I thought I’d share this recipe since I got a lot of requests after posting a photo of it on my Substack feed. Many people said they were quite familiar with baba ganouj, but mutabbal raised many questions.

Baba ganouj is roasted eggplant mixed with other vegetables to make a refreshing, vibrant dip or purée, while in mutabbal, the eggplant is mixed with tahini, lemon and garlic to make a greyish, smoky, almost velvety dip.

If you enjoy charring food and find it very relaxing, then this method is for you. Simply char the eggplant over a gas flame until the skin is creased and charred, the interior has softened, and a little foam appears at the sides.

Place it in a bowl and leave it for half an hour, allowing the residual heat to finish cooking it as it cools.

I always prefer using gloves to peel the eggplant, pull out the flesh and mix it with the other ingredients. I find this easier than using kitchen equipment to achieve the desired texture, but that’s completely optional.

It works perfectly as a side dish alongside anything from the barbecue, as part of a spread, spread generously inside a sandwich or with an egg in the morning. Choose your own adventure.

• 1kg (2¼ lb) aubergines, to yield about 450–500g (roughly 2 cups) flesh once charred and peeled

• 75g tahini (¼ cup plus 1 tablespoon)

• 40g thick full-fat yogurt (about 3 tablespoons)

• 35ml fresh lemon juice (2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon)

• ½ teaspoon ground cumin

• 1 small garlic clove, finely grated

• ¾ teaspoon fine sea salt, plus more to taste

• 1–2 tablespoons ice-cold water, if needed

To finish:

• Extra-virgin olive oil

• Pomegranate seeds

• Chopped parsley

• A pinch of sumac or Aleppo pepper

Prick the aubergines all over with a fork. Place them directly over a medium-high gas flame and char, turning regularly with tongs, until the skins are completely blackened and the aubergines have softened and collapsed. This should take around 15–25 minutes, depending on their size.

Transfer them to a bowl and leave to cool for about 30 minutes, allowing the residual heat to finish cooking the flesh. Peel away the charred skins, then place the flesh in a colander to drain for 10 minutes. You should have about 450–500g (roughly 2 cups) of aubergine flesh.

Whisk together the tahini, yogurt, lemon juice, cumin, garlic and salt. It may tighten at first; begin with 1 tablespoon of ice-cold water, adding the second only if needed. Add the aubergine and mash everything together with your hands until you reach your preferred texture. Alternatively, roughly mash the aubergine first, then fold it into the tahini mixture.

Taste, adding more lemon juice or salt if it feels flat. Let the mutabbal rest for about 20 minutes before serving, then spread it onto a plate and finish with olive oil, pomegranate seeds, parsley and a pinch of sumac or Aleppo pepper.

Note: If you do not have a gas hob, roast the pricked aubergines on a lined baking tray at 240°C/220°C fan (465°F/425°F convection) for 40–50 minutes, turning halfway, until deeply browned, completely tender and collapsed. For a smokier flavour, place them under a hot grill for the final few minutes, turning until the skins are charred.

Eventually, it stopped being just a rule and became part of me. Even now, whenever I’m going to someone’s place especially on weekends I feel the urge to bake. Sometimes it’s nothing fancy, just a quick tray in the oven, something that can feed a crowd and last a few days if it makes it that far.

That’s where this recipe comes in. I love how sumac pulls out the hidden notes in blackberries, how white chocolate softens their tartness, and how olive oil ties it all together. A cake meant to be shared whether you’re showing up at someone’s door, or just wanting something on your own table.

Pan: 9×13 inch (23×33 cm), medium thickness

Ingredients

• 265 ml (1 cup + 2 tbsp) olive oil, mild and fruity

• 300 g (1 ½ cups) granulated sugar

• 6 medium eggs (or 6 large)

• 1 ⅓ tsp vanilla bean paste or extract

• 375 g (3 cups) plain flour, divided (reserve 2–3 tbsp for berries)

• 2 tsp baking powder

• ⅓ tsp salt

• 250 g (about 2 cups) fresh blackberries

• 1 ½ tsp sumac (to toss with berries)

• 120 g (1 ½ cups) white chocolate chips or roughly chopped

• 2–3 tbsp demerara or raw sugar, for topping

Method

1. Preheat oven to 170°C (150°C fan / 340°F). Grease and line a 9×13 inch (23×33 cm) tray.

2. In a large bowl, whisk olive oil and sugar until thick and glossy.

3. Add eggs one at a time, whisking well after each addition, then stir in vanilla.

4. In a separate bowl, sift together flour (minus the reserved 2–3 tbsp), baking powder, and salt. Fold gently into the wet mixture.

5. Fold in the white chocolate.

6. Toss the blackberries with sumac and the reserved flour, then gently fold into the batter.

7. Spread evenly into the tray and scatter demerara sugar on top.

8. Bake for 35–40 minutes, until golden and a skewer comes out clean (white chocolate may cling, but there should be no wet batter).

9. Cool completely before slicing into squares or bars.

Plums always remind me of early September 2017, when I was packing my suitcase to travel and care for my dad in the United States.

This recipe for plum German cake comes from a vintage book I discovered at a local bookstore in Houston, a place where I found comfort in old, worn cookbooks.

I’ve made a few enhancements to the recipe. I’ve added coconut milk for added richness to the dough and a spiced streusel for some delightful crunch.

