I was seven years old the first time I understood that some words carry weight before you even know why. “I’m putting together the dough for saj bread tonight,” my mom would announce, and just like that, the whole next day belonged to something bigger than us.

It meant the house would be full before the sun was fully up. It meant neighbors letting themselves in, still half asleep, drawn by nothing but habit and love. It meant my mother, sitting on the same little wooden stool her own mother once sat on, in front of a dome shaped iron saj, doing something she absolutely did not have to do.

Because here’s the thing. She could have bought the bread. It was sold, ready made, minutes away. Cheaper than her time, easier than her mornings. And still, every few months, she chose the stool. She chose the dough. She chose the whole exhausting ritual of it, in weather that was somehow always too hot or too cold, never anything in between.

I didn’t get it. Why do this to yourself when the easier version exists on a shelf?

The neighbors would arrive early, before the day had really opened its eyes, and gather around her. We’d all just sit there, half in a trance, watching her take a round piece of dough into her hands and stretch it, spin it, coax it wider and thinner over the taira, and then slam it onto the saj with a sound that still lives somewhere in my chest. Bread after bread after bread. And at the end, almost like a reward for showing up, she’d make us little saj manakish, and we’d all sit around a huge teapot, drinking and eating together, in no rush to be anywhere else.

It took me a long time, maybe decades, to understand that the bread was never really the point. The work was the point. The work was her way of saying, come sit with me, stay a while, let’s be together on purpose. She wasn’t making bread. She was making a reason.

Now I make that bread myself, about once every three months, and something funny happens every time. I become her.

When my mom came to visit me here, I watched her test this recipe with the same tirelessness she’s always had, except now she was solving an entirely different puzzle. In Lebanon, a saj is just there, part of the landscape, usually set up outside with its own dedicated corner of life. Here, I had none of that. So while we were out thrifting one day, she spotted an old wok and said, that’s it, that’s our saj now. Flip it upside down, and it becomes the dome. Problem one, solved.

Problem two was the flour. My mom’s original recipe calls for something called Australian flour, which back home is the standard, but which I could not find anywhere near me for love or money. So she adapted, the way she’s adapted everything her whole life. She substituted bread flour, added whole wheat flour, and in Lebanon, she also uses corn flour for a specific fineness you can only really get there.

Her original measurements were built for a full household, three kilos of Australian flour, one kilo of whole wheat, one kilo of corn flour. Converting that for two people making bread in a regular kitchen was its own small research project. What we landed on, after trial and error, was three cups of bread flour and two cups of whole wheat flour, and we left the corn flour out entirely, because the corn flour available here just doesn’t behave the same way the finer version does back home.

It’s almost her exact recipe. Just translated, the way we’ve had to translate so much else.

I’m putting the full recipe below, every measurement, every step, every detail we stumbled through to get here. Honestly, I don’t fully know why I’m sharing it today of all days. But I have this feeling, and I trust it, that somebody out there is looking for exactly this. Maybe someone else is standing in a kitchen far from where they grew up, missing a stool and a saj and a mother’s hands. If you roll it thin, this makes beautiful traditional saj bread. If you don’t roll it quite as thin, it makes an equally wonderful manakish base.

I don’t know who you are, whoever ends up reading this and actually making it. But I have a feeling you exist, and I hope this finds you.

Traditional Lebanese Saj Bread

Makes: About 30 saj breads

Ingredients

* 3 cups bread flour

* 2 cups whole wheat flour

* 1 tablespoon active dry yeast

* 1 tablespoon sugar

* 1 tablespoon salt

* About 5–6 cups warm water (I used about 5 cups total)

* ½ cup corn flour

* ½ cup all-purpose flour

Tools

* Stand mixer with dough hook

* Rolling pin

* Upside-down wok or saj

* Round tray covered tightly with a clean kitchen towel (tara)

Method

Mix the yeast, sugar, and 1½ cups warm water. Let sit for 5 minutes until foamy.

Add the bread flour and whole wheat flour to the bowl of your stand mixer. Pour in the yeast mixture and begin mixing. The dough will look sandy at first.

