It was a “summer meze feast” with lots of small dishes inspired by the Mediterranean and the Middle East, almost all of them from my book. The event was sold out. My plan was to do some of the cooking at home the night before, then bring everything to the venue, Latteria Studio, together with a portable speaker and a jolly playlist to match the food and have one last, fun night at our beloved Latteria Studio before it would close later that month. I charred the eggplants on the stove, cooked the chicken and made the broth for chicken Circassian, roasted the beets for the pink hummus. The rest, I would’ve done at the studio during the day.

It was a torrid summer night and by the time I finished all the prep and washing up, it was very late. Before going to bed at nearly 2 am, I checked my phone and I saw the news: Israel had started bombing Iran. In that moment my life as I had known it before, changed forever.

It was suddenly a different world. A world where Iran had finally joined the long list of countries subject to Israeli bombs. The visceral worry of everything ending, the expanding presence of something imbued with anti-life filled up my head like a noxious gas, then settled heavy on my chest.

I didn’t sleep a wink that night. The next day, the cooking and preparation for the event saved me from completely losing my mind. For the most part I managed to forget about it all as I immersed myself in peeling, chopping, mixing, frying and dressing. But every time I remembered the streets, places and people I knew were under the horror of bombs, another parcel of fear and fury exploded inside my belly, like when you’re going down stairs and miss one, but constantly. I felt it simultaneously in my heart and in my stomach. Like dreaming of falling.

Guests arrived. All so cheerful. My events were always great fun, the nicest people, lovely atmosphere, bright food, good music. “How are you?” they would ask as a way of regular greeting, and from inside my dark, suffocating bubble I’d blurt out: “Well, terrible”. Their faces fell at my uncharacteristic reply. A few hadn’t even heard the news, others simply didn’t think about it. I envied them, bitterly. To live in a world where even when you go to a dinner that an Iranian woman has cooked for, you retain the privilege of eating her food and yet stay so far away from the troubles and calamities of those places, as if it were happening in another universe. What a luxury it is to forget that where this food comes from is now plunged into war.

I wanted this. I still want it; not ever thinking about bombs in the city you were born in, on the streets you first fell in love in, the ones you said goodbye to forever, when you migrated away. To this day, what I remember most from that last event is trying to stay on my feet as I offered around each tray, fighting to keep the tears inside while my lips trembled as I poured every glass.

Later it was coined as the “12 day war”. Considering the huge international shitshow we’re currently in, it seems that this 12 day war (over its supposed end Trump demanded a Nobel Peace Prize), was just a warm-up. As all my nightmares were coming true to watch Tehran, Mashhad, Tabriz and many other cities and towns in Iran burn, something unexpected took place; my definition of belonging, of community and friendship was put to the test.

For years here in Italy, when I met someone new one of the questions I was asked at every turn as an Iranian (or rather, one of the statements that was thrown at me) was “ma da voi c’è casino”, you’ve got trouble over there. There was a time that I would have given a somewhat defensive answer, those days when Iran still held the last strands of an ever more unraveling economy, when we could at times feign some imitation of normality in the form of parties behind closed doors, or young people being at work in a variety of interesting projects. But the Islamic Republic is and always has been a cult of death and destruction. Now with Israeli bombs raining on us, trouble couldn’t come by much worse.

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But if you imagine a place only as the epitome of unrest and turmoil, how can you give an adequate reaction when real trouble comes knocking at the door? Would you be outraged, or shocked if you heard that all light had gone from a place if you only ever imagined it eternally dark to begin with? Would your heart break if a people were faced with the possibility of losing all life and livelihood if you had never granted them enough humanity to not be used to all this “trouble”? It’s not a specific climate, you know, that you’ll be used to if you were born in it. Wars and bombs and drones are not hot summers and torrential rain.

2026

The inside of my body is filled with something like a dense, black foam. One of those industrial materials that are blown into products, the ones that start as liquid then solidify quickly. It’s a matte black and it keeps things in place, making fluidity and movement impossible. It also pushes the sharp edges of things that are inside me into the surface, putting my exterior barrier in constant danger of getting pierced or imploding. Like an orange you squeeze with menace and strength and it might tear at any moment, crying its juices out. My tears are constantly on the verge of being squeezed out of my eyes, but they never fall. Inside me there seems to be no liquid left. It’s solid, dense and black.

Some say it’s rage, others call it depression, still others, grief. Whatever it is, it’s debilitating. Encaging all movement, of body and of thought. It’s been like this since February 28 when the war started (again), although since the fragile “ceasefire” back in April the black dense material is slightly shriveled inside me, present, but kind of bumping into the sides, leaving space for the slightest amount of energy and thought to flow. Like a badly fitting dress after you’ve lost some weight that you refuse to throw away because who knows when you’ll get that weight back.

2026 started with the ruthless massacre of Iranian protesters1. The regime killed tens of thousands, all the while imposing a state blockade on the internet. We thrashed, shouted and screamed, pleading for help, for the world to notice. But the world mostly ignored us. Even worse, those on the global left, the progressive ones, the ones banging on and on about social justice, doubted us, questioned the truth of the massacre, sometimes even ridiculed us. Saying the reports of unimaginable violence, the dizzyingly high number of the massacred, mass graves2 and detentions were stories spun by the “enemy”. Which also happened to be the version of events shared by the Islamic Republic regime.

And among those repeating the narratives of our killers, there were many voices of the “good” people too, the ones we trusted, supported and aligned our views with, from Roger Waters to Greta Thunberg.

Then out of immense trauma, the lack of any tangible support from “the right people” and sheer Zionist propaganda (shoved down the throats of Iranians through awful satellite television paid by Saudis and Israel), rose the grotesque creature of Iranian —or should I say “Persian”— far-right cult. Propped up as their savior was the ex Cr/lown Prince, a caricature of what our parents had done with Khomeini in 1979, just as Shiism and Catholicism prophesy the rise of the savior, just as many did with Trump on the other side of the world. In a bizarre twist and reversal of any logic, some Iranians took to the streets in cities across the West, wrapped in the flag of the genocide state and begged Trump to bomb us.

And bomb us he did, with Israel, as Israel does. Surely not because of that little show of flags and shouts, but god knows it was of use. We always knew American bombs would one day come. We knew it when we were still under Saddam’s bombs (paid by the US, Israel and Europe), we knew it when America was bombing Afghanistan, we knew it when America was bombing Iraq, we knew it as sanctions arrived. We knew they would come when Trump first chewed up and spat out the long negotiated JCPOA, we knew it when America left Afghanistan in the jaws of the Taliban after 20 years of military occupation.

What we did not know was how inconvenient and “complicated” it would be for the world to show solidarity with the Iranian people, caught between a murderous fascist theocracy and the American-Israeli war machine. We suddenly found ourselves invisible and insignificant in the great geopolitical chessboard between the “anti-imperialists” on one side —who naively imagine the world can contain only one empire exploiting the land, resources and lives of others for its own gain— rooting for the state of Islamic Republic of Iran. On the other side Trump, threatening to send us back to the stone age, bombing schools, bridges, oil infrastructure and multi-century historical and cultural heritage sites. A war on more fronts than we could have ever imagined.

And it raged on, insanity, fire and all, with the tar-like substance of loneliness sticking to every waking moment and polluting every second of hard-come-by sleep, spiraling inside my head all the time: “Where have we been? Where are we? What am I doing here?” Suddenly all that I had spent my adult life trying to lay claim to crumbled down; the duality of home and identity that was granted through migration, a home to belong to in the here and now. I was, I had always been a stranger here. And the only home worth being at was the one I thought I had left voluntarily, which was now in flames.

I have stayed in these dark corners of isolation, not so much for the shelter —there is no shelter from all this— because to be completely and terribly honest, I didn’t feel welcome anywhere else. The places, the communities I had spent years of my life trying to be a part of, proved themselves to be distant and hollow over a surprisingly short span of time. Nothing but deathly silence, very sparsely broken by short sentences containing many buts and ifs. So I resolved to merely observe, with slightly astonished clarity, the loneliness of it all, the brutally unmasked reckoning of where we belong.

And where we don’t.

No one really reported on the daily executions3, or yet another state communication blockade (longest in Iran’s history), which started on February 28th and was finally (and only partially) lifted in late May. People under bombs, with no internet, no phone, no means of communication. All of us outside Iran with no news from our families as the bombs fell on our neighborhoods. Indeed, the side calling itself “the resistance” repeated the regime’s narrative that this inhumane and criminal internet blockade is for some (fantastical) security reason. Failing so pathetically to realize that the resistance never belongs to any state, resistance always belongs to the people and that a vicious regime that has murdered, imprisoned, raped and exploited millions of its own people, would never, could never, free another one.

I have tried, mostly in the space between war, massacre and war, to be busy. The shareworthy news is that since last September I have been teaching Food Visual Merchandising at the University of Perugia. The class is part of the Design degree program and focuses on various forms of food photography. I have not been cooking much, not anything beyond mere meals of ordinary days. No experiments with new recipes. The black material leaves enough space just for mere survival.

I ask myself, do I even care about a recipe now? The honest answer is no. I can’t even bring myself to consume food content these days. I don’t even have the patience to read my favorite food books and my skin crawls at the sight of most recipe videos. (That’s why I’m mostly off Instagram these days, took the app off my phone and don’t really miss it.) For the first time I am finally realizing that I am not afforded certain luxuries, I can’t be a part of a community that just does food and goes a bit beyond it only when it’s convenient and popular. What I was predestined for had always been decided, by the geography I was born in, the history I have inherited, the faith my ancestors believed in. The new book idea I started working on even before the first one had come out gathers digital dust in the neglected corners of my computer, but what do you know? You might turn your head away for a second, and your home and your people are on fire and the flames lick inside to your heart and brain and guts, burning away all that feels unnecessary, leaving just enough breath for a strangled cry of help that no one hears.

Many of us Iranians living in the West for decades believed that if we played by the rules, shared our culture bit by bit, explained our reality over and over again, invited you to our tables —literal or metaphorical— and dazzled you with our charm and generosity, we would, eventually, even if partially, occupy enough space in public discourse that made us deserving of empathy in the face of our troubles. But we’re still where you exiled us to nearly 50 years ago; a faraway imaginary desert with a yellow Hollywood filter where savagery and tyranny are the normality and this fucking hell is just another day of life in the Middle East. A massacre is at the very best treated with indifference and a whole civilization can be threatened to be erased4 by the most powerful —albeit deranged— man in the world and no one bats an eyelid.

No one even mentions the people of Iran, it’s either ridiculous propaganda Lego videos (wartime AI slop), or strait of Hormuz, or the rising gas price or “gosh have you seen the grocery prices”, or “what’s gonna happen to our summer holiday plans now”. We were never part of this so-called “international community”. So why should we still keep our social masks on and grin in the face of every act of dehumanization and racism?

This post is a roundup of many notes I wrote during the past year. And I’m leaving it here as a record of what happened to us in this terrible year, and to remember who was there when it happened, and who was not. As unfamiliar and bitter it may sound to you, for me to be able to ever write anything else here when hopefully things will be different, when I will feel differently, it’s necessary to start from here, and then, if possible, move forward.