Ingredients

For the dough:

• 800-900 g plums, cut into quarters or sixths, pits removed

• 1 cup (250 ml) lukewarm coconut milk

• 1 ½ tablespoons dry active yeast

• 4 cups (500 g) all-purpose flour

• ¾ cup (150 g) sugar

• ½ teaspoon salt

• 115 g butter (melted, but not hot)

• 2 eggs

• 1 teaspoon quality pure vanilla extract or seeds from 1 vanilla bean

• 1 tablespoon orange zest

For the streusel:

• 1 cup (125 g) all-purpose flour

• 1 cup (200 g) sugar

• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

• 1 teaspoon ground star anise

• 115 g butter, at room temperature

• ½ cup (50–70 g) ground or crushed pistachios, plus more for garnish

Method

1. In a small bowl, whisk the yeast with the lukewarm coconut milk. Let it sit for 5–10 minutes until frothy.

2. In the bowl of a stand mixer, combine the flour, sugar, and salt. Add the yeast mixture, melted butter, eggs, vanilla, and orange zest. Stir to bring the ingredients together, then knead with a dough hook on medium speed for 4–5 minutes. The dough will be sticky but should hold together well.

3. Cover the dough with a kitchen towel and set it in a warm, dark place to rise for 1–1 ½ hours, or until doubled in size.

4. Make the streusel: Place all streusel ingredients in a medium bowl. Using your fingertips or two forks, rub the mixture together until it forms a sandy, clumpy texture. Refrigerate until ready to use.

5. Generously grease an 18 x 13 inch sheet pan with butter. Rub your hands with a little oil and place the dough in the center of the pan. Use your fingers to spread it to cover half the pan; if it resists, don’t force it. Cover with a kitchen towel and let rise again in a warm, dark place for 1 hour.

6. After the second rise, gently stretch the dough to cover the entire pan. Arrange the plum quarters evenly over the dough. Sprinkle the chilled streusel mixture over the top.

7. Bake on the middle rack of a preheated oven at 350°F (175°C) for 30–35 minutes, or until the top is golden.

8. Allow the cake to rest for at least 10 minutes before slicing so the juices can set. Cut into squares, garnish with pistachios, and serve.

in the mornings, I often find myself thinking back to my school days. During recess, if I had forgotten my meal, I’d wander to the cafeteria and always order the same thing — warm baked bread with feta cheese, topped with nigella seeds. Those flavors became a core memory that has stayed with me.

As I grew older, that simple pairing turned into something I still love every morning. Most of my summer breakfasts are built around feta and nigella seeds, with a few seasonal vegetables, a drizzle of olive oil, and a sprinkle of dukkah. Simple, satisfying, and full of comfort.

So I thought: why not bring all of that together in one dish? Something easy to enjoy for breakfast, to pack for school, or to carry into a busy day. That’s how these feta, zucchini, and dukkah muffins came to be — a little piece of nostalgia wrapped in something new.

Makes 6 large muffins or 8 medium

Ingredients

• 1 ½ cups (200 g) plain flour

• ½ cup (40 g) old-fashioned oats

• 2 tsp baking powder

• ½ tsp bicarbonate of soda

• 1–2 tsp flaky sea salt (depending on how salty your feta is)

• A few grinds of black pepper

• 2 tbsp dukkah

• 1 tbsp nigella seeds (plus extra for sprinkling)

• 2 large eggs

• 1 cup (250 g) whole-milk yogurt

• ¼ cup (4 tbsp) olive or rapeseed oil

• 2 cups (200 g) zucchini , coarsely grated

• 1 cup (150 g) firm feta, cut into 1-inch cubes and patted dry if stored in brine

Method

1. Heat the oven to 200C (400F/gas mark 6). Line a muffin tin with 6 paper cases (or 8 if making medium muffins).

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the dry ingredients: flour, oats, baking powder, bicarbonate of soda, salt, black pepper, dukkah, and half the nigella seeds.

3. In another bowl, whisk the wet ingredients: eggs, yogurt, and oil, until smooth.

4. Pour the wet mixture into the dry ingredients and stir gently until just combined – don’t overmix.

5. Fold in the grated courgette, then add the feta cubes, being careful not to crush them.

6. Divide the batter evenly among the muffin cases, sprinkle with the remaining nigella seeds, and bake for about 18 minutes (15–16 minutes for medium muffins), or until a skewer inserted into the center comes out clean.

7. Cool for a few minutes in the tin, then transfer to a wire rack. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Note: If you don’t have dukkah, you can use za’atar instead. If neither is available, substitute with 1 teaspoon of ground cumin.

I’ll remain humble and simply say, الحمدلله. I’m deeply grateful for so many things: every ordinary day that quietly passed, every obstacle I faced, and every lesson I learned along the way.

• Rejections and failures don’t indicate your value. Perhaps the hardest lesson I have ever learned, after a series of rejections and failures, is that it doesn’t mean I’m not good enough — it simply wasn’t meant to happen, at least not yet. Always sit down and reflect, and don’t be hard on yourself. Come rain or shine, it’s not your moment to sparkle. Be patient.

• Savor your life slowly. Life has been fast-paced, and being glued to our phones on social media, we start to lose the ability to be grateful for the little things in our lives. We always complain there’s no time. Actually, there is — the smell of morning coffee, clean bed sheets, the air of the first breath of morning are priceless.

• Read more books, because nothing will help your brain function better, in a world dominated by AI. Reading will help you express and communicate better with people. Building a connection with books is like building a connection with people — and it’s brain-rot prevention.

• Travel more, because traveling to unfamiliar places peels back a layer of reality and a layer of self-exploration. Personally, I found that traveling through parts of Africa taught me a great deal about myself and raised my self-awareness in ways I didn’t expect.

• Be original. In a world filled with algorithm-friendly content, be your own truly sincere voice. There’s nothing harder than cosplaying an identity that is simply not yours.

• Be prepared to lose friends. At some crossroads in your life, you will have to leave people behind in order to grow, or simply because your vision will take a different direction. It’s normal — embrace it, don’t feel ashamed. Not every relationship is built to last forever, and that’s okay.

• Be kind to others, and most importantly, to yourself. Life is hard, and perhaps the strongest thing you will ever be is a kind one. In a world full of struggles and hate, always choose to be the light. The guiding light.

So instead, I decided to capture those same flavors in a different way by turning them into frozen yogurt. A scoop that holds the warmth of spices, even while cold. It’s creamy, rich, and carries every note of Arabic coffee. I increased the spices a little, because when flavors freeze, they shy away. Here, they bloom again, bold and fragrant, exactly how I want them to taste.