Continue adding the remaining warm water ½ cup at a time, allowing each addition to fully absorb before adding more. About 4 minutes into mixing, add the salt and continue adding water as needed. Mix for 8–10 minutes total. I used about 5 cups of water altogether, but every flour is different.

The dough is ready when it pulls away from the sides of the bowl, no longer sticks to your hands, and feels smooth and firm, similar to Play-Doh.

Mix together the corn flour and all-purpose flour. Dust a large tray with the mixture. Pinch off pieces of dough, tuck the edges underneath to form smooth balls, and place them seam-side down on the tray, leaving space between each one. Cover with a damp kitchen towel and let rise for at least 3 hours.

Heat an upside-down wok over medium-high heat until very hot.

Working with one dough ball at a time, keep the remaining dough covered. Lightly dust your work surface, then stretch the dough into a thin circle using your hands, lifting and gently pulling as you go. Finish with a rolling pin to create an even thickness.

Transfer the dough onto your towel-covered tara. Lightly mist the hot wok with water, then quickly flip the dough onto the surface. Cook for about 30 seconds on one side only, then remove and immediately cover with a clean towel. Repeat with the remaining dough. The bread will soften as it rests.

Stack several breads together, place a plate on top, and trim around it with a sharp knife to create perfect circles.

Bonus: Homemade Saj Crackers

Cut the trimmings into bite-sized pieces, toss with olive oil or avocado oil and a pinch of salt, then bake at 375°F for 10–15 minutes, or until golden and crispy.

I also shot this recipe for YouTube watch it here

Thank you for reading,

Hind.

The recipes I love the most are rarely the ones that come out of nowhere.

They usually start with a memory.

A dish I watched someone make.
A flavor I grew up with.
A technique that was passed down so casually that no one thought to write it down.

That’s the beauty of food traditions. They are always moving.

They change with seasons. They change with the person cooking them. They travel across oceans and somehow still manage to feel like home.

This cake started two falls ago with a question:

What if I made a basbousa, but gave it a different life?

Basbousa is one of those desserts that feels like home to me. The semolina, the syrup, the orange blossom, the texture. It’s simple, but it carries so much history.

I wanted to take the soul of basbousa and turn it into something that reflected the way I cook now.

I wanted a semolina cake, but I wanted to top it with poached pears.

Something that felt Lebanese at its core but also connected to the places I’ve traveled, the desserts I’ve tasted, and the way food constantly influences us.

That’s how this cake was born.

Not as a replacement for basbousa.
Not as a reinvention.
But as a continuation.

A recipe evolving the way recipes have always evolved.

This summer, when stone fruits started showing up everywhere, I knew I had to try it again.

Because that’s the real gift of summer.

Not just the heat.
Not just longer days.

The fruit.

Stone fruit specifically.

Berries are great, but a plum? An apricot? A cherry?

That’s a completely different conversation.

I kept thinking about an apricot almond tart I had in France. It stayed with me the way certain foods do. Not because it was complicated, but because it respected the fruit.

So I swapped the pears for apricots.

And somehow, it felt exactly right.

The apricots soften in the oven but still hold their shape. They become jammy around the edges, slightly tart, and balanced by the sweetness of the cake underneath.

I made this cake for my new neighbors who recently moved from New York to Raleigh.

When I first moved onto my street nine years ago, my neighbors welcomed me in the sweetest ways. One brought me a basket with different kinds of pasta, marinara sauce, and a block of Parmesan. Another brought wine and chocolate cake.

I still remember how that felt.

Moving somewhere new can be overwhelming. Those small gestures remind you that you belong.

And now, after almost a decade here, I wanted to keep that tradition alive.

I baked the cake, packed it up while it was still warm, and brought it over with a bottle of Nescafé iced latte.

That iced coffee has become my year-round drink. It’s simple, inexpensive, and honestly, after too many disappointing coffee shop lattes in Raleigh, I stopped chasing them.

Sometimes the simple things are the ones you return to.

The cake itself is everything I love about desserts from the region I come from.

It’s soft and spongy but still has texture because of the semolina. It’s soaked with orange blossom syrup that comes together in less than five minutes. It’s fragrant without being overwhelming.

And then there’s the little detail everyone keeps asking me about:

How I prep my baking dish.

I use tahini.

