All photos © Fadia Jawdat 2017

One of my favorite summer desserts while growing up in Lebanon, was a combination of Watermelon and white cheese, Halloumi in particular. It also worked well as a refreshing afternoon snack when we came back from a day at the beach, parched and sunburned. Each mouthful combined the salt with the sweet, the chewy with the juicy crunchiness, hydrating every cell in our bodies.

Memories rush through my mind’s eye: watermelon mounds by the side of the road where farmers unload their summer crop, or the pushcart vendors shouting “Battikh Aassikkeen” (literally: watermelon on the knife). The vendors would cut open a watermelon for customers to check the saturation of color while they tested its sweetness from the slice that was handed out to them insistingly.

Lately, I have revived an old forgotten recipe for Watermelon Gazpacho. It is so easy once all ingredients are assembled. Try it before summer’s end.  I find this cold “soup” refreshing and nutritious.
It’s a god-send when your rushing about trying to get food on the table for a large group of guests and your kitchen is looking chaotic and your mind has turned to mush. It’s a great way to center yourself, call attention to the fact that dinner is about to be served, give your guests a chance to wrap up their conversations and ready themselves for the meal ahead. Serve and pass it around in shot or martini glasses with a sprig of mint or basil and a wedge of lime. But it’s also great for a quick grab and go lunch. I make a big batch (double the recipe) and keep it in bottles or jars in the refrigerator to take to work or to snack on throughout the week.

Getting Gazpacho ingredients ready…

Watermelon Gazpacho

• 5 cups watermelon, cubed
• 1 cucumber (peeled)
• a couple of green onions chopped or several sprigs of chives
• 1 Beefsteak tomato or favorite heirloom
• 1/4 red onion
• 2 garlic cloves, minced
• 2 tablespoons mild vinegar (I like to use Ume Plum Vinegar for its mildness and saltiness. Do not use salt if you have and use it)
• 1 tablespoons good olive oil (optional)
• 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• 1 lime, juiced and another sliced for garnish

Both lime and vinegar are the “acids” for this recipe. Let your personal taste buds decide how much of each you’d like. Add them as you go, until desired acidity is achieved. Add salt if needed.

Fresh ground pepper is great but for those who really like spice you can add Jalapeno or a sprinkle of red pepper flakes. Adjust ingredients and flavors to your own taste barometer.

Add all ingredients in a blender, Vitamix or food processor and pulse. Some like it chunky others like it smooth. The decision is yours. Be sure to chill for several hours before serving. You can make this a day ahead. It tends to separate—liquid from solids—nothing that a quick stir won’t fix.


More reading:

  • I inevitably do a little research on a topic I am about to tackle: any interesting information out there worth sharing? There are the usual health benefits listed and the watermelon has many. But I did come across a full description of heirloom varieties in Mother Earth News and history in America, that is worth a read.
  • I also would like to share a story posted by NPR about the Bradford Watermelon, one particular heirloom watermelon making a comeback—not a commercial comeback but an inspirational one (details on the website. It seems to be the sweetest melon of all!
  • And if you are so inclined watch video on female and male watermelon flowers.

Summer Romance

Cultivating Okra brings endless joy to my summer mornings.

My daughter and I spotted okra seedlings at a farmer’s stand this past Spring.  “Mom! You love Okra!” she exclaimed “you should get some!” I had vowed not to plant any vegetables on my deck this summer. All past experiments inevitably led to heartbreak. With a dozen pots of varying sizes, I am limited in my choices and my plants are inevitably attacked and decimated by various urban pests: birds, squirrels and maybe a raccoon occasionally, not to mention the entire insect kingdom, from hungry caterpillars to stubborn aphids. Despite it all, and all summers past, I was seized by the desire to give it a go, at least, if nothing else, for educational purposes.

So… on the 26th day of May, I began with six seedlings. Three to one pot. Almost instantly, two of them died—probably the victims of the invasive, wandering mint that appeared out of nowhere. The third small seedling proved to be a fighter and lives on, to this day, although somewhat dwarfed by her heartless colonizer.

The other pot flaunted three healthy plants. I watched and I waited. I have been particularly busy lately and had no time for research, so I threw my expectations to the wind: “Jump right in and figure it out later”—my life’s new mantra and modus operandi. The first appearance of a couple of buds sent me shrieking with excitement.