I’m throwing a lavish spread and you are invited: Friday, June 13 , come to my Summer Meze Feast at Latteria Studio (Monteverde Nuovo, Rome). We’ll have delicious food, wine, music and sunshine. Gaia will be with me in the kitchen. Some of the recipes we’ll cook are from my book Pomegranates & Artichokes, which will be available to purchase (in English and Italiano) thanks to Otherwise Bookshop. Delicious local wines will be provided by sommelier and wine educator . 

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This is a bittersweet event, as my friend Alice Adams Carosi is closing Latteria Studio at the end of the month. As I have almost always hosted my cooking classes and other culinary events in Rome in this charming space, this means that until further notice this will be my last event in Rome (unless you have a suitable space and want to collaborate?). My first idea was to host a cooking class, as they seem to be the most popular, but I wanted a setting where more of you can join, so we’re having a little Summer Meze Feast. Join us!

The price is €50; it includes all the food and a welcome homemade cordial.

Wine can be purchased by the glass or bottle.

For bookings and info: info@labnoon.com or reply to this email.

If you want to buy my book please bring cash: €30 for the English edition, €35 per l’edizione italiana. 

Ho sempre creduto che il modo di mangiare mediorientale/mediterraneo sia il migliore per le giornate calde d’estate: tanti piattini, molti dei quali vegetariani, spesso serviti freddi o a temperatura ambiente. Verdure, arrostite o crude, condite con lo yogurt o tahina, insalate di tanti colori e varietà con tanti giri d’olio d’oliva, ciotole di frutta secca e olive, e pani e focacce ripieni di formaggio ed erbe estive. Dall’Iran alla Turchia, dal Libano alla Grecia, all’Egitto e oltre, i meze (o mezze) sono uno stile di vita, spesso accompagnati da un bicchiere di vino, arak, ouzo o qualcosa di simile.

Questo è il banchetto al quale vi invito: venerdì 13 giugno, venite alla mia Summer meze feast a Latteria Studio (Monteverde Nuovo, Roma) per buon cibo, vino, musica e sole. In cucina con me ci sarà Gaia. Alcune delle ricette che prepariamo sono tratte dal mio libro Pomegranates & Artichokes, che sarà disponibile per l’acquisto (in inglese e in italiano) grazie a Otherwise Bookshop. , sommelier e wine educator ci porterà dell’ottimo vino locale. 

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Inoltre, è un momento di (temporaneo?) addio, perché la mia amica Alice chiuderà Latteria Studio alla fine del mese. Avendo ospitato quasi sempre qui i miei corsi di cucina e altri eventi a Roma, questo significa che fino a non so quando, questo sarà il mio ultimo evento a Roma (a meno che non abbiate uno spazio adatto e vogliate collaborare?). La mia prima idea era di organizzare un corso di cucina, visto che sono i più richiesti, ma volevo un’occasione in cui più persone potessero partecipare, quindi faremo una piccola Summer meze feast. Vi aspetto numerosi!

Il prezzo è di €50; include tutto il cibo e un cordiale fatto a casa di benvenuto.

Il vino si potrà acquistare al calice o alla bottiglia.

Per prenotazioni e info: info@labnoon.com o rispondi a questa mail.

Se volete acquistare il mio libro, vi prego di portare contanti: €30 per l’edizione inglese, €35 per quella italiana.

Before we begin: When I first started this newsletter, I had big plans to run it as a weekly publication (at least), with dedicated—and possibly elaborate—posts for paid subscribers only. Soon, life got in the way, and I realized I couldn’t keep up with the frequency of publication here, as I had to prioritize the paid commissions that cover my rent and bills: photo shoots and editing, writing for paying outlets, cooking classes, events, and food tours. I paused the paid subscription, thinking that one day I might turn it back on.

I’ve been blogging, in one way or another, in different corners of the internet for nearly 20 years now. My food blog, Lab Noon, is now 11 years old. I enjoy doing this—the writing, the photography, the stream-of-consciousness musings, and of course, the recipes. It does take a lot of time to do all of this and publish a post. But at this moment, I can’t commit to the consistency this platform demands if one wants to make a business out of it. And right now, I don’t want to make a business out of it. But I would appreciate your support. In fact, I need your support—in any form—and I would be very grateful.

I’m turning paid subscriptions back on tomorrow, April 19th, but I’m not paywalling any past or future posts. This way, you can support me by paying a small monthly or annual amount if you want to—or if it’s within your means. I would be very grateful. Every month or so, we’ll do a live video here together and cook something. We’ll also have a community chat. If you’ve already signed up as a paid subscriber and this isn’t to your liking, please feel free to update your subscription plan.

As always, I’m deeply grateful to you all for reading this.

x

Saghar

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In my cookbook Pomegranates & Artichokes, recipes and memories of a journey from Iran to Italy, I often compare recipes from far ends of this span that have similarities and in some cases, actual historical roots. I do get insufferably nerdy about this sometimes, but in the book we tried to keep it at a comprehensible and interesting level. 

There are two ancient recipes that come up whenever I’ve written about milk puddings, rice puddings or ever rice cakes; isfidhabaj and blancmange. 

Milk, almonds, meat: The story of two (or perhaps one) ancient recipes

Blancmange is perhaps the most well-known, a white, slimy pourrige of sorts, often to feed children or the ill. The 14th- and 15th-century English blancmanges were made of shredded chicken breast, sugar, rice, and either ground almonds or almond milk, but there were many variations on the idea on the Continent.

In ancient texts on Arab cooking (9th-11th century), isfidhabaj is often mentioned as an ancient Persian white dish. According to Dehkhoda, the late and prominent Persian lexicographer, sepidba is a soup without yellow spices (turmeric, saffron, cinnamon) — something to be given to the invalid and sick. But it can have chickpeas, and sometimes almonds. Although Charles Perry, the food historian, who has a fascinating paper on blancmange disagrees that isfidhabaj and blancmange are truly related — but that doesn’t make the journey any less interesting.

The fact remains, however, that ground rice was cooked in these dishes, and they often had meat in them — and they were sweet, too. In dessert form, the chicken or meat was probably used as a thickener, later replaced with gelatin. (To this day, the Iranian halim — different from the Levantine haleem — is a porridge made with pounded meat, served with sugar and cinnamon.)

Later, the meat was dropped, possibly because it was expensive — leaving the starchy rice flour as the thickener. (In Turkey, there’s still a version of this pudding that uses chicken breast: tavukgöğsü and kazandibi. People freak out, but it really just tastes like a delicious white pudding. Although we must remember that initially, this wasn’t a dessert, but just a dish. Connotating sweet as a dessert, as opposed to the main dish is a modern idea, specially in the Middle East.)

Isfidhabaj, or blancmange — regardless of their presumed ancient connection or lack thereof — are the ones that gave birth to rice puddings everywhere. Even white puddings with eggs — such as latte portoghese, panna cotta, and crème caramel — have their roots in the humble blancmange. But in our day and age, blancmange sadly becomes the symbol of slimy, textureless, often industrial desserts — with no flavor, made with gelatin. Nevertheless, I find this story fascinating and ever deserving of research and 1 specially of the decolonnized type. (I have found at least 3 or 4 discrepancies between what Mr Perry has published about Middle Eastern food and my own lived experience of it in Iran).

The recipe that follows is inspired by a rice pudding cake that I’ve written in Pomegranates & Artichokes called an orange-scented rice cake, which is basically a baked rice pudding that holds all the aroma of an entire orange grove inside it. The cake we have here however is a chocolate cake; a rich, deep chocolate cake made with black rice. And beetroots. 

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A Black Rice from fields in Maremma, Tuscany

I’m using Ebano Rice from Tenuta San Carlo, an organic rice field in Maremma, Tuscany which I had the pleasure of visiting a couple of years ago. The attention to sustainability, crop rotation and the health of the soil is truly remarkable at Tenuta San Carlo.

I have written previously about their rice and developed other recipes with a couple of varieties of their rice, but I should say this new Ebano black rice must be my favorite. As it says on their website “beyond its sustainability, Ebano is also simply delicious.”

I’ve named this cake “the black risaia”, not so much as a black forest, but a black rice field. The liquid retained in the rice and the water of the beetroot make this cake pleasantly soft, yet with a texture, because of the rice grains. The rich, creamy mascarpone frosting with the acidity of the berries cut beautifully through the intense and earthly flavors of the chocolate, beets and black rice.

Black Risaia: Chocolate Cake with Black Rice, Beetroot, and Berry Frosting

Makes one 20 cm cake

Ingredients:

For the cake:

• 200g Ebano black rice by Tenuta San Carlo

• 2 large beetroots (or 3 medium ones, 400-500g)

• 4 eggs

• 150g caster sugar

• 300g milk or dark chocolate2

• 1 heaping tablespoon cocoa powder

• 1 teaspoon baking powder

• Olive oil for greasing the tin

For the frosting:

• 500g mascarpone3

• 300g mixed berries (I used raspberries and wild strawberries)

• 3 tablespoons powdered sugar

• Juice of 1 lemon

Method:

• Cook the rice according to the instructions on the package (for about 30 to 45 minutes) in a large pot of lightly salted water. Note that the rice will expand significantly while cooking and absorb a lot of water. Once cooked, drain the rice and let it cool completely.

• Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F. Line the bottom and sides of the tin with baking parchment, using olive oil on both sides to ensure the paper stays in place.

• Chop the chocolate into pieces and melt it using the bain-marie method: place the chocolate in a heatproof bowl over a saucepan of water, and melt on medium-low heat.

• Wash, peel, and shred the beetroot in a food processor or grate it coarsely by hand.

• Separate the yolks and whites of the eggs. Beat the egg yolks with the sugar (if using a food processor, add the egg yolks and sugar directly to the food processor with the beets). Set aside 1 tablespoon of the melted chocolate for garnish, and gently fold the rest into the mixture. Add the cocoa powder and baking powder, ensuring there are no lumps. Incorporate the cooked rice.

• Using an electric whisk or a stand mixer, whip the egg whites to soft peaks, then gently fold them into the batter. Transfer the batter into the prepared tin and smooth the surface.

• Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, or until a skewer inserted into the center comes out clean. Wait for 10-15 minutes, then unmold the cake and allow it to cool completely.

• For the frosting, add half of the berries, powdered sugar, and lemon juice to a saucepan. Cook on medium heat until the sugar is completely dissolved and the fruit has reduced to a pulp. Use a fork to mash the berries thoroughly. Strain the coulis through a sieve and discard the seeds. Mix the berry puree with the mascarpone until you have a smooth, pale pink cream. If necessary, chill the frosting in the fridge for about 15 minutes.

• Spread the frosting thickly over the cake and top with the remaining berries. Using a spoon, drizzle the reserved melted chocolate (you may need to reheat it using the bain-marie method) over the cake from a height. Serve.

Keeps for 2-3 days in the fridge.

3

You can substitute the mascarpone with cream cheese if you can't find any.

Which brings me to the subject of anxiety. The arrival of Spring, joyous and warm and outdoorsy as it is, makes me anxious. It brings to mind things such as summer. And summer is long, long, long and cruel. And relentless. The end of a nonexistent winter asks for geering up for a never ending summer, too soon. Before I’ve gathered up my forces to come out of lethargy.