This is something millions of people across the Arab world do. It’s how many of us grew up preparing our baking pans. It helps the cake release beautifully, and I love that it carries a tiny piece of our kitchen traditions into something that might look unfamiliar.

I also sprinkle coarse semolina over the tahini before adding the batter. It creates a delicate crust at the bottom, although it’s completely optional.

These are the little things I love documenting.

The habits that seem ordinary when you grow up with them, but become fascinating when you share them with someone else.

Because that’s what food does.

It gives us a reason to ask questions.

Why do you do it that way?
Who taught you?
Where did this come from?

And somewhere in those questions, we find each other.

Apricot Semolina Cake

Ingredients

For the cake

• 4 large eggs

• 1/3 cup sugar

• 1 tsp vanilla

• Zest of 1 lemon

• 1 cup all-purpose flour

• 3/4 cup fine semolina

• 1 cup plain yogurt

• 3/4 cup olive oil

• 2 tsp baking powder

• 1/4 tsp baking soda

• Pinch of salt

• Fresh apricots, halved

• Turbinado sugar, for sprinkling

For the pan

• Tahini, for greasing

• Coarse semolina for coating (or fine semolina if that’s what you have)

Simple Syrup

• 1 cup sugar

• 1 cup water

• Squeeze of lemon

• Splash of orange blossom water

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C).

2. Grease your baking dish with tahini, then coat it with coarse semolina (or fine semolina if that’s all you have).

3. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs, sugar, vanilla, and lemon zest until light and fluffy.

4. Add the flour, fine semolina, yogurt, olive oil, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Mix just until combined.

5. Pour the batter into the prepared baking dish. Arrange the apricot halves on top and sprinkle with a little turbinado sugar.

6. Bake for about 40 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Broil for 3–4 minutes to caramelize the top, watching carefully.

7. While the cake bakes, make the syrup by boiling the sugar and water together for about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and stir in a squeeze of lemon and a splash of orange blossom water.

8. Let the cake rest for 10 minutes after baking. While both the cake and syrup are still warm, slowly pour the syrup over the cake. I use the entire batch, but if you prefer a less sweet cake, use only as much as you like.

Tip: Fine semolina gives the cake its soft texture. Orange blossom water can be found at most Middle Eastern markets or online

.

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Thank you for being here.

From the outside, it might look like my life has been moving because of social media. But the biggest changes happened where no one could see them.

I’ve been moving emotionally.

My mindset has shifted in ways I never expected. For years I questioned myself. I researched quietly. I tested recipes over and over. I second-guessed whether I knew enough to speak with confidence. Somewhere along the way, that impostor syndrome became one of my smallest worries.

Today, I’m comfortable saying, yes, I’ve done the research.

Yes, I’ve tested it.

And yes, I still have so much left to learn.

Because the more I learn, the more I realize that no one ever truly knows it all.

If you’ve followed me for a while, you’ve probably noticed something.

I’m obsessed with my heritage.

Actually, I’m obsessed with everyone’s heritage.

The thing that moves me most isn’t a fancy restaurant or a perfectly plated dish. It’s the quiet wisdom that lived inside our grandmothers’ kitchens.

Those women gave us our very first survival kit.

They taught us how to stretch ingredients when money was tight. They showed us how to save scraps instead of throwing them away. They knew what to plant, when to harvest, what season belonged to which vegetable, and how to feed an entire family with what most people would overlook.

They carried generations of knowledge.

And somehow, they gave it away so generously.

That generosity is what I’m passionate about preserving.

I love the way they tested recipes until they became instinct. I love the confidence they had in their cooking. They trusted their hands, their senses, and their memories more than any cookbook.

(I secretly love their ego.)

At my core, I’m simply a good listener.

I’m a recipe recorder.

I’m a recipe tester.

Don’t get me wrong, I love creating. I love making recipes my own. Creativity is one of my favorite parts of cooking.

But I love documenting just as much.

People sometimes ask me where my recipes come from.

My answer is usually simple.

My memory.

My experiences.

The countless kitchens I’ve quietly invited myself into just to watch someone cook.

To stand beside a grandmother while she tells me why she stirs something a certain way.

To ask why she adds that pinch of spice.