It was June 8th. I thought I was seeing baby okra at first, but it turned out they were buds not pods. By June 13th the first plant gave me its first flower. I watched and I observed… Okra flowers are shy and ephemeral. They appear at the juncture of stem and leaf. Shaded by the leaves, the flower dazzles for one day, and one day only. I swooned over that first sighting: five creamy delicate, yellow petals forming a bell-like shape with a dark crimson heart and a yellow pistil with a crimson crown. By dusk it swirled onto itself, shutting out the world to gestate and give birth to the pod growing inside her.

My Okra plants are large and thirsty. By July 12th I had harvested a dozen pods. We are now the beginning of August and I have dozen more and at least fifty photographs. I sautéed my first dozen and froze them, the others, still being collected in a ziplock bag in the fridge, will have to be processed soon.


Carefully turning a paring knife along the upper ridge to remove the stem without breaking the skin.

August 3rd: the runt bore her first fruit. The plant is about a foot tall compared to the others that have reached 5 feet at least and looking rather spindly. The pot is much too small.

Unfortunately, I see the end in sight. I suspect we will be saying our goodbyes soon. The lower leaves, are turning yellow and falling off. I feel sad. I have kept a close eye on them daily. No other plant on my deck has given me as much pleasure, not even the thriving Basil. Like children I nursed them. Like pets I catered to their needs. I suspected it would be a fleeting, short lived affair, but I’m glad I enjoyed the ride while it lasted.

Okra, is not everyone’s cup of tea. But it boasts some amazing health benefits. It is an annual flowering plant in the mallow family—same as Mulukhia, the hollyhock, the rose of Sharon and the hibiscus. It is also called Gumbo or ladies’ fingers. It is high in fiber, low in calories and contains B and C vitamins, calcium, magnesium, potassium and folic acid. It have finally looked up its origin (Africa) and its history and discovered that leaves and flowers are edible too.

Roasted Egyptian Okra (top) and my harvest! sauteed in a pan (bottom)

I cook okra year-round using the frozen Egyptian kind found at Middle-Eastern grocers. The pods are tiny and the stems have carefully been removed. The fresh okra at the market is usually huge and seedy. I will cherish my own harvest and save it for a special occasion giving it the pomp and fanfare it deserves. The recipe that follows is a favorite family dish that can be eaten cold with bread or warm with rice.

My Okra Recipe

1lb. Okra
1 Large Tomato peeled* and chopped
1 Large Onion peeled and chopped
4 cloves of Garlic
Cilantro/Garlic mix**
Juice of a lemon or
Pomegranate Molasses

Cilantro/Garlic mix**
6 cloves garlic crushed
1 bunch Cilantro Chopped
1 tsp coriander powder***
1 tsp salt

Defrost okra, spread over dish towels to dry. Toss in a little olive oil and spread in baking sheet. Place in 375 F oven and roast until slightly golden. 15 minutes approximately.
(You can skip this method entirely and just add the okra to the onions when the latter have turned transparent and golden).
Saute onions in a little vegetable oil. After the onions have turned golden, add the okra tomatoes the four cloves of garlic and the lemon juice. Add a little water to barely cover, turn down heat to low for 10 minutes. Add garlic and cilantro mix, simmer for half an hour longer or until okra is tender. Taste and adjust salt and lemon. I love to substitute lemon juice with pomegranate molasses (I often use a little of both). Lemon is brighter, but pomegranate is deeper in flavor.

Ready, set, go: All ingredients together, add a little water to barely cover and let simmer on a very low flame.
Okra “Caviar” the finished dish, served cold. It’s better the next day. After cooking, let cool, cover in a dish and let sit in your refrigerator for a day or two. Perfect make ahead side dish or appetizer. It’s Vegan and delicious for any palate










*to peel tomatoes soak in boiling water for a few minutes

**To make the Cilantro mix, wash, dry and chop cilantro, crush garlic. In a little olive oil in a small pan, place over medium flame add garlic salt and coriander first, stir until garlic begins to turn golden, then add the chopped cilantro and fry up a little longer. set aside. You can make this ahead of time in batches and freeze. Using when and wherever needed.

*** Coriander is the seed of the Cilantro plant. It comes whole or in powder form.

p.s. Call me fickle and unfaithful, but I’d been so absorbed with my newly found affair, that I had completely forgotten my Mulukhia! Half way through the summer, when I went to find farmer Heinz I sadly discovered he was no longer coming to DC!