This is my morning ritual, turned into froyo.

Ingredients

• 1 cup (240 g) plain whole-milk yogurt

• ½ cup (100 g) granulated sugar

• ¼ to ⅓ cup (80–100 g) honey, to taste

• Pinch of kosher or sea salt

• ¾ cup (180 ml) heavy cream

• 1 cup (250 ml) brewed coffee, cooled to room temperature — or brewed espresso

• 2 tbsp finely ground coffee (omit if using brewed espresso instead of coffee)

• 1 tbsp vanilla paste or seeds from ½ vanilla bean (optional)

• 2 tsp ground cardamom

• 1 tsp ground cinnamon

• ½ tsp ground cloves

• 1 tsp rose water

Method

1. In a large bowl, whisk together the yogurt, sugar, honey, salt, heavy cream, brewed coffee (or brewed espresso), ground coffee if using, vanilla, cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, and rose water until smooth.

2. Cover and chill in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours.

3. Churn in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

4. Transfer to a container and freeze. Keeps for up to 1 month.

Notes

• If using brewed espresso, omit the ground coffee.

• For a stronger kick, add 1 tbsp ground espresso to the mix.

• The spices are flexible: omit cinnamon or add your favorites.

Adapted from David Lebovitz, The Perfect Scoop

Whenever I order a bag of falafel, I always worry about the leftovers. Fried food is at its best the moment it leaves the oil. Fresh falafel is crisp on the outside, soft and fragrant with herbs inside, and that first bite, l and that first bite that makes you let out a little hiss and wisps of steam dancing from the gnawed edge of the falafel, tells you everything you need to know. But the longer it sits, the more it loses what made it special. A few hours later, it becomes dry, hard, and lifeless, and no amount of microwaving can never revive it.

That’s how this dish came about: instead of fighting the stale falafel, I use it as a crouton in a leafy salad inspired by a falafel sandwich’s fillings. Large lettuce leaves coated in a rich labneh-tahini dressing with garlic and cumin make this a total winner easy to assemble, with minimal effort, and perfect for serving a crowd at a summer BBQ.

Ingredients

• 250 g (1 large head) romaine lettuce, chopped, or 250 g (1 head) Boston lettuce, torn

• 100 g (2 cups) parsley, finely chopped (about 2 bunches)

• 200 g (1½ cups) cucumber, quartered lengthwise and sliced

• 200–250 g (4–5 patties) falafel, coarsely crumbled

Mint Yogurt Tahini Sauce

• 200 g ( ¾ cup) full-fat yogurt

• 1 teaspoon ground cumin

• 4 tablespoonstahini

• 1 garlic clove, minced

• 3 tablespoons fresh mint, finely chopped

• 4 tablespoons lemon juice

• 5 tablespoon solive oil

• 50 ml water

• ½ teaspoon sea salt

• 1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper

Garnish (optional)

• 8 leaves fresh mint, chopped

• 1 teaspoonsumac, or more to taste

Method

Arrange the romaine or Boston lettuce, parsley, cucumber, and crumbled falafel on a serving platter.

Add all the dressing ingredients to a blender and blend until smooth and emulsified. Drizzle generously over the salad.

Finish with the chopped mint and a generous sprinkle of sumac before serving.

I know I’ve been leaning heavily into cold desserts lately, but I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty about it.

So here’s Melon Sorbet from Third Culture Cooking by Zainab Issa. It’s exactly what I’ve been craving latelylight, icy, and refreshing, with crystals that melt on your tongue and cool you down, if only for a few moments. In weather like this, that’s more than enough.

So yes, here we are again with another frozen dessert this week.

Serves 6 (24 ounces sorbet)

30 minutes, plus 7 to 12 hours chill time

I’ve always loved very cold, icy things like Slurpees, slushies, sorbet, and Italian ice. This melon sorbet was born out of wanting an even colder way to enjoy one of my favorite summertime snacks: ripe melon with chili powder, salt, and lemon or lime juice. This technique for making sorbet is very easy and yields a shockingly ideal sorbet texture, not too hard and frosty but not too wet and melty thanks to the honey syrup inhibiting crystallization when freezing. Choosing to completely freeze only half of the cantaloupe makes the blending process much smoother and keeps things in sorbet territory rather than granita, although that would also be lovely. I find cantaloupe’s firm flesh to be ideal for this, but this technique will work on watermelon, honeydew, and even mango or berries, but manage your textural expectations accordingly (watermelon probably will be a little on the icier side, while mangos and berries probably will be a little softer and creamier); just make sure to keep the ratio as is, starting with 1½ pounds (680 g) of prepared fruit. Freezing tends to mellow out flavors, so when you taste the puree, make sure it tastes a little more intense than where you’d want it to be from a sweetness perspective. This really isn’t an issue when you’re using in-season melon, but since it’s not summer all year round where I live, it’s worth noting.

Ingredients:

1 medium ripe cantaloupe* (about 3 pounds/1.3 kg), cut in half, seeded, flesh scooped out and cut into 1-inch cubes, divided

2 tablespoons good-quality honey, plus more to taste 2 tablespoons boiling water, plus more as needed

½ teaspoon Diamond Crystal kosher salt

Lemon or lime wedges, for serving

Flaky sea salt, for serving

Aleppo chili flakes, for serving

Extra virgin olive oil, for serving *

INSTEAD OF . . . Cantaloupe, use another melon or ripe summer fruit

METHOD :

Spread half of the cubed cantaloupe on a baking sheet in an even layer. Freeze until solid, 4 to 6 hours. Set the remaining cantaloupe aside for later. Put the honey and boiling water in a small bowl and stir to combine. Let stand until cooled to room temperature. Put the remaining cantaloupe in a high-speed blender (preferably one with a tamper) or a food processor and add the kosher salt, honey syrup, and frozen cantaloupe. Blend until smooth and Frostee-like in texture and on the sweet side (the sweetness will mellow as it freezes). If it’s not sweet enough for you, make more honey syrup using the same 1:1 honey to boiling water ratio and add it in at this phase. Transfer to a loaf pan. Cover with plastic wrap and freeze until solid, 3 to 5 hours. To serve, scoop into bowls using a warm ice cream scoop. Finish with a squeeze of lemon or lime, flaky salt, chili flakes, and a drizzle of olive oil. Freeze, covered in plastic wrap, or in an airtight container, for up to 3 months. Thaw at room temperature for 15 minutes before scooping and serving.