To hear the story behind a dish that’s been made every Sunday for fifty years.

Passionate home cooks usually welcome you in.

Most of them love sharing.

Because cooking isn’t just about feeding people.

It’s deeply personal.

The smallest habits reveal so much. The ingredients someone refuses to leave out. The shortcuts they’ll never take. The flavors they grew up craving.

Food tells you who people are before they ever say a word.

My dream job has become incredibly clear.

I want to travel from kitchen to kitchen around the world.

Not the glamorous kitchens.

The lived-in ones.

The ones with worn cutting boards, handwritten recipes tucked into drawers, and decades of family meals behind them.

I want to sit with the matriarch of every family, notebook in one hand and an old camera in the other, documenting what may be some of the greatest chefs on Earth.

The ones who will casually tell you,

“My grandmother taught me this.”

Over these past six months, I’ve had conversations with restaurant owners, chefs, aspiring chefs, culinary students studying abroad, and home cooks who have tested my recipes.

What surprised me most is how much we all have in common.

Every single one of us is still learning.

I now have incredible chefs following me on Instagram, not because I know everything, but because sometimes I can provide context they haven’t experienced. Sometimes I can answer a question rooted in Lebanese cooking. Other times it’s something I picked up while traveling, watching, listening, or simply paying attention.

I’ve made observation my greatest skill.

I collect techniques the way some people collect souvenirs.

And I hope to spend the rest of my life collecting more.

So today, we’re going back to the basics.

Not because simple food is less important.

Because it’s often the food that shapes us most.

Lebanese vermicelli rice was dinner more times than I can count growing up.

Sometimes it was served beside yogurt with a sprinkle of salt.

Nothing else.

Just warm rice, creamy yogurt, and a quiet family dinner.

It was comforting.

It was affordable.

It was uncomplicated.

And somehow, it tasted like home every single time.

Today, I want to share that version with you.

One that has fed generations before us.

And one little trick that I now refuse to make rice without.

Lebanese Vermicelli Rice

Ingredients

• 2 cups basmati rice

• 3½ cups boiling water (or follow the water ratio on your package of rice if it’s different)

• 1 tablespoon ghee or 1 tablespoon butter

• A small splash of olive oil

• Vermicelli noodles (as much or as little as you like, I personally love a generous amount.)

• 1 tablespoon salt

• 1 stalk fresh lemongrass

A note on vermicelli: You’ll find it at most Middle Eastern grocery stores. Turkish brands are easier to find, but I still prefer Lebanese brands. Turn the package over and check where it’s made if you’re curious.

Method

1. Rinse your basmati rice several times until the water runs completely clear. Drain it thoroughly and set it aside.

2. Heat the ghee or butter along with a small splash of olive oil to keep it from browning too quickly.

3. Add the vermicelli noodles and stir continuously until they’re a deep golden brown. Watch them carefully, they can burn in seconds.

4. Add the drained rice to the pot. Sprinkle in the salt and gently stir everything together so every grain of rice is coated in the fat.

5. Pour in the 3½ cups of boiling water and give the rice one final stir.

6. Before covering the pot, prepare your lemongrass. Peel away the tough outer layers, wash the stalk well, then slice it lengthwise. Lay it directly on top of the rice.

This is my favorite little trick. It perfumes the rice with the most beautiful aroma without overpowering it. Trust me on this one.

1. Once the water comes to a boil, cover the pot with a tight-fitting lid.

2. Reduce the heat to the lowest setting and cook for exactly 15 minutes.

3. When the timer goes off, turn off the heat but do not lift the lid. Leave the rice undisturbed for another 10 minutes.

This final resting time is just as important as the cooking itself. The first half cooks the rice with water. The second half finishes it gently with steam. If you remove the lid, you lose that steam and that’s what gives you perfectly fluffy rice.

1. Fluff gently with a fork, remove the lemongrass, and serve.

For me, the simplest way to enjoy it is exactly how I grew up: a warm bowl of vermicelli rice with cold yogurt and a pinch of salt.