Photo © Fadia Jawdat 2017

I lost my appetite on November 8, 2016. I lost my focus as well. My heart was broken. Frequently, my eyes welled up with tears. Kitchen life reflected my despair and translated into a total disinterest in food writing and meal preparation, even the produce at the Farmers’ Market lost its appeal.

Luckily there was a welcome distraction: a family visit starting in mid-December and ending January 1st. A family visit that was to become the perfect escape from reality, setting aside, for a while, all anxieties and fears of things to come. Two weeks of house guests indulging in excess: Celebrating family, togetherness, tolerance, cooperation and love.

I cannot remember what we cooked: providing variety was a must to accommodate the different diets: There were omnivore teens with large appetites, one vegan, vegetarians, meat eaters and mindfull eaters, gourmets and gourmands.  But I do remember numbers and quantities: feeding ten daily and up to eighteen occasionally. There were slabs of fresh and smoked salmon, heaps of pasta, pots of rice and beans, loads of vegetables and fruit, platters of cheese, stacks of pancakes and bagels, and our very own family Christmas tradition of endless supplies of Mulukhia, baklawa, chocolate and wine.

Family and friends contributed, sharing in the purchase of ingredients, the prepping, cooking, setting up and cleaning up. Generosity and kindness were a daily exchange. Laughter, hugs and tears were the modus operandi.

Then came January.

My family’s departure left me empty and forlorn. The blinders had to come off eventually. I woke up from my food coma. Awareness replaced oblivion and reality crept back into our lives. Like a beached whale, I vowed to stay away from cookies, chocolate and cheese and to march and protest instead. I had enough leftovers to last me for weeks. Stepping into the kitchen or standing at a stove or a sink made me uneasy.

January was to be frugal. The nightmare we awaited had arrived and had turned into reality. No safety net can protect us. No chocolate or wine can shield us. Images of the future made my stomach turn.

January was frugal, lean and austere. February might very well be the same as well. I search for comfort. Starches have to be avoided, sugar and fat too. I am lucky I still have the freedom of choice.

Soups are what bring me solace during the winter months. They’re a meal in a bowl with all the nutrition and the healing one needs. I like to make a big enough batch to divide and freeze or to last me a few days. I love lentils soups of all sorts and colors, potato leek (without the cream), curried carrot and parsnip soup, but most of all I love the puree of black bean I have made for years. It is silky in texture, deep and layered in flavor and a tablespoon of Sherry drizzled over each bowl will hit the spot!  Use a garnish or two to brighten this warm and soothing bowl of soup: a slice of lemon, a pinch of chopped cilantro or parsley and some grated carrot.

Read the recipe and use it as your guide, but remember you’re the boss. You taste and you adjust spices or add more broth or water to loosen things up. You can make it a day or two ahead. And by the way, if you have a leftover batch of thick soup, mix in some sour cream or tahini and serve it as a black bean dip or “hummus” with tortilla or pita chips!

Black Bean Soup
Serves 8

2 Tablespoons Vegetable Oil
1 large Onion, chopped
5 medium size Carrots, chopped
3-4 Celery stalks, chopped
3 tablespoons Oregano
3 teaspoons Cumin
1 teaspoon Salt
1 teaspoon Black Pepper (a dash of Cayenne if desired)
4 cans Black Beans
5 cups Vegetable Broth
8 cloves Garlic
1/4  to 1/2 cup Lemon Juice
Sherry and garnish (lemon slices, sour cream chopped parsley or cilantro, grated carrot)

Chop onions, garlic, carrots and celery. You can use a food processor for speed and ease.
In a large pot, heat oil and saute onions, garlic, carrots and celery. Add oregano and cumin.
Add broth slowly stirring and bringing to a boil. simmer covered for 10 minutes. Add all the beans, salt to taste and simmer for 15-20  minutes. Adjust seasoning.
Let cool a little then blend with an immersion blender. (food processor can be used in batches). Add lemon juice to taste, and loosen with additional broth to desired consistency.
Drizzle a tablespoon of Sherry in each bowl.
Garnish with a slice of lemon or a dollop of sour cream, chopped parsley or cilantro and grated carrots for color.
Serve with Tortilla chips if desired.

Christmas Revisited

My mom Loo-oved Christmas! Going all out, she began her Christmas baking in November. First came the dark fruit cake that soaked in brandied cotton cloth for a month. Later, all the different varieties of cookies and Christmas Stollen* would follow in December. When my mother moved to DC, she gave it all up.