I have to say, the book is full of really delicious Middle Eastern recipes, but what I like the most is how easy and accessible everything feels. One of the first things I tried was the baked kofta with tahini, and it was honestly one of the easiest and most delicious things I’ve made in a while.

I wanted to share one of the recipes from her book, but by the time I came back from South America, summer was already here, I was exhausted, and I had absolutely no energy to cook or bake anything. Then my eyes fell on this rose raspberry fro-yo, and I thought: yes, this is exactly what I need.

Ingredients:

(300g) 2 cups frozen raspberries

(480g) 2 cups whole-milk Greek yogurt

1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk

1 tablespoon rose water

⅛ teaspoon salt

In a food processor, add the raspberries, yogurt, condensed milk, rose water, and salt. Process, scraping down the sides as needed, until extremely smooth, about 2 minutes.

Transfer the fro-yo to a storage container and freeze, tightly sealed, until firm, at least 4 hours and up to 1 month. Let thaw for 5 minutes at room temperature before scooping and serving.

Whenever I walk into the kitchen, I’m greeted by the tropical aroma of mangoes filling my lungs. In the corner sits a pile of brown boxes, each one lined with shredded paper and filled with resting mangoes. This is all because my mum is completely obsessed with mangoes, especially Alphonso mangoes.

Every year, she buys boxes of them. She’ll eat half while they’re in season, and with the other half, she’ll carefully slice and freeze them so we can enjoy them throughout the year. Although my mum isn’t one to romanticise the beauty of eating things only in their season, she is undoubtedly the queen of preserving food, whether it’s pickles or frozen fruit. She even freezes fresh dates so we can enjoy them in winter. I don’t know how she manages it, but she’s the mother of the house.

One of my favourite rituals is how she loves to prepare a large golden jug of thick, silky mango juice for the weekend. Sometimes she’ll experiment and mix it with different flavours, but one version we come back to time and again is mango lassi. We used to make it during Ramadan when it fell in the height of summer, but now Ramadan has drifted back into spring.

Still, mangoes are in season now, and if you’re looking for something quick and refreshing, this is exactly what I’d recommend. If you don’t have fresh Alphonso mangoes on hand, don’t worry. A bag of frozen mangoes from your nearest supermarket works perfectly well. In fact, it saves you from having to chill the lassi before serving.

serves 4

Ingridients:

400g (14 oz) frozen mangoes or fresh (cubes)

350ml (1 1/2 cup) whole milk

80g ( 1/3 cup) labneh of greek

4 or 5 tablespoons of granulated sugar.

3/4 teaspoon of sea salt

1 teaspoon of vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon of orange blossom

8 large or 16 small ice cubes around 200g ( if you’re using fresh mangoes)

pinch of salt

silvered or ground pistachio for garnish (optional)

Place all ingredients in a blender and blend on high speed for about 45-60 seconds until you achieve a thick smoothie.

Across the region, there are countless variations cacık, tzatziki, and laban wa khyar. This version is inspired by Iranian cuisine and by meals at Al Ustad Special Kabab, one of Dubai’s oldest Persian restaurant, where yogurt dishes play a vital supporting role, bringing coolness and contrast to platters piled high with glistening, fatty kebabs.

Made with cucumber, yogurt, mint, walnuts, and rose petals, it’s simple, refreshing, and exactly the kind of dish I crave during the long summer months.

Serves: 4–6

Ingredients

• 500 g (2 cups) Greek yogurt

• 250 g (about 2 cups) coarsely grated cucumber

• 2 teaspoons dried mint

• ¼ teaspoon kosher salt, or more to taste

• Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

For garnish

• Walnuts, roughly chopped

• Dried rose petals

• Fresh mint, finely or roughly chopped

• Extra virgin olive oil, for drizzling

Method

Grate the cucumber, but don’t bother squeezing out the excess water—the cucumber will naturally loosen the thick Greek yogurt.

In a medium bowl, fold together the yogurt, grated cucumber, dried mint, salt, and black pepper until well combined.

Transfer to a serving bowl and garnish with the walnuts, rose petals, fresh mint, and a generous drizzle of olive oil.

Serve chilled alongside grilled meats, rice dishes such as machboos, or simply with warm flatbread.

On scorching summer days, my mom would serve a bowl of cold cherries over ice as an afternoon snack. The bowl would arrive beaded with condensation, a small relief from the relentless heat outside.

Her deepest fear, reflected in her worried eyes whenever I reached for another handful, was staining my clothes.

They burst in your mouth with the first bite, filling you with joy as you work your way through the bowl, completely unaware of the red-violet stains dotted across your shirt. Sticky fingers, stained lips, and a growing pile of pits were all part of the ritual. I could never escape the scolding that followed. The damage had already been done.

I’ve come to realise that removing cherry stains from clothing is a formidable challenge.

Yet those stains became part of the memory. Even now, the sight of fresh cherries reminds me of summer afternoons spent chasing sweetness without a second thought.

As a child, I was heavily influenced by Western animated shows.

The word “pie” entered my vocabulary through American cartoons. I saw steaming pies cooling on windowsills, characters diving face-first into them, and golden crusts that seemed to symbolize comfort and abundance.

When I asked my mom, “What’s a pie?” she replied in a cheerful tone, “It’s fattera.”