Before you know it it’s all about vacations, sand and sea, huge sun umbrellas, the obsession with dolce vita and tanned bodies stretching lazily on beaches or on boats. Things I can neither afford nor enjoy as much as it is expected of me. The warming up of the air makes me think constantly of all the things I should’ve done before the work year ends and people start telling you “ne parleremo a settembre”. We’ll talk about it in September. Life rushes by in short cycles in Italy. Like the year’s already over after its first quarter. 

It’s not that I particularly love the dark, short days or the (very, very mild) cold, but I find winter is a much gentler space for me to be. There are things that I’d like to hold on to before this precious time slips by, most of which come in various shapes of the cabbage family, which I often eat with one shape of pasta or another. Shorter, warmer winters also mean less chances of hearty soups and sh too. So In those few dishes that I have cooked, there’s been a rather heavy presence of what can be best described as “warm salads”. 

Some things (aka non-recipes) I’ve tried and liked

• Roasted cauliflower with turmeric and a pepper based spices such as paprika or a proper Spanish pimentón, which does taste different from other kinds. You can also grate a clove of garlic but I tend to avoid it, it’s harsh on my stomach sometimes. I like adding some ginger, or perhaps something a bit hot, like actual chili. Sweet potatoes (boiled for 5-ish minutes in salted water) and different types of squash work great in this mix. I like to add pulses, lentils, because they cook quickly (which is very weird, they didn’t back in Iran), or chickpeas out of a can. Sometimes I mix this directly with a bag of bitter leaves. They’re quite decent here. Other times I also boil some of the cauliflower and blend it with some tahini and lemon to make a creamy bed to hold  salads like this. This works even better with Romanesco broccoli. It’s a recipe I learned from Domenico Cortese, the chef at Marigold (our beloved restaurant, now closed)

  

• Broccoli roasted with miso, which apparently is a classic I hadn’t tried until quite recently. I remember reading a recipe about this which also had brown butter. It might have been the New York Times. Anyway, brown butter is always a good idea in my book but I find it easier to just whisk the miso paste with some olive oil in a big bowl and toss in the broccoli. I’m a novice with miso paste and the surprising part for me was that I still needed to add some salt after roasting. Perhaps I should’ve added more miso to go completely saltless. I don’t like grating a garlic clove here, it covers the flavor of miso. 

I do add chickpeas out of a can here too. Rinsing them first and tossing them briefly in a bowl with olive oil, salt and perhaps a bit of chili. I roast everything on the same tray, sometimes adding some unseasonal tomatoes still on the vine. I chopped some fresh onions (the ones from the southern town of Tropea) and added them before serving. We had this with rice once. Other times with more bitter leaves. Once I replaced broccoli with brussel sprouts and that was good too

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• Radicchio, citrus. Citrus, radicchio. Beautiful, bitter, sour, sweet. Everywhere, anywhere, until available. Sometimes I just put the two together, perhaps with some walnuts. Olive oil, salt, pepper. Radicchio with any type of blue cheese is lovely, cooked (grilled, roasted) or raw. Pink ones and rose shaped ones are too delicate for the oven of course, so they become a salad that works as a table centerpiece too. Oranges with all the other bitter greens and/or fennels day in, day out (or on their own with some celery and pistachios).

I have made a big batch of granola which I’ve slightly burnt so it’s all dark and extremely terrible in photos. I had two large bags of oat brans that I wouldn’t have known how else to consume (some ended up in a pound cake, tbh). So I’ve been having lots of yogurt with granola for breakfast, with lots of blood oranges. This little blood orange cake by is something I should make before the season’s over.

• Big wedges of iceberg, which when turned cut side up, allow all the dressing to go deep inside and transform the iceberg lettuce from something bland and “icy”, to a flavor-carrying, crunchy little boats. For an iceberg salad I normally experience with the Asian part of my pantry. I make a vinaigrette with sesame oil, rice vinegar, soy sauce and tahini (because I don’t have Japanese sesame paste). Not sure if this still can be called a “vinaigrette”. Apple, for more crunch still, and for sweetness. Eggs for creaminess and a bit of protein.

• Ribbons of carrot and lentils, with a bit of celery or tops of spring onions and doused in fresh lemon juice are unexpectedly tasting. Refreshing, yet filling. These particular lentils had been cooked with onion and a dash of turmeric in a pan. The night I made the salad with roasted and spicy cauliflower I boiled an unnecessarily big batch of lentils and we ended up eating lentils for a few nights. Once I turned them into Adas Polow, the Iranian Mujaddara — rice and lentils and fried onions with turmeric, cinnamon and saffron and served with raisins. There were still lentils left though, and there was also a vulgarly big amount of carrots that looked at me threateningly everytime I opened the fridge. Carrots I believe are my least favorite vegetables in the world. I like the shape and texture of carrot ribbons but I detest peeling away at them until this results is achieved. We had friends over that night and they all loved this combo. So a small win for the lentils, carrots and me

• The main dish that very same night was sausages and potatoes. Clearly not a salad, but easier than most. Organic, unpeeled (and new-ish) potatoes scrubbed, cleaned, halved or quartered even, suggages and some cherry tomatoes still on the wine. I tossed everything in olive oil and sprinkled salt and pepper. I added more than half a jar of little onions pickled in balsamic vinegar  because I had used onions in everything else I was serving and I also felt too lazy to slice another one. The result was a slightly sweeter and deeper flavor. A keeper. I baked this at about 200 degree celsius until things started getting toasty, then I poured in about a glass of white wine and I put the tray back in the oven until everything was soft and golden. Feeding a few adults rather effortlessly. Rosemary would’ve been nice but I didn’t have any.

• This last one is not my idea. It’s a speciality at one of my favorite wine bars in Rome called Faffiuché, and it’s warm bruschetta with — wait for it — shaved cremino (a soft type of hazelnut chocolate from Piedmont), drizzled with peppery olive oil from Puglia and sprinkled with fleur de sel. I know! And yes, It’s as ridiculously good as it sounds. You’re welcome. I shared this one with the incredible Anya von Bremzen when she was visiting Rome.

I hope one or more of these ideas come handy in your kitchen. Keeping fingers crossed next time I’ll have sucked in some sunshine and spring fervor before encumbering your inbox. 

With love,

Saghar

We have survived January! Well done to us all.

The lunar year of the snake has begun, which heralds transformation and wisdom, and boy don’t we all need that desperately. This email contains news of a little transformation of my culinary events, in which I hope I can cater better, and to more of you.

Until now, my culinary events — mostly Iranian cooking classes and occasionally some dinners — have been spot events; meaning I would do them seldom during the year and they’d sell out very quickly. I have received countless emails from many of you during the year asking when the next class would be. So I have created a calendar with cooking classes and other events where you can see when my next classes are happening. You can also subscribe to these events on Google Calendar or iCal as more events are added to them. All Rome classes are at Latteria Studio (Monteverde Nuovo, Rome) unless stated otherwise.

The calendar includes two new cooking classes. These delicious and hands-on classes are a fun and relaxed experience, suitable for all levels of expertise.

Coming up

CLASSIC IRANIAN COOKING CLASS

This is my most popular class that I have been holding for years. We will cook a 5-6 course meal, starting from a little snack and ending with dessert. We explore the basics of the food of Iran; expect saffron, (a lot of) herbs, pistachios, almonds, roses, rice and the magical tahdig (crust at the bottom) and much more. We always start with the basics, and we move on make more complex dishes, but always in a way that is replicable at home. We end with tea and something sweet.

MEDITERRANEAN BRUNCH CLASS

Inspired by the super popular breakfast events that I held in the past couple of years, I now introduce this Mediterranean brunch cooking class in which we will cook a 4-5 items for a feast of  the most delicious breakfast dishes from Iran, Turkey, Lebanon, Greece and Italy. Think Sheermal Bread (a brioche bread with milk and saffron from Iran), Fattah (toasted flatbread layered with a lemony, yogurt sauce with tahini, chickpeas and topped with pine nuts and fresh herbs, served as weekend breakfast in Syria), Filo triangles stuffed with cheese, egg dishes and much more. Tea, coffee, milk and fresh juice will also be served. Perfect weekend appointment.  

MEZE & MIDDLE EASTERN APERITIVO CLASS

In this brand new, and slightly smaller evening cooking class, we explore the glorious world of meze (or mezze) in the Middle East; little dishes served usually with a drink. These dishes can be found from Iran, to Turkey, all the Levantine countries, Greece and beyond. Little vegetable dips made of fava beans, beets, potatoes and much more, many, many varieties of salads for different seasons, battered and fried vegetables or little fish, just to start. Usually served with drinks (alcoholic or nonalcoholic), these little plates are my favorite way to entertain, sharing many little dishes with loved ones is the only way I want to eat.

We will cook a 4-5 plates to share. Sometimes we will make a drink too. We will also discuss the meze culture and (the misunderstood or often unknown) drinking rituals in the middle east.

For all these cooking classes Minimum n. participants: 4, Maximum n. participants: 7. You can also book a who class privately for a group of 1 to 8. If you can’t make it to the cooking class on this date, no worries. See the events page for other dates or send me an email to inquire about the day that fits you and your group. For prices and more details also see the event page. 

FOOD TOURS

Food tours are not my core business, and when I do lead one, it’s very far from a typical food tour (with which Rome is bursting) that feeds you mozzarella and prosciutto followed by carbonara. Passion, and later my job as a food writer and cook have brought me to know and love (almost) everything about the best local and authentic food in Rome. I’m obsessed with historical and social facts about food, I have a lot to say and I’m also very greedy, so I never say no to the delicious bites. 

In the last few years more and more people have asked for a tour, and they are fun.​​ My classic Rome food tour usually takes place in a neighborhood with an incredibly rich culinary history. I will tell you about the historical anecdotes and geographical curiosities that have shaped the micro-cuisine of Rome while tasting everything from cream-filled buns for breakfast, to seasonal vegetables and traditional dishes for lunch and many other snacks, ending with dessert, usually gelato.

The tour is always private and a one to one conversation, bespoke to whatever you want or need.

Previous guests on the tour have said:

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I’m also available for

Photo shoots

I have a couple of exciting projects coming up in the next months and I would love to undertake more editorial and commercial photography projects. Making a cookbook or renewing your hospitality brand’s image? Let’s talk!

Lectures 

One of the happy results of publishing Pomegranates & Artichokes has been ​​the honor of getting invited to speak about the food cultures of the Mediterranean and the Middle East at seminars, events and universities. Some of the universities I have so far held a lecture in are: Auburn University campus in Italy, University of Gastronomic Sciences in Pollenzo and John Felice Rome Center of Loyola University Chicago, as well as a talk in Ri.MED Scientific Symposium entitled "NUTRITION, MICROBIOME AND METABOLISM" in October 2024. I would be delighted to hold more of these lectures.

Photography workshops 

I used to hold many photography workshops in the golden era of blogs and instagram (which now feels kind of yucky to think about). I still think taking better pictures is a nice skill, regardless of whether or not we share them or where we do, and our phones these days are incredible tools to harness this skill. This class would be great for everyone but I think exchange students would particularly enjoy it. A short class of 3 hours.