I am not a baker but I tried to keep up some traditions especially when the kids were young. Year after year, the gestures, the decorations, the cooking and the baking would gradually get distilled and simplified. The only tradition that was somehow created here under my own roof, was the cookie decorating sessions. I would make the ginger bread cookie dough, roll, cut, bake and store. Then, once everyone was gathered, I’d make the royal icing, color it with natural food dyes and let everyone go to work.

My home is the meeting place for mother, siblings, family and sometimes in-laws. But Christmas happens late in our household: a direct result of a retail job that exhausted me year after year and totally sucked the joy out the holidays. I drag my feet and lack enthusiasm. Our family preparations for Christmas are just more work. We find ourselves, the last people in a darkened lot, scurrying around for the “perfect” tree, while attendants turn off lights and pack up for the year.

Christmas Eve menu is (vaguely) discussed to accommodate the vegans and the meat eaters, the traditionalist, the liberals and the rebels.  Shopping happens last minute. It involves multiple family members, young and old, tagging along for the experience of frenetic holiday shopping and to haggle over who should foot the bill.

Cookie decorating takes place hours before dinner, while putting up the tree. It’s a mad rush to make it all happen. We gather some friends and neighbors to add to the mix. Our dinner is thrown together haphazardly and chaotically—Martha Stewart would die! My mother would be somewhat disapproving— calling us “crazy”.

But we manage and we PARTY! The evening itself is an improvisational act: a mishmash of a Hawaiian luau with leis, African music, Christmas crackers, paper hats and crowns, pork tenderloin and tuna steaks. Don’t ask. A hodgepodge of people, food and drink, music and conversation. It couldn’t be more eclectic and off the wall if we tried!

My mother passed away two Christmases ago. We spent that Xmas week sadly at the hospital by her side or huddled together at home around the dining table quietly staring at a thousand-piece puzzle, trying to make conversation. Downing the drinks, we waited for a better prognosis, but the inevitable came as a shock, despite of our high hopes for a miracle.

Xmas 2015 was avoided: my husband, our two daughters and I spent five days in Tulum for a change of scene, only to come back with a bad case of food poisoning.

This year, we give Christmas another try. We begin a new cycle, by reopening the circle of life.  With my parents gone I have a mission to accomplish: our family spirit of togetherness and generosity, the care and the love we inherited must live on… and so must the baking. It began two weeks ago. It helps that I no longer have my retail job.

I considered attempting my mother’s delicious fruitcake, but it didn’t take long to nix that thought. Sorry mom! I made tiny stars and gingerbread men, some “undecorated”—for the children to do their thing. I also made Pfeffernusse, German spice cookies, inspired by my aunt Mona’s that would arrive every year by post, until, she too, could not bake any longer. I made my own candied lemon peel. I couldn’t bear to use any store-bought lemon peel with sulphur dioxide and other added junk. And although the recipe recommends freshly ground spices, there was no chance in a million that I would grind cinnamon bark and whole cloves—I do not have an electric spice grinder. I draw the line at black pepper and perhaps cardamom. For nutmeg, I use a micro plane but that is it. The rest of my spices come already ground in a jar.

I am contemplating making Chewy Molasses Cookies which I tried at a holiday party last week. The recipe is from Bon Appetit. Maybe, I should wait for my sister and my baking-loving daughter to arrive. Perhaps they will enjoy the experience of bonding over cookie-making. I think my job is almost done, the baking I have accomplished so far is probably sufficient. Delegating is a good thing. It channels guilt, teaches others responsibility and definitely relieves me from stress.

No matter how hard I try to make things right, I expect the inevitable emotional effervescence of my family to bubble over with its dysfunctions, its insecurities and anxieties, like it has at times in the past. But many of our elders are gone and we will miss them always. This year is the beginning of a new dynamic. I brace myself not knowing what to expect. Come what may…. Bring it on.

One thing’s for certain, I made some cookies and next year I will get better at it. The best is yet to come. I will keep you posted.

I highly recommend the Chewy Molasses cookies. If it’s not too late, try them both. The ingredients are almost the same which makes for a more economical use of ingredients. Here are the links:

The recipe for the Pfeffernusse is from an old Saveur
Bon Appetit’s Chewy Molasses Cookies
*Stollen: German Christmas bread.