That answer made perfect sense to me at the time. In my imagination, pie became a distant cousin of the pastries I already knew, something familiar yet mysterious.

Years later, when I discovered my passion for baking, I learned how to make a pie. I also learned the hard way that the climate of the UAE is not particularly friendly to pie dough. Butter softens quickly, dough becomes fragile, and every step requires patience.

Still, there was something deeply satisfying about mastering a dessert I had first encountered through cartoons.

This recipe is a collection of memory fragments.

It brings together childhood summers, animated fantasies, and the flavours that surround me today.

Sumac brings a floral tang that adds brightness and freshness, cutting through the richness of the filling.

Mahlab contributes a sweet aroma reminiscent of vanilla and almonds, with a gentle earthy note that lingers in the background.

Date syrup adds a sweet, tangy depth and acts as a bridge between all these flavours, tying them together into something that feels both familiar and new.

Together, these ingredients transform a classic cherry pie into something more personal—a dessert shaped by memory, place, and the unexpected connections between them.

Ingredients:

Double

260g ( 1 cup ) unsalted butter (chilled,cubed)

310g ( 2 1/2 cups) all purpose flour

1 tablespoon of sugar

1 teaspoon of salt

120 ml (1/2 cup) iced water

Method :

In large bowl mix together flour, sugar & salt.

If you’re using your hands ( which I highly recommend ) rub the butter into flour until it resembles walnut or grape size.

Or use pastry cuter or two forks and cut the butter into the flour until it resembles the mentioned size above.

You can use food processor but I find it tricky because sometimes you tend to over do it and you get kinda biscuity crust.

You can try it, I won’t stop you.

Once you get the request size of the butter, make a well in the center and add iced water 1 tablespoon at a time, stir by using rubber spatula & wooden spoon until the dough starts to comes together it’s should be moist but not wet.

On lightly floured surface shape the dough to a ball Cut the dough in half and flatten it into two discs. Cover each one tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least one hour.

Refrigerate the dough up to three days, and freeze up to three months

5 cups (900g) stemmed and pitted fresh cherries

1/2 cup (100g) granulated/ caster sugar ( add more if you are using sour cherries)

2 tablespoons date molasses

3 tablespoons cornstarch

1/2 teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice ( less for sour cherries)

Grated zest from ½ lemon

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

2 tablespoons of sumac

1 teaspoon of mahlab

2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into mini cubes (optional)

Cream or milk, for brushing the top crust Coarse or granulated sugar, for sprinkling

Preheat oven to 425F/220C. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and place in the lower third of the oven.
Make the cherry filling: In a medium bowl, mix together sugar, date molasses ,cornstarch, and salt. Stir in cherries. Add lemon juice and zest, vanilla extract, sumac & mahlab , and mix to combine. Set aside for 10 minutes.

On floured surface using a floured rolling pin roll out the dough to 12 inches circle, then unroll loosely into the pan press the dough gently to cover the sides and the bottom of the pan. Make sure to brush off the excess flour.

If the dough is too hot..refrigerate it for 5 minutes.

Spread the cherry filling in an even layer add the cold butter if you want to.

Repeat the same thing with second pie, place the second layer over the dough the way you want it.

crimp the edges using your fingers or a fork. Brush the crust with a thin coating of milk or cream, then sprinkle with sugar.

Bake for 15 minutes, then reduce heat to 375F/190C and carry on with the basking until the crust is golden brown and juices are bubbling about 40-50 minutes longer.

Let it cool down for 4 hours, serve with cream or ice cream or even custard.

Cover the edges of the pie loosely with foil if it starts to brown too fast while baking.

Let the pie cool for 4 hours, serve with ice cream or cold cream.

notes : If you are covering the pie with whole dough Make small slits in the center to let steam escape while baking.

Add 50g of sugar if you are using sour cherry about 3 tablespoons

If the dough started to get soggy return it to the fridge.The pie should be baked cold preferably frozen.

If you can’t find mahlab you can use tonka bean or seeds from vanilla bean instead.

I’m Majed.

I was born in Dubai and raised between Ajman and Sharjah in kitchens where no one measured anything and the food was better for it. Amid the sound of clattering pots and pans and watching my mother cook as child and teaching myself to in bake in teenage days, I fell into food writing. That was ten years ago. I’m still here.

The Cinnaman started as a recipe blog. And identity you could say an alter ego.

It became something harder to explain — part food diary, part love letter to a place, part excuse to keep eating and writing about it.

I’m on Substack now because I wanted to slow down. Write longer. Share things that don’t fit a caption.

I’m Emirati The food is usually the starting point. But what I’m really trying to do is show you a version of the UAE that most people never see. Not the skyscrapers and the yachts. The stuff underneath the way a house smells

The night before Eid, a grandmother’s cozy kitchen in Ramadan, a vintage bakery that’s been in the same spot for thirty years, the specific comfort of gahwa infused with saffron poured by someone who already knows how you take it.

That’s what this newsletter is about. Recipes, for sure. But also memory, place, and the meals that end up meaning more than you expected.

Come as you are. Stay as long as you like.

— Majed Ali

One of the little things I remember from childhood is that whenever my mother wanted to say no to something, she rarely said “no.” Instead, she’d say بالمشمش (bel mishmish) “when apricots are in season” usually with a little snicker, as if she already knew it would never happen.

Back then, I had no idea what it meant, but I liked it much more than hearing a flat, sharp no. It sounded softer, as if there was still a chance a way of dressing up a rejection in something sweet. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized it actually referred to something much bigger.

The phrase comes from apricot season itself. In many parts of the Arab world, especially the Levant, apricot season is incredibly short just a few brief weeks at the start of summer. For that fleeting moment, the trees are dappled with bright orange clusters, and the markets overflow with small, plump fruit. People stock up for the rest of the year, turning apricots into golden jam, jars piled high in the pantry, or simmering them down into qamar al-din, sheets of fruit leather dried in the sun. Then, just as quickly as it arrived, the season departs. Because it comes and goes so fast, “when apricots are in season” became a way of talking about something that’s unlikely to happen don’t hold your breath, the window is far too narrow.