Cooking

One of the main reasons that I’ve expanded my cooking classes this year is that I really want to spend more time in the kitchen, and somehow the kitchen at home is not satisfying enough. I love designing menus and creating events and then bringing that vision to life. I’m available to cook for small(ish) private dinners and events.

Let me know what you think please. What could be improved, what you’re excited about.

Have a lovely weekend.

Warmly,

Saghar

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This year, I got the gift guide fever. Perhaps because of sheer amounts of them and the discussion they’ve created. We all know that the holidays are the season where capitalism roars in triumph and the landfills weep. We’ve also read those posts about “normalising gifting fruit trees, sourdough starters, handwritten recipes”, and believe me, I truly endorse it. For years now I’ve been gifting little edible presents made by me (not sure really many people cherished them as much as I enjoyed making them). There’s a very old blog post I’ve written about it a decade (A DECADE!) ago with recipes for pomegranate gin, mandarine curd and herby salt. Last year, my liver paté attempt failed (too many giftees estated they’re not a fan of liver. Italians! Shame.)

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But it now appears, as this interesting New York Times piece points out that “Complaining about gift guides, however, may be its own time-honored tradition.”

So here’s a list of things I would pretty much like as gifts, at Christmas or any other time. In other words, just a chance for me to write a few words.

If you do feel inspired by some of them and it helps you navigate the dreads of holiday-prep, it’ll be a happy plus. Nothing is more nerve wracking than getting to Christmas stressed and exhausted and still having to figure out what gifts to give people (vouchers! Vouchers are your best friends in these times. Get a lovely card and write something personal that’ll make up for the impersonal — but highly pragmatic — nature of the gift). I don’t link general things that you all know where to find and not one of those that are linked are affiliated. If you need any more information about any others without links feel free to ask.

 Before getting on with the list, may I shamelessly promote my own work as a gift you might actually consider? My cookbook, Pomegranates & Artichokes, makes a truly beautiful gift for those who like cooking, for Iran-lovers and Italophiles alike, and for beautiful book lovers in general. Please consider supporting your favorite authors by purchasing their books this holiday season. It really does make a huge difference in our careers to have a surge in sales.

Devices & Gadgets

1. Noise cancelling headphones: Getting an official ADHD diagnosis last year from a specialized psychiatrist made sense of many things in my life, including what I would wake up to the sound of the TV being turned even when it was on mute — the buzzing would get to me, or why I could decipher every single word of the whispered conversations of my parents while watching the said TV. I’m not on meds, I’m trying to make sense of things which means I need a routine and a dedicated space for work which can never be home, and that I need to find a way to block the voices of everyone around me. At the moment I can tell you the details of jobs and life matters of everyone sitting around me in the co-working space I go to work, and I’ve learned all the songs on the playlist (which infernally is always the same). 

   I really need a pair of noise cancelling headphones or earpods. If you’ve never tried them, let me tell you they are nothing short of miraculous. You’ll be doused in absolute silence, which is not great so you can add music (pink/white noise for us ADHDs). They’re not cheap, I’ve seen them from €200 to €500. I’ve seen my partner googling them (because I’ve been relentlessly raving about them). Azizam if you’re reading this, please get me the Apple airpods, not the Bose headphones! Merci! (Headphones are bulky and make your head hurt after a while).

2. Planetarium projector on the wall: this is truly silly and appeared to me among the avalanche of crap that invaded my Instagram feed in that unlimited vast promotion era known as the Black Friday week/month. I have a funny bed, it’s on a loft and curtains enclose it when I sleep at night. The ceiling is low, but honestly I love it. It’s like a den, or a canopy bed. I have a feeling the milky road projected on this ceiling would look dreamy, exactly because it’s low. 

3. A pack of good negatives: I have been using my (not really that) old film camera in the last couple of years and I have adored its imperfection. As a professional photographer, I’ve noticed that film photography is able to bring me back the true joy of snapping moments. The slowness and intentionality of film is liberating, and the result is effortlessly miraculous.

4. An instant camera: See above. I’d like the Fujifilm instax, the small cute one. I really can’t stomach the plastic, digital Polaroid. 

Subscriptions & Gift Vouchers

5. A Coursera subscription: This year, I’m committed to update my knowledge in general, because I have the big F coming out (turning 40 in April) and I’m terrified of being old and boomer-ish, as in not fitting in in a world that moves fast technology-wise (and otherwise). So I have actually already signed up for Coursera (the only thing I got during Black Friday, the annual subscription was a very sweet deal). In case you’re not familiar with Coursera, it’s a platform of e-courses on anything and everything, offered by professionals and university professors. You can even get a degree or choose to follow all the courses necessary for a new career (limited choices of careers). My first intention is to learn as much as I can about AI. I know it scares us and revolts us occasionally, but in a couple of years AI will be as relevant as the internet itself was in the 2010s and I don’t wanna be the lady in her forties who’s left behind.

6. Subscription (or gift voucher) for CBC writing courses: This is the best writing course platform that I have found in years of searching. It’s offered by professional authors, from a very good literary agency in London. One of the silver linings of the pandemic was that many events and courses happening IRL moved to the internet and I’ve seen the courses become more and more interesting in time. There’s a huge emphasis on fiction (and sadly nothing at all on food writing), but there are smaller courses that are great for all writers. They offer gift vouchers as well. 

7. Alicia Kennedy’s workshops: is a truly gifted and eloquent writer and her writing expands from her successful newsletter to articles to her books. She’s been doing newsletter and food media workshops. She’s very knowledgeable about the industry and very generous with her knowledge. The workshops are reasonably priced and there are discounts for previous attendees and her paid subscribers. I have attended two of them and I’ll surely attend more. I think she offers gift vouchers as well. 

8. Culinary Backstreet vouchers for food tours: As a food writer and photographer and occasional food tour leader in Rome who plans her travels mostly around food, I’m always happy to leave myself in the capable hands of people of CBS for a great food and culture experience in a new city. I think they do gift vouchers as well.

9. Classes at Latteria Studio:  this is where I have been holding all of my Roman cooking classes. My friend, Alice Adams Carosi, cook and food stylists have created this cosy and charming kitchen studio where together Rachel Roddy (and the late Carla Tomasi) they created the popular market to table cooking classes. Alice teaches seasonal cooking and I teach Iranian cooking (among other things). Gift a class from the calendar or get in touch to ask for a gift voucher. 

10. Gift voucher to my classes, workshops and tours. Not a gift for myself obviously, but I’m happy to issue a gift voucher for my events and tours. I’m currently working on a new calendar of events that I’ll put on my website which’ll make it easier to access my events. 

Kitchen & tableware

11. Thermometer kitchen. I hardly ever cook anything that might need one of these but I recently realized that they’re used also in frying to see if the temperature of the oil is right. I think my kitchen needs one. 

12. Le Cresuet cast iron casserole. Because I don’t have one, and it’s an investment a kitchen needs. Plus, Iranian khoresh and stews cook beautifully in cast iron pots. Many prefer the rival Staub, but I’ve cooked in them and I can’t stand the black background. I love this gorgeous milky “meringue” color.

13. Stainless steel butter dish with a lid: I’m currently obsessed with all the butter dishes; old fashioned glass ones, edgy modern ceramic ones and this stainless steel one that looks retro (but it’s not) is so cool. 

14. A splatter serving dish. They’re always a delight. I would love to head down to Puglia (where the inspiration for these large splatter ceramics originated) and get something from Fasano Ceramics, but I won’t say no to this cute (and less expensive) one either. It’s from H&M home.  

15. Pottery by Gabrielle Schaffner (and any other beautiful artisan ceramics). I have long been a fan of ’s and her gorgeous work. Her new drops usually go sold out immediately and she doesn’t have anything left in the stock, so you need to move fast. I would love something with pomegranates and artichokes. 

Food

16. Homemade jams and curds, like the ones from Saba Jam. I’m a slave for pretty design and packaging and any beautiful jar will win my heart but there’s just match for good quality, artisan products. I usually make these gift jars myself and hopefully before it’s too late I’ll make the late Carla's chocolate and pear jam.

17. Fancy tinned fish. I admit I love good tinned fish more as an object than food. I have framed a Tricana wrapping and put it on my wall. I don’t have a collection but boy, do they make nice gifts, perfect for a hamper. Portuguese and Spanish ones are best. 

18. Fleur del sel. See above regarding beautiful design. Unperishable and very practical and I think salt brings luck in some cultures, so year! 

19. Tea blends. This is obvious considering the above, also very much Fortnum and Mason, which is not really my vibe. I used to blend my own tea for gifts: (always) Earl grey by Ahmad tea, rose petals, orange blossoms and cardamom. Put in a nice jar, with a lovely handwritten label and some natural ornaments tied with the label. 

20. Dolce & Gabbana panettone. Do I own anything D&G? No. Would I ever wear anything by Dolce & Gabbana? Hell no. Would I go absolutely crazy over one of the many varieties of Dolce & Gabbana panettones? YES! Is it because of the beautiful tin? Of course! It’s only because of the gorgeous, pretty, absolutely stunning tin and the Sicilian inspired designs on it. 

Accessories & Lifestyle

21. Vivaia shoes. Another triumph for Instagram ad campaigns. You’ve definitely seen the ads. I bought a pair of these, red closed toe sandals and they’re honestly good for wide (and huge) feet. They look elegant while not being torturous. I love these low wedges, not quite heels but not quite flats either. Fancy patterns are fun too. 

22. A crazy, fancy headwear. I’m turning 40 this year and I want to throw a party where I put on something extravagant and glittery and goddamnit, I want a gorgeous, bejeweled headwear to go with it. They also look nice with my hair. 

23. Anchovy ring from Ta-Daan. I have lost my heart to this ring, and it’s apparently handmade in Italy. And it’s an anchovy!

24. Naturally made scented candles. Too obvious? Perhaps. There are way more candles and incense that I hate than love, so when I love some, I’d like to stock them. I adored the candles from Cera Una Bolla (once upon a time there was a bubble/wax), naturally made of soy. I was addicted to their number 08, Ebanonero (warm wood notes). The beautiful couple behind the brand is currently on a year-long travel, but I do hope they come back to make us more beautiful candles. 

25. Fancy matches like these. There’s something about them that gently whispers “well-being”, kindling a moment of peace, lighting the candles above. Plus point, make great collectables and they look very pretty. 

26. Manicurist nail set. I am not a manicure person. The only thing I detest more than the electric nail file that drills away polish is the dentist’s drill. These see-through polishes look nice, subtle and are removed easily.

27. CBD + CBN oil for sleeping/relaxation. Are you fortunate enough to fall asleep soon and stay asleep all night? I am not. I really don’t like the idea of taking medication for sleep. When I’m reasonably (but not too) tired and not much stressed, I sleep fairly well, but not for long. Melatonin makes me way too groggy for many hours, but CBD oils for sleep and relaxation? They have been amazing. I like the ones containing CBN but with no Melatonin. The bliss of good sleep, there’s just no better gift. 

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28. A sleeping eye mask. I have been sleeping with an eye mask (and ear plugs) since I was 14. I can’t sleep without one. (see above) I need to find small scarves or a pair of panties to put on my eyes if I forget to pack one when travelling. A lovely, 100% cotton eye mask is a cherished and very well used gift. 