The Great Pumpkin

Once October rolls around, out come the pumpkins, filling the bins and crates of every market. Why does the pumpkin have a whole mystique that captivates and enchants? It inevitably has to adorn doorsteps, stoops and porches in every neighborhood.


Version 3
All photos© 2016 Fadia Jawdat

The month is almost over, but I am driven to share my own fascination with the iconic pumpkins. I understand the association with Halloween and jack-o’-lanterns to ward off spirits and ghosts. I am neither superstitious (well maybe a little) nor a stickler for tradition but I am still completely smitten and bewitched by their annual arrival, like aliens out of nowhere.

The orange glow of their hard and smooth skin—that is more like a tortoise shell or crustacean carapace with ridges that meet at the base of a scrunched up coarse and sometimes gnarly stem—contrasts ever so vigorously with the grays of the side-walk cement and the washed-out hues of brick and paint of city buildings and townhouses.

The first time I laid eyes on a pumpkin was in an illustrated children’s book, probably the Cinderella story. That is perhaps where the magical entrancement began. I don’t remember ever seeing a real pumpkin until I came to the U.S., although I am sure it grew in Lebanon, but I do not recall any of my family ever eating or cooking with pumpkin.

I have taken my children to pumpkin patches to pick their own. I have carved pumpkins at Halloween events year after year, or turned them in to vessels to hold floral centerpieces for Halloween and Thanksgiving table settings (thank you Martha Stewart). I have taken hundreds of photographs of pumpkins. It’s as though by taking photos, I might break the spell or unveil the secret behind my obsession.

The path to demystification is to get to know your subject. Wikepedia tells me that the U.S. produces 680,000 tons of pumpkins each year and that 95% of the crop intended for processing is grown in Illinois. I’d be blown away by the sheer size of those pumpkin fields and my small iPhone camera will certainly have a hard time wrapping it’s frame around that picture!
I also discovered (see Colonial Williamsburg Journal (CW Journal : Autumn 09 : Some Pumpkins!) that the colonials did not celebrate Halloween. The holiday was brought over to the U.S. by the Irish immigrants in the 19th century along with the jack-0’-lanterns that were originally carved turnips. The article also mentioned that the pumpkin had been, for thousands of years, a nourishing staple both for North and South America’s indigenous people. Pumpkin along with corn and beans was cultivated as part of the three sisters crop (a symbiotic relationship that improved yield). By the mid 1600s the settlers in the colonies were growing their own and incorporating them in their meals.

The plant itself is described as a delicate, thirsty and voracious feeder. It  produces both female and male flowers and depends heavily on pollination by bees. The pumpkin that is cultivated for decoration (not cooking) is just one variety of pumpkin also known as winter squash. They come in all shapes and colors and much is discussed about the difference in flavor and sweetness. Food52 has a post showing all the varieties (in case you have the time and the interest).

It’s not the visual aspect of the fruit alone that thrills me, it’s also the arrival of all things pumpkin in bakeries and stores: pumpkin pie, bread, scones and pumpkin cheesecake. But I draw the line at pumpkin flavored latte in coffee shops! There is pumpkin eggnog and ale… both not for me either.

Yes, I have made curried pumpkin soup and pumpkin scones in my day, I also use some varieties of squash in soups and stews— but I never made a pumpkin pie. Since all confections are ready-made, easily available, delicious and for the most part cheap(-ish?), why bother with the mess. I turn to canned pumpkin puree for some needs or the conveniently peeled and cut winter squash at the markets. But I am encouraged to do try working it from scratch someday when I have time for the ritual. Maybe that will exorcise my enchantment for good.


Pumpkin kibbeh in the making, with filling (above) and completed and baked (below). All photos© 2016 Fadia Jawdat

Soon after moving to D.C. I discovered that pumpkin kibbeh is a regional Lebanese dish that is found ready-made in Middle-Eastern take-out delis in the suburbs. The small pumpkin kibbeh balls stuffed with spinach, onions and nuts are delicious but too time-consuming to make myself. I recommend The Gourmet Basket in McLean, VA (no, they are not sponsoring this post). Call first to ensure they have enough on hand. They sell out quickly.