I was thinking about that phrase while making this salad. Apricots are one of those fruits that remind you how fleeting a season can be. Paired with purslane, which we grow here in the UAE alongside spinach during this time of year, it makes for a light, cooling salad that feels very much like the beginning of summer.

It takes less than ten minutes to prepare, and it’s a perfect addition to a barbecue spread or a light, cooling snack on its own.

Apricot, Purslane & Almond Salad with Honey & Pomegranate Dressing

Serves 4

Ingredients

• 100g (about 4 cups) purslane, roughly chopped

• 200g (about 1½ cups) apricots, sliced or quartered depending on size

• 50g (about ½ cup) toasted almonds, roughly chopped

• 2 tablespoons mint leaves, finely chopped

• 1 tablespoon sesame seeds (optional)

Honey & Pomegranate Dressing

• 1 tablespoon pomegranate molasses

• 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

• 1 teaspoon honey

• Pinch of salt

Method

1. Place the purslane, apricots, almonds, mint, and sesame seeds (if using) in a large bowl.

2. In a small bowl, whisk together the pomegranate molasses, olive oil, honey, and salt.

3. Pour the dressing over the salad and toss gently to coat.

4. Serve immediately.

Notes

• Any soft stone fruit works well here, such as peaches, nectarines, or plums.

• Baby spinach or arugula make excellent substitutes for purslane.

• Crumbled feta or soft goat’s cheese is a lovely addition.

Baklava in ice cream? My friend said it sounded absurd.

But I first tasted it in a Ramadan tent in Dubai — bowls of ice cream swirled with baklava, creamy, cold, sweet, and flaky all at once.

I even developed my own version back then, when Ramadan still fell in the heat of summer.

It became one of those recipes I carried with me, and about ten years ago, when I started blogging, I shared it for the first time.

Now I just want to bring it back — to taste it again under the summer sun.

serves 14-16

ingredients:

1 can of 396 ml sweetened condensed milk

2 teaspoons vanilla extract or vanilla bean paste or beans from 1 vanilla pod.

1/2 teaspoon sea salt

1 teaspoon of ground cinnamon

500 ml ( 2 cups) heavy whipping cream

250g baklava (chopped)

60ml (1/4 cup) honey ( optional )

Method:

In a medium bowl whisk together condensed milk, vanilla, sea salt and cinnamon.

Place whipping cream, whisk attachment, mixing bowl in a freezer for 15 minutes

Whip the cream until stiff peaks form, about 4-5 minutes or more.

fold in condensed milk into whipping cream until well-combined ( do not over mix), baklava and fold again Pour into a loaf pan then drizzle honey on top and use a knife to create swirls.

cover with plastic wrap and store in the freezer until the ice cream firms for 10 hours or overnight.

Serve with more honey or nuts if desired, enjoy

People often reduce the UAE, or anywhere in the Arabian Peninsula, to deserts and camels. While that image isn’t entirely untrue, it leaves out so much of the story.

Back in the 1970s, agriculture was never considered something naturally suited to this land. The climate was harsh, the summers unforgiving, and for a long time the palm tree was one of the few things that could truly survive here, standing proudly against the elements. But over time, things changed dramatically. Following the establishment of the UAE, there was a growing focus on sustainability and encouraging people to cultivate the land rather than rely entirely on imports.

Even now, farming here comes with limits. From early autumn until mid-spring, the harvest is bountiful. But once summer arrives from June until August growing most crops becomes nearly impossible. The heat simply takes over. September marks the beginning of a new farming season, while May signals its final departure.

Lately, I’ve started growing radishes at home. My mother mocked the idea at first because she had never heard of anyone growing them here before. But, contrary to expectations, this is actually their season in the UAE, and they grew beautifully.

Their deep carmine bulbs, crowned with vibrant green leaves, create a contrast that is surprisingly soothing to the eye.

Honestly, growing something with your own hands here feels quietly miraculous. One of the greatest pleasures I’ve come to know.

These radishes usually end up on our breakfast table early in the morning, alongside the staples that rarely leave our weekend table: eggs, salty cheese, olive oil, dill, and za’atar. Nothing elaborate, just a simple breakfast that everyone assembles to their liking, tearing bread, dipping it into olive oil, and reaching for whatever catches their eye.

So today, I wanted to share one of those early summer breakfasts with you built around a handful of freshly pulled radishes from the garden.

Egg, Radish & Feta Breakfast Platter

Serves 2–3

Produce

• A handful of radishes (about 250 g), thinly sliced

• 1 small bunch dill, leaves picked

Pantry

• Extra-virgin olive oil

• Za’atar

• Flaky salt and freshly ground black pepper

• Sourdough or your favourite bread, for serving

Dairy & Eggs

• 4–6 large eggs (I usually make 3 for myself)

• 200 g good feta cheese, labneh balls in olive oil, or shanklish. Most days, I use feta preserved in olive oil, which is easy to find in Middle Eastern grocery stores.

Method

Cook the eggs
Bring a small pot of water to a boil. Gently lower in the eggs and cook for 7 minutes. Transfer to an ice bath and leave until cool enough to handle. If you prefer, you can simply serve them hard-boiled.

Prepare the radishes
Thinly slice the radishes, about the thickness of a coin. Soak them in the ice bath for a minute or two to crisp up, then pat dry.

Assemble
Arrange the radishes, cheese, and dill on a serving platter. Peel the eggs, cut them in half, and nestle them alongside the radishes. Drizzle with olive oil, if using, then finish with flaky salt, black pepper, and a generous spoonful of za’atar.

Serve with warm bread and let everyone assemble their breakfast as they please.