29. A nice illustrated poster about food and conviviality, like this Vino amici e tarallala one that I’ve had my eyes on for a long time. 

Books and Stationary

30. Martyr! A novel by Kaveh Akbar. Came upon this through the New York Times’ best books of the year and was immediately intrigued as I recognized the author’s name to be Iranian. “A newly sober, orphaned son of Iranian immigrants, guided by the voices of artists, poets, and kings, embarks on a remarkable search for a family secret that leads him to a terminally ill painter living out her final days in the Brooklyn Museum.” Sounds worth the read.

31. Eating and Being: A History of Ideas About Our Food and Ourselves by Steven Shapin. I found this fascinating sounding book through Nicola Perullo, the rector at the University of Gastronomic Sciences of Pollenzo (founded by Slow Food). “Throughout this rich history, Shapin evokes what it felt like to eat during another historical period and he invites us to reflect on what it means to feel about food as we now do.”

32. Cookbooks. No explanation needed why I would love cookbooks as presents, any time of the year. I am very lucky to get a few of them, and not always do I have to go through them. I’ve been eyeing ’s Table for Two for a while and I can’t wait until ’s Pakistan comes out in Spring. 

33. Anything from The School of Life. I’m an avid consumer of their youtube channel, I have learned a lot from them and I’m happy to support their philosophy of spreading therapy into the masses. They have beautiful books, journals and card games for friends and couples that make great gifts.

34. Moleskine notebooks, no agendas. This is an obvious one, isn’t it. I’m a stationery addict and I adore notebooks. The strict discipline I exercise upon myself doesn’t always hold. The only part that I’ve managed to stick to, is that I no longer buy planners. I don’t use them, time goes by, days run out and suddenly they look like my grandma’s late phone book; from 6 years ago and half empty. But don’t you love Moleskine notebooks? Give me the simple ones, in black, or red. The large ones (13x21cm) or the XL ones (19x25cm). I like the XL ones with a soft cover (I wrote all of the recipes of Pomegranates & Artichokes in one of these and I’m very attached to it). I might get an expanded version of the large version. 

35. Anything Saypaper. Remember when I said above “no more planners”? Well, discard that. I want all the planners from Saypaper, especially the undated ones. 

36. While you’re at it add nice pens from Saypepers (or anywhere else) as well, like this one. 

Thank you for reading until the end. Good luck and remember to breath. It’ll be over in just over a week. Enjoy the festive season.

Saghar

Hello and welcome to this issue of Noon! Before proceeding to read this piece with a little cultural and literal background, as well as a delicious, hearty recipe, may I remind of you my two upcoming events?

Saturday December 7th, Iranian cooking class, 2 spots left, info & booking

Sunday December 8th, Breakfast from the Middle East (and Italy) info & booking

Enquire booking

One man’s mission to save the Persian language

Sometime in the late tenth century, a man from the ancient land of Khorasan, in the north-east of current Iran, sat down to write a story in verse and spent the next 30 years of his life doing that in order to save the Persian language that was in danger of disappearance. That man was Ferdowsi, the great Persian poet, and that story was Shahnameh, the ‘Book of Kings’. With more than 50,000 couplets, and three times longer than Homer’s The Iliad, Shahnameh is one of the world’s longest epic poems, and it tells the mythical story of how the first men and kings of Iran came to be, and the chivalrous battles of heroes, with some mentions of the history of pre-Islamic Iran. Although in part influenced by older stories and even the mythology of other cultures, Shahnameh has undoubtedly contributed immensely to the cultural identity of not only Iranic people, but also to those of Turkics and even Georgians, covering a vast geographical area starting at the gates of Europe in the Balkans, all the way to the borders of China.

The devil cooks (meat) for the evil king

From the feasts of kings, to the hunting exploits of heroes, there are many references to what ancient Iranians probably ate, although it’s very hard to guess the actual recipes. For example, early in the stories of Shahnameh, the devil (Iblis) appears to the evil king Zahhāk (or Azhi-dehak, meaning The Dragon King) disguised as a young and masterful cook, enticing the king with marvellous dishes of poultry, game, egg yolks, lamb and ‘a stew of sirloin of veal with rosewater, saffron, aged wine and musk’. The king is so pleased he wants to reward the young cook, and the devil, sly as he is, asks only to kiss the king’s shoulders. As soon as he does, two horrific black serpents grow out of the king’s shoulders, which would feast every day on the brains of two youths for many years of terrible tyranny, until the evil king is overthrown in a popular uprising led by Kaveh the Blacksmith and the righteous king, Fereydoun.

به روز چهارم چو بنهاد خوان
خورش ساخت از پشت گاو جوان
بدو اندرون زعفران و گلاب
همان سالخورده می و مشک ناب

[...] and on the fourth [day]
[he prepared] A chine of veal with saffron and rosewater,
Musk and old wine.

Well, the truth is that I came upon that verse describing the majestic dish out of its contest and I went down the rabbit hole to find it in Shahnameh. I was kind of devastated to learn that a wonder like veal with saffron, rosewater, wine and musk was a recipe developed by the devil himself. Although Ferdowsi uses the word “khoresh”, which means stew in our times, in archaic Persian of the tenth century it was much closer to “victuals” in general, so not necessarily a stew. The description of the ingredients on the other hand matches more one of a kabab, rather than a stew. Interestingly a few lines before this verse Ferdowsi alludes to some sort of vegetarianism and implies the killing and cooking of animals was of the work of the devil-cook:

فراوان نبود آن زمان پرورش
که کمتر بد از خوردنی‌ها خورش
ز هر گوشت از مرغ و از چارپای
خورشگر بیاورد یک یک به جای

Foods then were few, men did not kill to eat
But lived on vegetals of all earth's produce;
So evil-doing Ahriman designed
To slaughter animals for food, and served
Both bird and beast.

But then this notion is easily contradicted. I searched for more mentions of kabāb in Shahnameh and it turns out that it is one of the most repeated culinary words throughout the epic, both in literal form — such as when the heroes camp on the plains, grilling game meat over an open fire – and as a trope, such as when describing the extraordinary strength of the hero Afrasiab, by saying he would make kabāb from a lion’s back.

Kabab, kebab, kebap? Grilled or not?

Kabāb (pronunciation slightly varies based on geography) as pieces of fire-grilled meat has such deep roots in Iranian culture that it appears in all sorts of proverbs as metaphor, too (similar tropes exist in Turkish as well). For example, if your heart is like kabab (burning, as if on hot coals), it means you have many sorrows. To eat kabab off one’s own leg/bone/back means to ruin one’s own chances, and to eat kabab off a darwish’s back means to ruin an already disadvantaged man.

In our times, the way most Iranians (and Persians and other Iranic peoples) imagine kabab is meat on skewers that is grilled, almost all of the time. But that has not always been the case. Kebab karaz for example — a Syrian dish present also in Anatolian Turkey and other parts of Levant — is a delicious meatball dish stewed with sour cherries and pomegranate molasses, not grilled. (You can find this recipe on page 161 of my cookbook Pomegranates & Artichokes).

Likewise, taas kabab, the recipe that follows, is not one of meat grilled over an open fire. Taas is an old word of Turkish origin for a bowl, or in this case, a cooking pot. Therefore taas-kabab is meat ‘grilled’ in a pot, with no water – in other words, it’s braised.

Tās-Kabab, a hearty braise of meat and vegetables

This dish exists in Turkey and Greece, too, although their version is a lot more saucy and tomatoey, whereas there’s usually very little or no tomato in Iranian taas-kabab. Vegetables – usually wedges of potato and carrot, but also apple and/or quince – are used on top. The key is to use onions in abundance, which melt over long hours of slow cooking, providing the meat with the liquid it needs for braising. If available, powdered dried lime is sprinkled over the meat and onion during cooking – and if using apples/quince, a touch of cinnamon. This is one of my most favorite dishes for a warming, hearty meal for the cold days, and whenever possible I make it with quince. Prunes shouldn’t be skipped in my opinion, but I personally never add carrots because I’m not a fan, but feel free to add some if you like. 

Serves 4–6

Ingredients:

• 1 tablespoon oil

• 500 g (1 lb 2 oz) lamb meat, from the shanks, shoulder or neck, cut into big chunks1

• 3–4 onions (about 350 g/12 oz),

• sliced crossways into 5 mm (¼ inch) discs

• 21/2 teaspoons salt

• 11/2 teaspoons ground turmeric

• 3–4 bay leaves

• 6 prunes, pitted2

• 500 g (1 lb 2 oz) potatoes, peeled and sliced cross ways into 1 cm (1/2 inch) discs

• 1 apple (or quince), peeled and sliced

• crossways into 1 cm (1/2 inch) discs

• 11/2 teaspoons tomato paste (concentrated purée)

• 11/2 cups (375 ml) hot water

• 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Method:

Heat the oil in a large, heavy-based saucepan. Add one layer of meat, not too snugly. Sprinkle some of the salt, turmeric and some black pepper, then top with one layer of onion. Sprinkle that with some more salt, pepper and turmeric. Fit the bay leaves and plums wherever there are spaces between the pieces of the meat. Keep layering the meat and onion, and sprinkling with more seasoning, until you’ve used it all up.

Next, start layering the potato slices on top, again sprinkling with the seasoning. Do the same with the apple (or quince) slices, keeping them on the topmost layer, so that they cook only in the steam, and not in the braising juices, and don’t fall apart during the long cooking time. 

Once all the meat and vegetables are layered in the pot, dissolve the tomato paste in the hot water and add whatever’s left of the salt and turmeric. Gently pour into the pot from one side.

Put the lid on and cook gently over the lowest heat possible for 3–31/2 hours. After this time, the lamb will be very tender.

Right before serving, sprinkle the cinnamon on top.

In the past few years of teaching cooking classes in different cities of Italy — seven years! take out the two years of the pandemic — I have been blessed with your great enthusiasm. Classes and events would usually sell out in a matter of a day or two. I don’t do events very often either, so that must’ve helped the sales as well.

When I announced the Iranian cooking class on December 7 last Monday however, I got the usual enthusiastic emails, but quite a few of them were in the lines of “oh I would really like to come, but it’s not a good moment”. And who am I not to understand that? There have been quite a bunch of things that I would’ve liked to do this year, but I couldn’t. The economy is pressing us raw, a lot of money seems to be circulating around, but somehow it’s never enough to confront the ever rising cost of living.

So I’ve decided to bring down the price of the cooking class a little. It’s not much, these things don’t make much financial sense anyway (truly a labor of love), but I hope it makes the course a little bit more accessible.

There are now 4 spots available at €150 per person. See the details below.

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Iranian Cooking Class

This is my classic cooking class where we explore the basics of the food of Iran, saffron, (a lot of) herbs, rice and the magical tahdig (crust at the bottom) and much more.

WHEN

Saturday December 7th

Class starts at 10 am sharp and usually ends after a very late lunch (3.30/4 pm)

There are only 6 4 spots available.

WHERE

Latteria Studio

(Monteverde Nuovo Neighborhood)

PRICE

€190 €150 x Person

includes the class, lunch, snacks, wine and recipes

BOOKING

In order to reserve your spot please pay a deposit of €50 via Revolut, PayPal or bank transfer.