One snowy Sunday last February, I tried making the kibbeh “pie” using canned pumpkin puree. It was a lot of work but I had a pair of helping hands: a vegan daughter who was invested in the process in order to reap the benefits. I used the recipe from the Classic Lebanese Cuisine cookbook by Kamal Al-Faqih, but there are others on line including Emeril Lagasse (can you believe it?!) and a multitude of videos ranging from the good, the bad and the funny, showing method and process for making either the balls or the “pie”.

Finally no pumpkin story can go without mention of a longtime (baby-boomer) favorite, the comic strip Peanuts by Charles M. Schulz and the Great Pumpkin, a mythical figure in whom only Linus van Pelt seems to believe. Every Halloween Linus awaits in a pumpkin patch but the Great Pumpkin never appears. Unlike Linus, I know that pumpkins, luckily, will appear every year in October. Wake up Linus, the Great Pumpkin is all around you, focus on what is real. The Great Pumpkin is here in all its magic and all its glory.



Mulukhia: My Summer Obsession


Photo©2016 Rakan Jawdat: Dupont Circle FreshFarm market, farmer Heinz of Next Step Produce, growers of fresh Mulukhia.

The sultry humid days of DC summers are made tolerable by soaking with friends in the neighborhood pool, early morning deck gardening and the Sunday trip to the Dupont Farmers’ market. There is nothing more exciting than the sight of summer produce abundance and color. The world around me stands still while I zero in on the bright yellow squash, ripe juicy peaches and heirloom tomatoes. I’m a crazed woman spinning out of control: in a matter of seconds my arms are piled high with eggplants, peppers and peaches. I take a deep breath and decide to take it slow: walk around…(breath)…scope the stands …(breath)…I remind myself that I am on a budget and, at this point in my life, I am sadly, only cooking for two.

But then, there is mulukhia, available at one stand, and one stand only. I rush over…It is always surprising to find it here. Its season is short but it is also little known in the U.S. and therefore its presence always seems a miraculous apparition. There is nothing terribly attractive about its long spindly stems with non-descript leaves. It is hard to explain why this obsession of mine has become a focus of my summers. It evokes strong childhood memories of my mother and grandmothers turning their kitchens inside out into mulukhia-processing factories, spreading out the heaps of green leaves over white sheets to dry out in the sun on their Beirut balconies.

I grab a bunch. Why not two…or three? It’s a lot of work…but what the heck…who knows whether I will find it again next week. The farmer looks down at the bundles in my arms, raises his eyes and looks me over checking me out from top to bottom. He smiles and says: “you don’t look Lebanese!?” He tells me that he grows the mulukhia for the Lebanese and Palestinian community in Virginia. “I’ve been coming to your stand for years, my friend”, I tell him, “coming back every week for more until you run out… and yes, I am thrilled that you grow it JUST for us! Thank you!”

Mulukhia is not for everyone, once cooked, it is velvety and mucilaginous. The viscous texture has turned off a couple of my friends—consider yourself warned. But it is popular not only in the Middle-East, Cyprus and North Africa but in Asia as well. It is also known as mallow or jute originally grown in Egypt since the beginning of time. It’s growing season is summer but you find it frozen in Midlle-Eastern grocery stores year round.

Its amazing health benefits exceed those of Kale it seems. High in fiber, potassium, iron, calcium, magnesium and antioxidants, K and B vitamins … everything you’d expect from a dark leafy green and more (?). Mulukhia is made into a green soup by simmering the chopped leaves in chicken broth, flavored with garlic, coriander, cilantro, and lemon juice, and eaten over rice and chicken topped with toasted pita bread chips and chopped onions soaked in red wine vinegar. Egyptians keep it simple, serving it plain (often made with rabbit broth), but we make a more elaborate deal out of it. Its preparation seems endless but I’ve learned to take short cuts.

I began making a vegan version a few years ago for my daughters and I prefer it that way. I use store-bought vegetable broth and for protein I serve garbanzo beans (giving credit to my daughter for this one) or baked tofu cubes—a totally unconventional suggestion, but another added topping with a different and welcome texture. I make the soupy version in winter. It lends itself to pomp and ceremony in the layering of ingredients drenched in the green slime. It has unintentionally become a Christmas day tradition: my French nephew would ask my mother to make it every time he visited DC in December. Now that my mom is gone, I feel obliged to carry on bearing the torch.  But In summer I prefer to simply sauté the leaves with onions, garlic and cilantro and finish it off with lemon juice.—I love all my greens this way. I spice my spinach with nutmeg, my kale with ginger, chard with allspice, and my beet greens with Ume plum vinegar. But those recipes are for another day.—

After decades of living in the U.S. I have adapted to a new world, transforming tradition and thinking outside the box even with the most ancient of foods. I believe we hold on to our past, our memories and families even after they are gone—for reassurance. Our childhood foods will always provide comfort. Mulukhia is one of those dishes, it requires time and effort, making it all the more a work of love. And that is why I keep its tradition alive and commune with my past and my people every time I bring it home from the market. It is not so much the flavor or the dish itself that matters but the concept of staying connected to my roots and honoring my past and my ancestors.