I keep recalling that first bite — the delicate crackle of phyllo, the crunchy filling tucked between the layers. There is something deeply comforting about baklava to me: the crisp nuttiness, the sticky sweetness of the syrup, the way it shatters slightly with every bite. As someone obsessed with crunchy textures, it always brings a strange sense of satisfaction.

Personally, I prefer baklava a little less sweet, Therefore I wanted to make my own version. I came up with this pistachio and chocolate baklava, drenched in a lightly sweetened espresso syrup that adds a deeper, toastier nuttiness to the whole dessert.

Method

Thaw the phyllo

Thaw the phyllo overnight in the refrigerator, or at room temperature for 1½–2 hours.

Make the filling

Place the pistachios, dark chocolate, and cinnamon in a food processor. Pulse until the nuts and chocolate are finely chopped, about the size of lentils. Set aside.

Assemble the baklava

Unfold the phyllo pastry and keep the sheets covered with a clean kitchen towel to prevent them from drying out.

Brush the bottom of a 9 × 13-inch (23 × 33 cm) baking dish with some of the melted butter.

Place one sheet of phyllo in the dish and brush lightly with melted butter. Don’t soak the pastry. Repeat, keeping the remaining phyllo covered each time you remove a sheet.

Layer the baklava in the following order:

• 10 buttered phyllo sheets

• ⅓ of the filling

• 10 buttered phyllo sheets

• ⅓ of the filling

• 10 buttered phyllo sheets

• ⅓ of the filling

• 10 buttered phyllo sheets

Bake

Position a rack in the centre of the oven and preheat the oven to 356°F./180°C (160°C fan).

Using a thin, sharp knife , cut the baklava into a diamond pattern with 1½-inch (4 cm) diamonds before baking.

Bake for 40–45 minutes, or until deeply golden. Transfer the pan to a wire rack and let it cool completely. Run the knife through the cut lines once more to help the syrup absorb evenly.

Make the syrup

While the baklava is baking,, water, espresso powder, and cardamom in a small saucepan. Bring to a gentle simmer over medium heat, stirring occasionally until the sugar has dissolved, about 5 minutes.

Remove from the heat and let the syrup cool for 5 minutes.

Pour the warm syrup evenly over the hot baklava, making sure it runs into the cut lines and around the edges of the pan.

Allow the baklava to cool completely, then leave it to rest for 24 hours before serving so the pastry can fully absorb the syrup.

Tips

• You can use only pistachios if you prefer, or substitute hazelnuts. Any nut works—it’s simply a matter of personal preference.

• Don’t use milk chocolate or dark chocolate with less than 60% cocoa. The extra sugar and lower cocoa content will make the baklava overly sweet and less balanced.

• You can omit the espresso powder if you’re not a coffee fan. Don’t worry—I won’t hate you for it.

• For the best texture and flavour, leave the baklava overnight (or ideally 24 hours) after adding the syrup.

When I first immersed myself in baking and cooking, it was met with resistance from my parents. Especially my father, who was known as a respected figure within our community.

Somewhere between fear and control, my relationship with food became confined.

That feeling is deeply familiar within many traditional Arab communities, especially if you are male. You are praised with pride if you become a doctor or an engineer, yet anything outside of that can invite a degrading glare shaped by fear and social judgement.

“His son is a home cook.”

The phrase alone elicited an extraordinary display of vitriol.

My father carried discomfort around being associated with culinary work within the family, especially when it came to his own son. So we formed an unspoken agreement: not even the whiff of cooking or baking was to cross our house walls.

Fear of society was planted early and grew alongside the seed of passion.

Eventually, I created a vessel — a small window through which I could share anonymously. A place where I could reveal myself while remaining hidden. I called it The Cinnaman.

Through it, I built an identity shaped by the words I wrote, the photographs I took, the recipes I became attached to, and the atmosphere of the world I created for myself as a safe space. Somehow, this quiet alter ego managed to hold people’s attention for almost ten years. Even now, I still consider myself an old-fashioned food blogger.

Yet every time someone recognised me in public and said,

“You’re Majed Ali… you’re The Cinnaman,”

my heart would clutch in terror at the feeling of being exposed.

Majed Ali was the name I feared hearing out loud within the food world. Yet strangely, I never minded seeing it printed or featured in media outlets.

Then came the Venice Biennale.

For the first time, I stood there physically as Majed Ali, serving food as myself rather than through The Cinnaman. I met people face to face instead of through carefully framed images and captions.

The Cinnaman was no longer present.

I was the protagonist of my own story.

Ever since returning from Venice, I have been trying to unravel a strange emotional shift within me. The name that once protected me suddenly began to feel too small for the person I was becoming. People perceived me differently, and for the first time, I perceived myself differently too.

And with that came a strange realisation:

perhaps The Cinnaman had already served its purpose.

Maybe Venice cracked open the cocoon.

Now I find myself overwhelmed by eleutheromania, as though I have finally realised that I am far more than the mould I created for myself in order to survive.

For now, The Cinnaman is no longer in charge.

What comes next, I still do not fully know. Even my relationship with the food world itself feels uncertain at the moment.

All I know is that something shifted in me after Venice.

And now, I’m trying to navigate what comes next.

Whether it’s time to fold the apron quietly and let it rest,

or carry it with me into a different kind of life.

My very first moment was resting my head against a velvet green seat on a boat drifting through the Venice canals, letting the Italian sun caress my skin while my eyes adjusted to the sky, watching Venetian Picturesque domes and architecture passing through my sight as we sailed towards the pavilion.

And here I was in Venice, tying an apron around my waist and serving a savoury dish to almost three thousand guests.

We meant to cooked our dishes a day before the serving day in an industrial kitchen owned by a catering company. Being the only food blogger there among experienced chefs somehow made me realize how differently things work compared to a home kitchen. To be able to work with Fadi Kattan and Noor Murad and To be able to work alongside them and soak up some of their experience was itself a privilege.