Some meals don’t need anything more

Thank you for reading, consider subscribing, paid subscriptions help me dedicate more time to creating recipes and stories like these. Also paid subscriptions get exclusive recipes like my upcoming Beef Shawarma recipe that i have tested for 2 years!! And if a paid subscription isn’t for you thats completely okay. Sharing this newsletter, trying a recipe, or sending it to someone you love is more than enough support.

Thank you for being here.

There’s something ridiculously satisfying about turning plain milk into a tub of thick, tangy yogurt. No machines, no fuss, just patience and a warm spot in your kitchen.

This time I used organic A2 grass-fed whole milk from Costco (half gallon), but usually I just grab any good organic whole milk. Both work beautifully, so don’t overthink it.

Ingredients

• ½ gallon organic whole milk (A2 grass-fed if you want extra creamy)

• 2–3 tablespoons plain yogurt with live cultures (as your starter)

Method

1. Heat the milk.

Pour the milk into a heavy pot and gently bring it up to just before boiling — around 180°F. You don’t want a rolling boil, just hot enough that bubbles form on the sides. This kills off competing bacteria and helps the yogurt set thick.

2. Cool it down.

Turn off the stove and let the milk cool until it’s warm but not hot about 110–115°F. I go when it’s below 120 tbh because I like living on the edge! If you can hold your finger in it for 10 seconds without burning, you’re good. This takes time, around 35 min!

3. Add the yogurt starter.

Add half a cup of the warmed milk to 2–3 tablespoons of plain yogurt, whisk and pour back in the pot. This is where the magic begins, those live cultures will multiply and transform the milk.

4. Let it rest.

Cover the pot (or transfer to jars), wrap it in a towel, and keep it in a warm spot. A turned-off oven with the light on works great. Let it sit undisturbed for 6–12 hours, depending on how tangy you like it.

5. Chill + enjoy.

Move your yogurt to the fridge for at least 2 hours. It will thicken up as it cools.

Tips & Notes

• If you like it extra thick, strain it through cheesecloth after chilling and you’ve got Greek yogurt.

• Save a few spoonfuls from this batch to use as the starter for your next one.

• If it doesn’t look set putting it in the fridge will firm it up!

• The longer you ferment, the tangier it gets.

Serving ideas

• Swirl with honey + toasted walnuts.

• Top with fresh fruit and granola.

• Use as a base for dips (hello, labneh vibes).

✨ That’s it! Half a gallon of milk = a week’s worth of yogurt, no plastic tubs needed.

I save half and strain the rest to make labneh!

Every éclair I’ve tried outside of France has been… how should I put it? A good attempt, a charming cousin maybe, but not the real thing. The difference is always in the crème pâtissière. It’s the center of it all, literally and figuratively. That silky custard is what makes or breaks the whole experience. And if you’re feeling a little extra, folding in a whisper of whipped cream at the end transforms it into something impossibly light, the kind of bite that vanishes before you’ve even realized you’ve eaten it.

Of course, éclairs come with a list of “rules” longer than your grocery receipt, don’t overbeat the dough, don’t underbake the shells, pipe with confidence, chill at the right moment. Too many tips, too many traps. But here’s the thing: if you give yourself two hours and surrender to the process, the end result feels almost luxurious.

I made mine on a quiet Saturday: house clean, Sinclair playing in the background, my toddler asleep. For once, time stretched instead of slipping through my fingers. There was something oddly meditative about whisking and folding, checking the shells through the oven window, waiting for them to puff. In those moments, pastry became less about perfection and more about presence.

By the time I finished writing this, the éclairs had vanished. Not cooled, not glazed, vanished. I don’t know whether to call that a compliment to the recipe or a confession.

Ingredients

For the Pastry Cream (Filling):

• 2 cups whole milk (480 ml)

• ½ vanilla bean, split lengthwise with seeds scraped (or substitute vanilla extract if needed)

• 6 egg yolks

• ⅔ cup granulated sugar (133 g)

• ¼ cup cornstarch (25 g)

• 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, cold

For the Choux Pastry (Shells):

• 1 cup water (240 ml)

• ½ cup unsalted butter, cubed (113 g)

• 1½ teaspoons granulated sugar

• ½ teaspoon salt

• 1 cup all-purpose flour (120 g)

• 3 large eggs (plus 1 extra on standby, in case the dough needs it)

For the Chocolate Glaze:

• ½ cup heavy cream (120 ml)

• 4 ounces semisweet chocolate (chips or roughly chopped bar)

Pastry Cream (Filling)

1. In a medium saucepan, heat the milk with the split vanilla bean until it just starts to boil. Turn off the heat and let it sit for about 15 minutes to soak up the vanilla flavor. Remove the bean pod.