In order to book, please reply to this email or send an email to info@labnoon.com and I will give you the details for payment.

WHAT WE COOK

We will cook a 5-6 course meal, starting from a little snack and ending with dessert that is accompanied by cardamom tea. The menu is always vegetarian and gluten-free friendly and can be easily adapted for vegans.

Please let me know about your preferences and dietary restrictions.

In questi anni che ho tenuto corsi di cucina in diverse città d’Italia — sono sette! Con due anni di pandemia in mezzo — ho sempre avuto la fortuna del vostro entusiasmo nei mei confronti. Passavano malapena un paio di giorni dopo l’annuncio di un corso nuovo che tutto andava sold out. Poi non tengo i corsi spesso, anche questo avrà aiutato.

Quando lunedì scorso ho annunciato il corso di cucina iraniana del 7 dicembre, ho ricevuto le solite mail entusiaste, però non poche contenevano delle frasi del tipo “ah mi piacerebbe molto, ma in questo momento non posso”. E chi sarei io per non comprendere esattamente cosa significa questo? Ci sono state un bel po’ di cose che io avrei voluto fare questo anno, ma non ho potuto. L’economia ci sta spremendo l’anima, sembra che tanto denaro circola in giro, ma in qualche modo non abbastanza per confrontare i costi sempre più alti della vita.

Allora ho deciso di abbassare un po’ il costo della cooking class. Non è tantissimo, dunque queste cose non si fanno per diventare ricchi — si fa per l’amore di farlo — ma spero comunque che il corso di cucina ora sia più accessibile.

Ci sono ancora 4 posti disponibili a €150 per persona. I dettagli sono scritti qui sotto.

Corso di Cucina Iraniana

Questo è il mio classico corso di cucina dove l’obbiettivo è presentare le basi della cucina iraniana; lo zafferano, (tante) erbe, il riso e il magico tahdig (la crosta al fondo) e molto altro.

QUANDO

Sabato 7 dicembre

Il corso comincia puntualmente alle 10 e di solito dura fino alle 15.30/16 (pranzeremo tardi)

Ci sono solo 6 4 posti disponibili

DOVE

Latteria Studio

(Zona Monteverde Nuovo)

COSTO

€190 €150 x persona

Sono inclusi la lezione, il pranzo, gli spuntini, il vino e le ricette

PRENOTAZIONE

Per prenotare è richiesto il pagamento di un deposito di €50 tramite Revolut, PayPal o bonifico bancario.

Per i dettagli del pagamento o qualsiasi altra informazione per favore rispondi a questa mail o manda una mail a info@labnoon.com.

COSA CUCINIAMO

Prepareremo un circa 5-6 portate, cominciando da un piccolo spuntino e finendo con il dolce che sarà accompagnato dal tè al cardamomo. Il menù contiene sempre portate vegetariane e senza glutine e può essere adattato anche alla dieta vegana.

Per favore informatemi delle vostre intolleranze o allergie.

I have not loved this year so far; my health’s been clumsy (nothing serious, some old and new injuries), the world seems to be ever closer to political, financial and climatic apocalypse and my cooking mojo has been as elusive as ever. I had an idea for a recipe with sweetbreads (I’ll tell you why later), couldn’t find any, so I gave up, and right now I’m trying to force a marriage between panna cotta and oranges. We’ll see how it goes.

My astrologer says 2025 is going to be the year of new beginnings and given the scarse reason for hope, I’m ready to cling on any pseudo-scientific and purely fantastic source of joy. And cooking with my community and sharing food with a crowd is indeed one of my greatest sources of joy; it’s with people that my cooking mojo comes flying back to me. Getting my hands dirty in a kitchen full of people grounds me to where and who I am as cooking for feeding myself never does. Feeding each other nourishes us. Sometimes.

Which brings to the last events of 2024 that I’m hosting. I deliberately took it slowly this year after the event-packed year of publication. What’s more, this is how we kick off the festive season.

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Italiano segue in fondo.

Iranian Cooking Class

This is my classic cooking class where we explore the basics of the food of Iran, saffron, (a lot of) herbs, rice and the magical tahdig (crust at the bottom) and much more.

WHEN

Saturday December 7th

Class starts at 10 am sharp and usually ends after a very late lunch (3.30/4 pm)

There are only 6 spots available.

WHERE

Latteria Studio

(Monteverde Nuovo Neighborhood)

PRICE

€150 x Person

includes the class, lunch, snacks, wine and recipes

BOOKING

In order to reserve your spot please pay a deposit of €50 via Revolut, PayPal or bank transfer.

In order to book, please reply to this email or send an email to info@labnoon.com and I will give you the details for payment.

WHAT WE COOK

We will cook a 5-6 course meal, starting from a little snack and ending with dessert that is accompanied by cardamom tea. The menu is always vegetarian and gluten-free friendly and can be easily adapted for vegans.

Please let me know about your preferences and dietary restrictions.

Breakfast, or a festive morning banquet

Because I hate the word “brunch”

After the super successful double dates of last year, I’m inviting you again to join me for a breakfast from Iran to Turkey to Lebanon to Italy, inspired by the recipes in my book Pomegranates & Artichokes, (plus a few extra things).

WHEN

Sunday December 8th

Breakfast is served from 10 am until lunch time. 

WHERE

Latteria Studio 

(Monteverde Nuovo Neighborhood)

What’s Served

• Sheermal Bread (a brioche bread with milk and saffron from Iran) 

• Lavash bread

• Fattah (toasted flatbread layered with a lemony, yogurt sauce with tahini, chickpeas and topped with pine nuts and fresh herbs, served as weekend breakfast in Syria) 

• Filo triangles stuffed with feta, drizzled with honey (from Turkey and Greece)

• Necci (chestnut pancakes from Tuscany), served with Ricotta and honey / salame and cheese

• An orange scented rice cake (Southern Italy)

• Date frittata (Iran)

• Soft/hard boiled eggs

Plus: Assorted jams, feta, walnuts, cream, honey, Labna (strained yogurt) with za’tar, cucumber, tomatoes, olives

Drinks: My grandmother’s bicoloured tea / coffee / milk / juice + bubbly

PRICE

€65 per person

Includes all food and drink

RESERVATION

In order to book, please reply to this email or send an email to info@labnoon.com and I will give you the details for Revolut, PayPal or bank transfer.

Hope to see you for breakfast!

Corso di Cucina Iraniana

Questo è il mio classico corso di cucina dove l’obbiettivo è presentare le basi della cucina iraniana; lo zafferano, (tante) erbe, il riso e il magico tahdig (la crosta al fondo) e molto altro.

QUANDO

Sabato 7 dicembre

Il corso comincia puntualmente alle 10 e di solito dura fino alle 15.30/16 (pranzeremo tardi)

Ci sono solo 6 posti disponibili

DOVE

Latteria Studio

(Zona Monteverde Nuovo)

COSTO

€150 x persona

Sono inclusi la lezione, il pranzo, gli spuntini, il vino e le ricette

PRENOTAZIONE

Per prenotare è richiesto il pagamento di un deposito di €50 tramite Revolut, PayPal o bonifico bancario.

Per i dettagli del pagamento o qualsiasi altra informazione per favore rispondi a questa mail o manda una mail a info@labnoon.com.

COSA CUCINIAMO

Prepareremo un circa 5-6 portate, cominciando da un piccolo spuntino e finendo con il dolce che sarà accompagnato dal tè al cardamomo. Il menù contiene sempre portate vegetariane e senza glutine e può essere adattato anche alla dieta vegana.

Per favore informatemi delle vostre intolleranze o allergie.

La Colazione, o il banchetto mattutino

Ma non la chiamo “brunch”, per favore

Dopo il successe delle doppie date dell’anno scorso vi invito ancora una volta per raggiungermi per colazione: un ricco e festivo banchetto ispirato dal mio libro Melograni e Carciofi, fatto dai piatti dall’Iran alla Turchia, al Libano, all’Italia e molti altri luoghi del medio oriente e del mediterraneo.

QUANDO

Domenica 8 Dicembre

La colazione viene servita dalle 10 fino all’ora di pranzo

DOVE

Latteria Studio 

(Zona Monteverde Nuovo)

COSA VI SERVO

• Pane Sheermal (pan-brioche con latte e zafferano - Iran) 

• Pane Lavash

• Fattah (pane arabo tostato e servito a strati con una salsa di yogurt, limone e tahini e dei ceci, coperto da pinoli tostati e erbe fresche, servito come colazione del weekend in Siria) 

• Triangolini di pasta filo farciti con feta, con miele (dalla Turchia e Grecia)

• Necci (pancake toscanin di farina delle castagna), serviti con ricotta e miele / salame e formaggio

• Torta di riso all’arancia (Sud italia)

• Frittata dei datteri (Iran)

• Uova sode

In più ci saranno: confetture assortite, formaggio feta, noci, mascarpone, miele, labna (il formaggio a base di yogurt ristretto) con za’tar, cetrioli, pomodori e olive.

Da bere: Il tè bicolore di mia nonna, caffè, latte, succhi + il prosecco

COSTO

€65 x persona

sono inclusi tutte le portate e bevande

PRENOTAZIONE

Per i dettagli del pagamento o qualsiasi altra informazione per favore rispondi a questa mail o manda una mail a info@labnoon.com e vi manderò i dettagli di Revolut, PayPal o bonifico bancario.

Spero di vedervi a colazione!

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Around the same time as now in 2020, I developed the recipe of this pavlova for a client. I’m sure none of you have forgotten the way it was. Perhaps we won’t for the rest of our lives. Here in Italy, the tight lockdowns were a bit loosened in summer, and people discovered travelling in homeland, instead of wandering off in every nook of the world (as Italians truly do during the summer, it’s wonderfully bewildering). Puglia for instance, was drowned in the crowds.

I was here in Rome in true isolation, recovering from a car accident early in March (2 days before the Italian lockdown, the first in the West), that had left with me a broken knee, many pains and bruises and surprising gratitude for being alive and not sustaining any more serious and long lasting injurers. I still held a crutch (and went on to hold it until November) and couldn’t really walk.

My bed in my apartment is on a loft but ever since the accident in March, I had been sleeping in the guest bedroom downstair, and for the first two months at least, I did everything in bed; I ate there, had my computer with me there which allowed me to work, or watch a something or be on endless Zoom calls. Later in October, as soon as I felt confident enough to climb up and down my short staircase to bed, I vacated the guest room. I loathe sleeping in that room. It reminds of me helplessness, immobility and “tutto andrà bene”1 banners hanging from windows of my front neighbors, which for weeks were all the view that I had.

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The pavlova with late summer fruit came to me out of the excitement of being able to go to the supermarket again, and having a choice. For months I had been stuck with whatever was available on my local Carrefour’s website, which I could access only when the long waiting time to enter the website was over.

I found gorgeous plums in the supermarket, and craved something tart and tangy with perhaps warm spices. “Christmas!” I thought. But there were wonderful and extremely seasonal concord grapes (uva fragola in Italian, literally strawberry grapes), blackberries and figs! Oh god, figs, we must have figs. What can I make with all of these fruits? A cake perhaps? But that would be a waste of cake, fruit will keep falling off — gasp — a pavlova!

