fat, is the foundation of this region’s diet. Unique in its flavour characteristics from the ancient terroir and specific varieties of olive that are grown here, olive oil is the most essential ingredient in this healthy cuisine. With “everything starting with olive oil” it is at the very heart of all cooking… and baking.

Using olive oil in the making of cakes, biscuits and desserts, not only gives a delicious flavour to the bake, but is in keeping with the strict dietary laws of keeping kosher and not mixing meat and dairy in the same meal.

My recipe for lemon and olive oil cake with an aromatic rosemary syrup that is poured over the cake whilst still warm, is the perfect autumnal cake using the very best of our seasonal ingredients. The oil is fresh and green, the citrus is sharp and juicy and the rosemary is fragrant and pungent, creating a deliciously balanced flavour profile in every bite.

Easy to make and even easier to eat, try it with a refreshing cup of mint tea or glass of wine…

Olive Oil & Lemon Cake with Rosemary Syrup

for the cake:

200g extra virgin olive oil + extra for greasing

3 large eggs

125g caster sugar

zest of 2 large lemons

150g plain flour

90g ground almond flour

pinch of salt

flaked almonds

for the syrup:

4-5 long sprigs of rosemary

100mls lemon juice (from the 2 large, zested lemons)

100g caster sugar

50mls water

method:

preheat the oven to 180C / 350F / GM4

grease a 20cm round cake tin with olive oil & line the base with greaseproof paper

place the oil, eggs, sugar, lemon zest, flours & salt in a mixing bowl & mix with electric beaters until you have a think batter, pour into the prepared tin, flatten the top with a palette knife & sprinkle flaked almonds over the top, place in the oven and cook for 30-35 minutes until the top is golden & a skewer inserted into the middle of the cake comes out clean

make the syrup:

place all the ingredients for the syrup in a saucepan, bring up to the boil & then turn down to a simmer for 5-10 minutes, turn off and leave to infuse until the cake is ready

once the cake is baked, remove from the oven, make plenty of little holes through the top of the cake with a skewer, strain the warm syrup into a jug & pour over the top of the cake, it will all soak in, so do not worry if it seems a lot of syrup, leave to completely cool in the tin before turning out onto a plate and dusting with a little icing sugar…

Enjoy!