2. In a mixing bowl, whisk the egg yolks and sugar together until pale and a little fluffy (about a minute). Add the cornstarch and whisk until smooth.

3. Slowly pour in about ¼ cup of the hot milk into the egg mixture while whisking (this keeps the eggs from scrambling). Then gradually whisk in the rest of the hot milk. Strain the mixture back into the saucepan.

4. Cook over medium heat, whisking constantly, until the cream thickens and starts to bubble about 3 to 5 minutes.

5. Remove from heat and stir in the butter until smooth.

6. Pour the cream into a clean bowl, then press plastic wrap directly on the surface so it doesn’t form a skin. Let it cool at room temperature for a bit, then refrigerate for at least 2 hours (or up to 1 day ahead).

Choux Pastry (Shells):

1. Preheat your oven to 425°F (220°C). Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Get a large piping bag ready with a round tip.

2. In a saucepan, combine the water, butter, sugar, and salt. Bring it to a rolling boil over medium-high heat (about 5 minutes).

3. As soon as it boils, take the pan off the heat. Add all the flour at once and stir quickly with a wooden spoon until the dough comes together and no dry flour remains (30–60 seconds).

4. Put the pan back on the stove over medium heat. Stir constantly for another 30 seconds to cook out some of the moisture.

5. Transfer the dough to a mixing bowl (stand mixer with a paddle works best, but a hand mixer is fine).

6. Beat the dough on medium speed. Add the eggs one at a time, mixing well and scraping the bowl after each addition. The dough should become smooth, shiny, and thick but soft enough to slowly fall from the paddle or spoon.

   • If the dough still feels stiff, add the extra egg and mix again until it loosens to the right texture.

7. Carefully transfer the choux dough to the pastry bag. Pipe fat lines of dough 4 inches long (about the size and shape of a jumbo hot dog) onto the parchment paper-lined baking sheet, leaving 2 inches of space between each. You should have 8 to 10 lines of dough. (Don’t worry if they aren’t perfect!)

8. Use your fingers dipped in cool water to smooth out any bumps or points of dough that remain on the surface. If desired, you can lightly brush the dough with an egg wash.

9. Bake for 15 minutes. Reduce the heat to 375°F and continue baking until puffed and light golden brown, about 25 minutes more. Try not to open the oven door too often during the baking. Once golden, remove from the oven and immediately poke two holes in the bottom using a skewer to release steam. Let the pastry shells cool completely on a wire rack.

Filling the Shells

1. Once the baked shells are completely cooled, use a small pastry tip to poke a hole in one end of each éclair (or make two small holes on the bottom).

2. Take the chilled pastry cream out of the fridge and whisk it until smooth and creamy again (optional- mix with a cup whipped cream- to give it a silky texture).

3. Transfer the cream to a piping bag fitted with a medium round tip (or a filling tip, like the kind used for donuts).

Gently pipe the cream into each shell through the holes until filled—enough to plump them up without spilling out. Set the filled éclairs back on a wire rack.

Chocolate Glaze

1. Warm the cream in a small saucepan (or in the microwave) just until it starts to steam and bubble around the edges.

2. Add the chopped chocolate or chips to the hot cream. Let it sit for about 2 minutes, then stir gently until the glaze is smooth and glossy.

3. Dip the tops of each filled éclair into the glaze, let the excess drip off, and place them back on the rack to set.

Now… this dish? Mujadara. It’s not exactly love at first sight. If you’re picturing it right now, you’re probably thinking, eh, that looks kinda sad. I get it. But hang on, think of Indian daal, cozy and earthy, but toned down on the spice, and then blended into this creamy, porridge-like situation. Comfort in a bowl.