We returned from Greece last Friday. Although it was a trip much different from what we had imagined (long drives in winding roads and nearly non-existent accessible beaches instead relaxing by the sea all the day long), I still would’ve preferred to stay there rather than return to hot, sticky, dirty and still unbelievably crowded Rome. There was a hitch; just 10 days before leaving for Greece, I clumsily fell down the stairs of my loft bed on my way to the bathroom in the dead of the night. No fractures, the ER confirmed. Yet the pain was awful, it swole to something indecent and although I iced it and drugged myself on painkillers and applied all sort of pomades, it was still hell to cope with rocky and stoney beaches.

I survived, on adrenaline perhaps, or perhaps on just enough ouzo.

On Saturday, declaring that I needed a relaxing day to recover my vacation (spoiled much?), I walked all the way to the pool, spent half of the day there, watched my pinkie toe that had never recovered swell and become very hot. Then I limped back home. I had to make dessert for a couple of friends who were bringing pizza, and I made something very similar to this pavlova; it lacked the main part, the meringue, but it did have the yogurt and roasted, poached and fresh fruit. It tasted so familiar. Hadn’t I written a recipe about something similar long ago?

By night I couldn’t take anymore steps, let alone climbing the few stairs towards my loft bed. I slept in the guest room, painkillers and pomades at hand, foot high on a big pillow. It felt bitterly familiar. And then I remembered my picturesque and delicious pavlova. The echoes of 2020, albeit much tamer (thankfully). The astrologer woman I follow would be happy to hear this; she’s been banging about how Saturn’s thingy with another thing makes the energy of the second half of this August similar to 2020. Phew, I guess we should be grateful it’s just this?

On the other hand, apart from being the worst year of my life, 2020 was also the best year of my life. I got my much desired and long awaited book deal in late August the very same year. If the Saturn thingy is echoing 2020 energy, I’m hoping for another turning point like that as well.

The recipe for late summer pavlova, from the archives

I’m not a huge fan of the classic pavlova; it’s too sweet for my palate. But for the pavlova to be pavlova, you must make meringue, and for the meringue to turn out well, you must use the proper amount of sugar. What I do to cut through the sweetness is add as many tart ingredients on the topping as I can. I also do something rather unorthodox: I use plain Greek yogurt (or even better, yogurt ice cream!) instead of whipped cream between the meringue and the fresh fruit. The acidity cuts through the sweetness of the meringue and the juices of the fruit flavor the yogurt.

If this summer fruit festival is your jam, should definitely check ’s late summer fruit panzanella as well.

For this recipe I’m using the fruit of late summer (hence the name): figs, plums, blackberries and concord grapes. The grapes are roasted, and it’s important that you use concord grapes, because they’re the only variety that keeps their sweetness after roasting. If you don’t have access to concord grapes, just use more plums, or other berries, or any other fruit you like. But don’t roast other types of grapes, because they lose flavor.

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I have used black plums, which I poach in a wine syrup with spices (a nudge towards the upcoming cold season). Feel free to omit or add any fruit you desire.

Ingredients:

FOR THE PAVLOVA

• 4 egg whites

• 250g caster sugar

• 1 tbsp vinegar or lemon juice

• 1 tbsp corn starch

• 10 – 12 cardamom pods or ½ tsp cardamom powder

FOR THE POACHED PLUMS

• 5-6 firm black (or red) plums, halved, pits removed

• 2 cups/ 450 ml fruity red wine

• 5 tbsp caster sugar

• 1 cinnamon stick

• A few cardamom pods

• A few cloves

FOR THE TOPPING

• 500g/about a pound greek yogurt (full fat)

• 4-5 large figs, some halved, some guartered

• 5 small bunches of concord grapes, rinsed

• A handful of blackberries

• 2 tbsp of olive oil

Method:

• Start with the wine syrup. Mix the 5 tablespoons of sugar with the wine in a medium pot, throw in the cinnamon stick, cardamom pods (lightly crushed) and the cloves and bring to a gentle simmer. When the syrup is ever slightly reduced, add the halved plums, and gently cook until soft (but the plums shouldn’t completely fall apart). The time depends on the firmness of the plums. Then remove the fruit and let the syrup thicken a bit more. Filter the syrup and keep it in a small container.

• In the meantime, roast the grapes. Preheat the oven to 180’C/350’F/Gas mark 4. Line a baking tray with a baking sheet, place the grape bunches on it and drizzle with olive oil. Bake for 20 – 30 minutes until the grapes are roasted.

• Now for the meringue: Preheat the oven to 180’C/350’F/Gas Mark 4. Bash the cardamom pods to get the seeds out and use a pestle to get a powder-ish result (skip this step if you’re using cardamom powder).

• Whisk the egg whites until firm and foamy, and only then start adding in the sugar one tablespoon at a time. Keep whisking until the meringue firms up and becomes glistening. Now add the vinegar, the cornstarch and the cardamom powder.

• Line a baking pan with baking paper and dollop the meringue onto it, trying to keep it in a circular shape. It should be like a large, shallow bowl. Put the tray in the oven and immediately lower the temperature to 140’C/275’F/Gas mark 1. Bake for 30 – 45 minutes. Then turn off the oven and let the meringue cool down slowly, first in the shut oven and then with the oven slightly ajar.

• Assemble. When the meringue has completely cooled off, discard the excess water of the yogurt and mix it so that it’s creamy, then spoon it on the top of the meringue. Now arrange the roasted grapes, the poached plums, the pieces of figs and blackberries neatly on top and drizzle the wine syrup on top. Serve immediately.

August is here and it’s now been over a month since I’ve deleted instagram from my phone. Just the app, mind you. I can’t afford to delete my existence off instagram. It’s still where publishers and clients look for you and (mis)judge you based on your numbers, which makes less and less sense to me because, honestly, who sees your work there anymore with this engagement rate?

Over the past few years, too many times I have found myself deleting the Instagram app from my phone. In the past, most of the times I did so, it was because I was under an important deadline, for instance the various stages during the process of writing Pomegranates & Artichokes. My trick is that I delete the app, but I’m not too hard on myself, so I occasionally check instagram from the phone’s browsers. It’s tedious and slow as hell, which makes it much harder to lose yourself in a string of stories or reels that can easily go from 1 minute to spending a whole hour there, wondering what the fuck just happened to the morning (guilty as charged). But never like this time have I lacked the desire/curiosity/itch to put instagram back on my phone. As if — gasp — I didn’t miss it, didn’t need it, anymore.

I’m not sure I ever did this operation for the mere sake of productivity. I could never draw the line whether I did this to save my time or mind. Both hypotheses are plausible. 

I feel like an old person who is not able to let go of something nice that they lived long ago, but I seem to be grieving — with a lot of frustration bordering on pure loathing — when it comes to instagram. More than a decade ago, when it was all about the aesthetics, people on the app were (aspiring) creatives who tried to make something nice, however experimental, through a picture. And there were really good ones too, many photographers and stylists of our time were born then, and that was almost all. Advertisers weren’t there yet, brands weren’t there yet, because not all the consumers were there yet. 

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Still, I wonder, was it even then changing our aesthetics to one big, giant monolith? I remember those days when we attended/taught photography workshops “stick to the same pallets, have your own presets, post photos only from this or that angle, etc”... what utter crap. And still, Instagram was accused of being something for “hipsters”. Reading this excellent piece by made me wonder when exactly social media started to change our taste so profoundly, now that everyone is on Instagram. 

And so it has become that if you don't post very short, highly entertaining videos, you don't go anywhere. Less than 2% of my followers were exposed to my latest posts. And it's not just that I can't/don’t want to make these videos. I find myself less and less willing even to be an observer of this pointless race. Everyone can be famous for 4 seconds now. That's a whole lot of fame I don’t want to witness. What pays for this fragmented, multiplied fame is our attention and our time. And in its midst, the great absent is the social connection that long ago got us excited about social media in the first place.

Tomorrow I’m going on vacation. It’s the first proper seaside trip I’ve taken in the middle of August as is customary in Italy in a long, long time. And no sunsets or stunning meals by the beach will be documented on stories (I can’t guarantee not posting something after coming back). It’s a liberation, I hope. Being free from capturing a moment for the gram. Perhaps you have’t been a victim of this but I’ve noticed that now that I don’t have instagram I take less and less pictures with my phone, as opposed to my usual routine that makes my iCloud account ever pleading for more space. Many people really do the vacation for the gram. I’ve witnessed tourists here in Rome who on a 3 night stay in the city went on day trips to the Amalfi Coast and to Florence and vineries in the Tuscan countryside. Possibly only to take pictures because I don't know what else there'd be time for during such short journeys.

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There’s something else too; safeguarding my mental health, because let’s face it, I’m not that productive so that simply having instagram can lower my efficiency. Glimpses of so much of what I want to have and what I want to be and what I want to achieve, all that glitter that is certainly not all gold, are splashed in my face on Instagram several times during a day and as nonchalant I want to be, something gnaws at my inside. Reading this post by on this very same subject was very helpful. But still, I have no plans of installing back the app permanently in the foreseeable future. 

So, I have put the Substack app exactly where Instagram was on my phone. The gesture, the movement of the fingers are automatic and almost out of my control. The endless checking. My hand goes for it the same way years after having quit smoking I still sometimes have a manual urge to light a cigarette. It’s my hand, muscle memory. I can’t really smoke an entire cigarette without coughing myself to death anymore. It has been more than 13 years that I’m no longer a smoker. Can I last a fraction of that time without Instagram?

So I’m going on a proper beach vacation to Greece. We're a party of six and it's a new experience in many ways. I’m excited, despite the foolish way I hurt my foot just 10 days before leaving, but I’m hoping it be won’t encumber me soaking in salty water, doing almost nothing

I have a few simple goals for this vacation; to look at my phone even less, stop the browser cheating out of my social media detox. I’m taking my new, old film camera. Shooting film and having only a few shots available is an incredibly liberating and meditative way to photograph. It’s also easy, as film is just effortlessly magical. I’m also taking on my trusty Kindle, on which I hope to read and finish one book at least, seeing how I tend to finish books more when I read them on the little device. 

On top of my reading list at the moment there are:

• The Paris Novel by .

• Cold Kitchen by .

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If I may, here are a few other summer reads I’d like to suggest. 

• Experienced, an excellent, cheerful novel about queer love and women dating women by

• When god was a rabbit by Sarah Winman

• Big Magic, by . If not all the book, just parts of it. I read this in the troublesome august of 2020 and parts of touched me so deeply I even wanted to tattoo this sentence on me : Love beyond suffering, always.

I still have no tattoos but this is still a good contestant.

• Natural Wine for the People by Alice Feiring, a very good guide on natural wine, the book comes in a friendly small size. 

• A Short History of Queer Women by Kirsty Loeh, a delightful and hilarious little book that looks out how queer women have been written out of history in a comical way. 

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Two recipes

Because it’s been so long since I published one

A simple aperitivo drink

This is the simplest of aperitivo drinks. The type your neighborhood bar would serve you even before the lunch hour, or in the early afternoon. The basic aperitivo drink here is nonalcoholic, which by all means, I would recommend with a slice of an orange. To Bring a little joy, top up your glass with prosecco or fizzy wine of your choice.