Ironically, after years of sharing desserts, for the first time on stage I was serving a savoury dish inspired by the national dish harees, which Fadi insisted I create and serve.

Noor Murad was about to serve mourabian, a dish of prawn with bulgur cooked tamarind, and black lime, but surprisingly one of the ingredients we couldn’t source was cumin. We were given caraway seeds instead. After much debate, it turned out that caraway is referred to as cumin in parts of Italy, which made our mission a little challenging and left Noor slightly depleted. Some amendments had to be made, and we had to continue with the dish without cumin.

Me, Noor, and the other chefs shared a station to assemble and serve guests small ramekins of our dishes. Most of the time all I saw were widened eyes followed by “mmmm” and “yum.” Some guests came over saying my dish reminded them of home, especially Emirati guests, who said there was such a strong sense of belonging in the flavours. It made me realize how underrepresented and under-showcased our cuisine still is — the spices, the aromas, everything about home.

Speaking of cumin, the first thing I came home to share is a cumin lentil stew with lemony labneh an ode to the spice that was missing in Italy.

Serves 4–6

A pot of lentils has always felt like home to me. Quiet food. The kind that fills the kitchen with warmth long before it reaches the table. After Venice, after long cooking days and serving hundreds of people, this is the sort of dish I wanted to return to — something grounded, comforting, deeply scented with cumin, and generous enough to share.

Ingredients

• 3 tbsp (45g) olive oil

• 1 large onion, finely chopped

• 4 garlic cloves, sliced

• 1½ tsp ground cumin

• 1 tsp cumin seeds

• 1 tsp coriander seeds, lightly crushed

• 1 tsp sweet paprika

• ¼–½ tsp chilli flakes

• 1 tsp black pepper

• ½ tsp turmeric

• 1 tbsp (15g) tomato paste

• ¾ cup (200g) passata

• 1 cup (200g) brown or green lentils, rinsed

• 5 cups (1.2 litres) water or stock

• Salt, to taste

• Juice of ½ lemon

• ½ cup loosely packed (15g) finely chopped coriander

• Fresh oregano leaves for garnish

Lemony Labneh

• 1¼–1½ cups (400g) labneh or thick yogurt

• Juice and zest of 2 lemons

Mix the labneh, lemon juice, and zest together until smooth and well combined. Set aside until ready to serve.

To Serve

• Crispy onions or shallots

• Olive oil

• Thick bread or toasted flatbread

Method

1. Heat the olive oil in a heavy pot over medium heat. Add the onion with a pinch of salt and cook slowly until deeply softened and lightly golden, around 10–15 minutes.

2. Stir in the garlic, ground cumin, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, paprika, chilli flakes, black pepper, and turmeric. Cook for 1–2 minutes until fragrant.

3. Add the tomato paste and cook until it darkens slightly and coats the onions.

4. Add the lentils, passata, and water or stock. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer gently for 35–45 minutes, until the lentils are soft and the stew thickens.

5. Season with salt to your taste and finish with the lemon juice. Fold through the chopped coriander. If the stew thickens too much, loosen it with a splash of hot water.

6. Spoon the lemony labneh onto a large serving bowl or shallow plate. Ladle the warm cumin lentils over the top and finish with crispy onions or shallots and another drizzle of olive oil. Serve with warm bread alongside.

Rhubarb was one of those ingredients that stayed unfamiliar to me for quite some time. We don’t grow it, and it’s not something we import in abundance simply because it has little to do with our food culture, and it rarely finds its way into SWANA or Asian kitchens. To me, it lived quietly on the pages of cookbooks, in that bright maroon shade, almost like a celery stalk.

With time, my curiosity grew. I wanted to understand it, to see what it could become in my own kitchen.

A friend once brought me a generous bundle of rhubarb all the way from the UK to the UAE. I still remember the joy of unwrapping it. Since then, I found myself flipping through pages, browsing endlessly, trying everything from soft cakes to hearty crumbles, inviting galettes, even elegant trifles.

But personally, the most satisfying way to enjoy rhubarb is as a compote. That sweet, sharp edge almost liquorice like lingers, with soft floral notes that stay a little longer than expected.

For this, I made a pretzel tart with labneh and rhubarb. Salty, sweet, and sour it feels like a small journey through an enchanted forest.

Ingredients

Crust

• 170 g (about 1½ cups crumbs) pretzels

• 55 g (¼ cup) brown sugar

• ¼ teaspoon (heaping) salt

• 115 g (½ cup) unsalted butter, melted

Rhubarb Compote

• 225 g (about 1½ cups) rhubarb, roughly chopped

• 60 g (¼ cup) water

• 38 g (3 tablespoons) granulated sugar

• 1 star anise

• 1 clove

• a few thin strips (from about ⅛ lemon or orange) citrus peel

• ⅛ teaspoon vanilla

Filling

• 500 g (about 2 cups) labneh

• 100 g (¾ cup) powdered sugar

• 1 teaspoon vanilla

⸻

Method

Crust

1. Preheat oven to 180°C (350°F).

2. Blitz the pretzels, brown sugar, and salt into fine crumbs. Add melted butter and pulse to combine.

3. Press into the base and sides of a 10-inch tart pan.

4. Bake for 8–10 minutes until set. Cool completely.

Rhubarb Compote

1. Combine rhubarb, water, sugar, star anise, clove, and citrus peel in a saucepan.

2. Cook over medium-high heat, stirring occasionally, until the rhubarb breaks down. Discard star anise and clove.

3. Mash lightly to your desired texture.

4. Remove from heat, stir in vanilla, and cool completely.

Filling

• Whisk labneh, powdered sugar, and vanilla until smooth and thick.

⸻

Assemble

• Pour the filling into the cooled crust and smooth the surface.

• Dollop the cooled compote over the top.

• Swirl gently with a skewer or knife to create soft waves.

• garnish with nuts if desired

⸻

Notes

• Extra compote is excellent on toast with cream cheese.