Mulukhia  two ways: with chicken (top) and vegan version (bottom)


I doubt that any of you are rushing to make mulukhia but below are a few blogger websites that have recipes that are authentic and filled with additional interesting information. Marc Matsumoto’s website and recipe for mulukhia is elaborate and very visual. You can omit the whole chicken and use store bought chicken broth or substitute veggie broth for a vegetarian version. I used to make my own broth boiling the chicken with onion, cinnamon sticks etc… but who has the time these days?  Food & Wine‘s recipe is decent. I also like the Mideats (blog and website) recipe and Edible Milwaukee has a lovely story on molokhia. I hope you enjoy the reading as much as I did.

Below is my recipe for the summertime version. Good luck!

Fresh mulukhia leaves with chopped onion ready to saute.
Cooked whole leaves are ready to serve garnished with toasted pita and lemon wedges.

Sautéed Mulukhia Greens

2 bunches of mulukhia: stems stripped of leaves, stems discarded
2 Tablespoons vegetable oil
I very large onion, chopped
6-10 cloves of garlic crushed
1 bunch cilantro finely chopped
1/2 teaspoon to 1 tsp salt
1/2 teaspoon to 1 tsp coriander
2 cups veggie broth
Juice of 1/2 lemon
Pita chips, to serve along side or as topping
Optional: 1/2 cup of chopped onions soaked in red wine vinegar (for topping)

After stripping stems of the mulukhia, wash leaves and spin dry in salad spinner, then lay out on dishtowels on your kitchen counter. Chop onion and sauté in oil over high heat. Place mulukhia leaves in a pile on chopping board and, with a large knife, make a few cuts through the leaves. You do not want to chop too much since that is what renders the leaves mucilaginous. Add the leaves to the onions and fold a few times. Sauté for a few minutes and then add broth a half a cup at a time. Cover, reduce heat and let simmer. You want to keep adding broth and cooking through until the leaves are very dark green and tender.
Meanwhile, in a separate small pan, sauté in a little olive oil the chopped garlic and chopped cilantro. Add salt and coriander. Add and stir in the mix to the mulukhia. Cover, simmer until done. Add lemon juice and  adjust salt and lemon to taste. Let cool or refrigerate. Serve with pita chips and lemon wedges.

I particularly love to serve Hummus with it, and the small meat or pumpkin Kibbehs, green olives and some pink turnip pickles. Makes for a lovely mezze spread. Sahtein!

All photos ©2016 Fadia Jawdat

Green Tomato Chutney

tomato crop
Green Tomatoes. Photo ©2016 Fadia Jawdat

When I was growing up I never recall my father ever setting foot in the kitchen except to fix appliances and sharpen knives. Once a year he was called upon to dress, cook and carve the Christmas turkey. He was an expert and performed his duties with flawless precision and grace.

My parents moved to Cyprus just about the time my daughters were born. Until my father passed away, I would take my girls to Limassol for a month each summer. My husband would join us for part of the time. For four wonderful weeks out of the year I had the luxury of parents doting over my little ones, giving me a hand, watching over them, feeding and entertaining them. It made up for the the hard work of raising two kids in the city, in almost complete isolation. It was a huge and welcome change for us all: My girls tagged along on errands with my dad, helped him in the garden or played on the beach and splashed around in the Mediterranean. Our favorite excursions by far were to the mountain villages and orchards for fruit and vegetable gathering. When we came home, my mother and I would sort through the bags and baskets taking on assignments of pickling, sauce-making and tart-baking, leaving some produce to incorporate into our week’s meals.