But here’s the secret: Mujadara never shows up alone. It’s a package deal. The sidekick? A sharp, vinegar-y cabbage salad (what we call malfouf in Lebanon). In Lebanon, every table has a plate of pickled veggies on standby. Same energy here the salad cuts through the heaviness and wakes up the lentils with that tangy, briny punch.

And because I know you’ll ask: yes, there are variations galore. Some people skip the blending. There’s also mudardara basically Mujadara’s chunky cousin, with equal parts rice and lentils. That one’s a star in my house, and trust me, I’ll be back with the recipe soon.

For now, lean in. Mujadara might not win a beauty contest, but it delivers comfort food magic you didn’t know you needed.

Ingredients

For the Mujadara

• 2 cups brown lentils, washed

• 1 cup white rice, washed well

• 4 Tbsp olive oil (plus extra for finishing)

• 2 large onions (or 4 small), diced

• 1 tsp cumin

• 1 tsp cinnamon or 1 tsp Lebanese 7-spice blend

• 2 Tbsp salt

• 10 cups water (5 for lentils, 5 for rice mixture)

For the Cabbage Salad (Malfouf)

• ½ head of cabbage, thinly sliced

• ½ cup vinegar

• ¼ cup olive oil

• 1 Tbsp salt

• 2 tsp dried mint

Method

Mujadara

1. Dice the onions into small cubes. In a large pot, heat 4 Tbsp olive oil over medium heat and sauté onions for about 10 minutes, until lightly golden.

2. In a separate pot, cook the lentils in 5 cups of water for about 25 minutes, until softened (they don’t need to be fully cooked yet).

3. Add the rice to the onions along with 5 cups of water. Bring to a simmer.

4. Drain the lentils and add them to the rice-onion mixture. Season with salt, cumin, and cinnamon (or 7-spice).

5. Simmer until the lentils are completely tender.

6. Using a hand blender, blend the mixture until smooth and creamy, like thick pudding. Stir continuously as large bubbles form.

7. Once thickened, remove from heat and drizzle with a little olive oil. Pour into shallow plates and allow to cool slightly before serving.

Cabbage Salad (Malfouf)

1. In a bowl, combine the sliced cabbage, vinegar, olive oil, salt, and dried mint.

2. Toss well and serve alongside the Mujadara.

You can eat Mujadara warm or cold it holds its own either way. The best way to serve it? Scoop a generous spoonful onto a plate, pile on a heaping spoon of that tangy cabbage salad, then tear off some pita. Make yourself a little pita “boat,” fill it with a bit of lentils and a bit of salad, and take that first bite. It’s oddly perfect creamy, tangy, crunchy all at once.

This dish doesn’t usually get the spotlight, but I swear it has major staple potential. One bite and you’ll see why I’m rooting for it.

Mabroushe literally means “grated,” a nod to the final step of the recipe when you grate chilled dough over a layer of glossy apricot jam. Some people call it Sablé, but for me, the name Mabroushe carries a sense of home, of something simple yet deeply comforting.

The flavor is humble but unforgettable: a buttery, shortbread-like crust, brightened with lemon zest, layered with tart-sweet jam, and topped with golden crumbles that melt in your mouth.

It’s also my daughter’s favorite Lebanese dessert. Every time I bake it, the kitchen fills with the same warmth I remember from my childhood, and it feels like a little bridge between where I came from and where I am now. That’s why I chose it as my very first recipe to share here 🫂

Ingredients

• 2 eggs

• 2 tsp vanilla extract

• ½ cup sugar

• Zest of 1 whole lemon

• ½ cup melted butter + ½ cup melted ghee (or butter)

• 3 cups all-purpose flour

• 2 tsp baking powder

• 1 cup apricot jam

Method

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F (180C)

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar, vanilla, and lemon zest until smooth.

3. Add the melted butter and ghee (or butter) and mix well.

4. Stir in the flour and baking powder until the dough comes together.

5. Wrap and freeze ¼ of the dough for about 10 minutes. Press the rest into your baking pan, smoothing it evenly.

6. Poke the base gently with a fork and bake for 10 minutes, until lightly golden.

7. Remove from the oven, spread the apricot jam over the crust, and grate the chilled dough on top.

8. Bake for another 20–22 minutes, until the top turns a deep golden brown.

9. Let cool completely before slicing into squares or bars.