One day while picking through a friend’s vegetable garden, my daughters exclaimed:
“Look mama! GREEN tomatoes!”
“They’re not ready yet,” my dad warned.
Recipes of fried green tomatoes and green tomato chutney flashed through my mind. Having never lived in the U.S., my dad couldn’t have known that green tomatoes were desirable, edible and made to be delicious. Pleadingly I asked if we could pick them anyway. I promised he would not regret it.


Chutney faxes
Chutney faxes 1992: originals and faxes of tear sheet recipes. Photo ©2016 Fadia Jawdat

In my D.C. kitchen I had a stash of recipes: piles of pages ripped out from magazines, ink scribbles on napkins, faded photocopies from newspaper articles. All I needed to do now was to call my husband and ask him to look for that green tomato chutney recipe. This was 1992, pre-internet, you understand.
“It’s a tear sheet from la Maison de Marie Claire, a large magazine format”,  I explained.
“A black background and white drop-out type and color photos of jars filled with pickles. And while you’re at it, there is another recipe of apricot chutney that Lisa (my friend and inspiration) had once sent me from Jaffrey’s book*… could you please?”
I knew it was no easy task to ask of anyone. My files were a mess. But having lived with me for eighteen years, my husband understood the urgency of any situation related to food. An hour later, the fax came through with everything he could find on green tomatoes and chutney— stamped and sealed with his love and devotion.

I had spent many Decembers making pineapple chutney that I distributed to friends as Christmas gifts. I even designed and hand-colored my own labels. That day in early July, I poured over the recipes which included a helpful article by Joanne Halataei for The Washington Post,  “The Chutney Brigade”. Within a half hour I wrote down a formula that intrigued my father enough to make him venture into the kitchen. He carefully observed, asked a few questions and before I knew it, he had joined in the preparations. The production of home-made green tomato chutney that ensued was a turning point in our lives. He was no longer the macho, untouchable super hero commanding fear and respect and I was no longer the sweet frivolous female child. We were no longer father and daughter but partners in potion-making. I could finally teach him something that he took interest in adopting. There also, was a recipe that was complex enough to conceal nutmeg and ginger, two of his most abhorred spices. We chopped, we mixed, we stirred and we bonded.

For the few remaining years of his life, my father did spend time in the kitchen when he needed breaks from his computer. He toasted and roasted peanuts for snack or sesame seeds for his own special Zaatar mix, he also had my pesto recipe down to a T . Once or twice he called to say: “guess what I made today?” Amazingly, he had tried his hand at chutney making all on his own.

Years later I met the creator of the award winning Virginia Chutney Clare Turner and tasted her product. I loved the chutneys and bought them often. But it did not stop me from making my own. Whenever I have a surplus of fruit, I chop up some onions and garlic, grate some ginger, add some spices and go to town. Once you’ve understood the concept you can concoct your own varieties.

Hand-drawn chutney labels for home-made chutney. ©1992 Fadia Jawdat

Green Tomato Chutney

The basic combination for any chutney is one part vegetable to three parts fruit. And for every two cups of fruit and vegetable combination, you need a quarter of a cup each of the sweet and sour elements. Brown sugar is usually the sugar of choice, but according to Halataei, “Brown sugar sounds earthy and chutney-like, but the clean taste of white sugar is often better at letting other foods shine through. With tomatoes, though, a combination of the two would be hard to beat.”
The recipe below is adapted from “La Maison de Marie Claire” but has been modified and converted to American weights and measures.
Yield 36 oz chutney or approximately 4 – 8 oz jars.

1 lb. green tomatoes, coarsely chopped
1 lb. cooking apples, coarsely chopped
1/2 lb. onions, chopped fine
1/2 lb. shallots, chopped fine
1/2 lb. raisins
3 cloves garlic, chopped fine
1 1/2 cups vinegar
3/4 cups brown sugar
3/4 cups white sugar
3” piece of fresh ginger coarsely chopped
1/4 tsp. each nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice and cloves
1 tsp. each salt and black pepper

Place all ingredients in a pot, bring to a boil and let simmer over medium heat for an hour to 90-minutes, stirring frequently. Do not let the chutney stick to the bottom of the pot. Lower heat if necessary. The chutney will thicken and keep in mind that it will thicken more as it cools.
When completely cool, pour into sterilized jars. Seal and refrigerate.
Serve to sooth hot curries, to accompany a soufflé or brighten up a plain omelet. Use as a spread over Brie or in a cold cut or grilled cheese sandwich.

*Madhur Jaffrey, World of the East: Vegetarian Cooking