Makes 1 glass

• 100ml  red sanbitter 

• 125ml prosecco

• Ice cubes

• A slice of orange

Chill the glass with ice. Pour out any excess water. Pour the sanbitter and top with prosecco. Add a slice of orange and serve immediately.

Olive tapenade with toasted almond and peanut chili oil

I have recently discovered Chinese crispy chilli oil and I’m so obsessed I put it in everything: on top of pasta, on eggs, in yogurt, you name it. This tapenade is one of the results. This is dinner for me in summer.  

•  100g sundried tomatoes (preferably not in oil)

• 100g blanched almonds

• 100g pitted olives (a mix of different types possibly, green and black)

• Chinese peanut (crispy) chili oil to taste (start with ½ teaspoon)

• 4 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil (or more if needed)

• 1 tablespoon white vinegar (or rice vinegar)

• A handful of chopped chives

• Leaves of 1 head of  iceberg lettuce for serving

• Crackers or small slices of toasted bread for serving (optional)

Start with toasting the almonds in a hot pan on medium heat. Be careful so that they don’t burn. Take them off the pan as soon as the colour is darkened a bit and they smell nutty. Take them off the pan and leave to cool. Then roughly chop them with a knife.

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Chop the sun dried tomatoes as well. Then mix everything in a food processor or mixer. You may need to do this in a couple of batches and a splash of water or two to help everything mix properly. Taste and adjust the chili oil to your taste.

Serve the tapenade with iceberg leaves (and/or crackers). The freshness of lettuce is perfect for the strong flavor of the tapenade as a starter or an aperitivo. Serve together with the simple aperitivo drink above.

I was preparing a fairly witty and curious piece about aubergine history, the way it has traveled and how we can learn something from that in the face of the scary rise of the far right in Europe when shared a heartfelt piece about his orange cat and the grief about losing him to kidney disease, and eventually saying goodbye. His honest fragility and beautiful life spent with this cat shines through, and I couldn't help shedding many tears while reading it. I was reminded of my own beautiful ginger cat that I had many years ago. I started writing about that and it turned out to be this piece about my childhood and adolescence. I couldn’t stop writing so it got a bit long. It’s not quite cheerful, but it’s from the heart, and possibly the most personal piece I’ve ever written in a public sphere. Pets, the things they do to us.

I have a thing for orange cats. They say they're insane but not only do I find them immensely gorgeous, I also find myself reflected in their uncalculated, absurd but endearing madness. My partner and some close friends occasionally call me a kitty, and I can't quite deny that sometimes I do choose "meowing" as my preferred method of communicating to those close to me. For someone this fond of cats it's strange and sad to have none.

I was born in Tehran right in the middle of the Iran-Iraq war, during one of those many nights when missiles rained over the city like fireworks. About 4 years later, before the war was over, my parents went through a dramatically painful, but not quite successful separation. 

My mother and I briefly moved to my paternal grandparents house, as our house (which windows had been shattered by other missiles and were held together by duct tape) was forlorn, because my father had a new family now.

I don't have many memories from that period, except 2. One that I discovered, or perhaps comprehended “salad”: tomatoes and cucumbers and lettuce, I distinctly remember distinguishing every single vegetable and realizing that when put together, it's called a salad.

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The second one is about, not so much of an imaginary friend, but an imaginary pet. A black kitten by the name of Sor O Mor O Gonde, which in Farsi is something ridiculous and a bit crass to say big and healthy. I must have heard the word from the adults and found the sound amusing, despite having no idea what it meant. That house, which had a garden like many houses back then, was said to be full of cats and kittens once, not as something endearing, but more as a sign of lack of care. 

That’s why, according to myself, my (imaginary) black kitten was always hiding under the couches and in other dark places. I would regularly stick my head under the chairs and in the dark nooks to talk to him, pet him or feed him.

Shortly after, my mother and I moved to Mashhad, her native city, in the north east of Iran. A very large city, some 1000 km away from Tehran. We rented an apartment in a 2 story building that had a garden. There were many little girls and some boys in that little street and that street was our backyard. We would bike around (we weren’t allowed to get far, just in our street). I was about 5, and those biking days with other little girls were some proper childhood memories to hold on to. We once threw a birthday party for my favorite doll (I was wearing a very red lipstick, see photo). There was a cake and candles that I pretend-blew on behalf of my doll.

There was a boy, who had a black kitten with white paws. I don’t remember whether the kitten was actually his, but I do remember that he didn’t have a bike, so for the price of riding mine, he would allow me to sit on the steps of the entrance to a house, and hold and pet the kitten. 

To me it was a fair exchange,  but my mom didn’t agree. She thought I was allowing myself to be taken advantage of. I didn’t have a kitten and I desperately would’ve loved to have one, which was pure nonsense to my mom. A bike was a tangible thing, a “property”. A kitten was… nothing in her eyes, something that can scratch you, something polluting, something I could catch something nasty from (like becoming infertile!). 

We didn’t really have a pet culture back then. Some people who had houses with large gardens in the countryside had dogs, but merely as guardians not as coddled and adored dogs. Vets were very few and mostly worked with farm animals, horse races and things like that, not pets. I don’t remember anyone having cats inside their home then. Birds perhaps were the exception; canaries, parrots, lovebirds and finches. Pretty, singing (screeching) things in a cage. I got 2 white specimens of the latter not long after the kitten-bike exchange. One of them died soon after so we got another one, the other lived for ages.

By the time I was 11, we were living on the ground floor of another two story building, with a garden. Every morning I waited for the school minibus at the mouth of the alley. One day I noticed a mewing little kitten on the short wall right where I was standing. She was mostly gray, with bits of white and extraordinary green eyes. I called out to her (to this day I always say hi/meow to cats, they mostly greet me back) and she came to me. I was holding her when the minibus arrived, and having no other choice, I got on with the kitten still in my arms. Some girls screamed (possibly because of inclinations towards kittens like my mother’s), but the kitten remained calm. I wanted to keep her and yet we were going to school. I had an extra plastic bag where I kept my trainer pants (we had that 1 PE lesson of the week that day). So I took all of my books and notebooks and pencil case from my actual bag and shoved them brutally into the plastic shopper (which of course tore later in the day), put the kitten gently into my bag and left the lid open and asked the driver to keep the bag and the kitten safe for me until he picked us up again after school.

He did so. The kitten had been jumping all around the minibus all morning, he told me. When I brought her home, my mom was predictably furious and said I couldn’t keep her and she would not allow a cat in the house. It was the weekend, I kept her in the building hall, and spent all my time with her in the afternoon. I left food and water for her — that I meant to call Michelle, god knows where I had heard that — in the hall, and went to bed that night hoping that in time, I could persuade my mom to allow me to take her inside.

I developed a fever that night (I had been splashing about in the heavy rain that day on our way from class to the gym, which was in another building), and my mom told me that my kitten had escaped, but was still around. I kept thinking I could hear her meowing in the garden. My mom told me our neighbor was feeding her. I never saw her again. 

A few years later, I was 15 or 16 perhaps, a couple of moves (one to Tehran and then back to Mashhad) later, my aunt got 2 cats for her 3 children. She was recently divorced out of an abusive marriage, and it seemed the cats helped. She would take them to the vet and keep them at home and my teenage cousins loved them. She would even bring them to our house or my grandmother’s when they came to call. My mother, seeing that cats were “clean” and taken care of by the vet, uttered half-heartedly that this way, I could have a cat too. 

Barely weeks later, in the streets of our school, my friends and I found 2 kittens on a big cement block. I think we wanted to rescue them from the other screaming kids. We didn’t wonder who had put them on the cement block or whether their mother was around. One was a black tortoiseshell, the other orange, with a snow white chin and chest and an orange spot on his white snout. Funnily enough, we were going to a PT lesson again. We put the kittens in a small cardboard box that was around and took them to the gym. I made it clear to the teacher that I was taking the orange one home, and nobody should touch the kittens. I went looking for them after school and found out the box had been moved to the secondary school (we were at high school, the buildings were next to each other). I was in terrible terms with the secondary school staff, due to years of abuse and trauma and their semi-unsuccessful attempt to kick me out of school (a story for another time, or perhaps never. Some shit’s better left unstirred.) For the sake of the orange kitten however, I deigned walking one more time into the staff room of my ex secondary school, a place I associated with hell itself.

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He slept in the box on my lap during the short minibus trip towards home. As I climbed the stairs towards our apartment which was now on the fourth floor, I dreaded my mom’s reaction. What if she sent this kitten away too? She was in the middle of “no, not another one” when she saw him and stopped mid sentence. “Oh how beautiful he is!” she exclaimed. And beautiful he was, with super fuzzy kitten fur that made him look like undefined around the edges, only with huge amber eyes

I named him Charlene (gawd! I know!), after a song by my favorite celebrity crush, who had once actually gifted me an orange kitten in a very confused and semi-erotic dream. But my mom called him Pishoo, which simply means something like kitty, or kitto, and as she spent the most time with him while I was at school, he became “Pishoo”.

We did take him to the vet in those early days, inside my school bag because we didn’t have a pet carrier. Later we opted for a picnic basket that had a sturdy closing clip, with a blanket. Pishoo hated going out for any reason, he would wreak such havoc, hiss and claw at us, releasing an unpleasant odor and sometimes even peeing out of fear. Once we spent 2 exact hours trying to catch him, and eventually, we gave up on taking him to the vet all together. 

It soon became clear that Pishoo was terrified of everything and everyone that was not my mom and me. But apart from this, he was the sweetest thing on the planet. In a world before youtube and instagram, I watched first hand every single little crazy and adorable thing that cats do that make us love them so much; the way he slept in an impossible neck position, the way he touched me tenderly with his paw to ask for food, they way he drank from the goldfish ball at the Norouz table. He didn’t like being held at all, but when I watched tv he would come and sit on my lap and let me pet him. I adored his warm weight on me. In fact, I remember feeling a distinctive ball of light and warmth, like the ones they tell you to picture during meditation, whenever I came back from school and found Pishoo waiting for me.

My mom did try yet again to be rid of this cat too. She hated the way Pishoo had scratched the hell out of every furniture, but I set very difficult rules for anyone who tried to adopt him (for instance no families with small children, he was terrified of children). So Pishoo ended up staying at our home. I was so attached him that when my father’s stepmother invited my mother and I to spend part of the summer with them in Kuwait, I used Pishoo as an excuse to not go, saying I wouldn’t go without my cat. Where would we leave him? As if a part of me knew in protecting Pishoo and staying, I would’ve protected myself from something dreadful that would mark me for many years to come. 

In the end we did go to Kuwait, and of course we didn’t take Pishoo with us. We took him to my grandparents’. My grandmother was never a pet loving person. Actually my cousins and I had a joke that not only pets, but even dolls weren’t safe with her. We had baby chickens that we would leave in her garden, they’d never survive the stay. Before leaving I begged her to not let my cat outside, fearing he would run away, or get lost. He was ever so terrified of everything and had been an indoor cat ever since he was a tiny kitten.

A month later, having witnessed the World Trade Center burn and collapse, and — in my case shaken to my core — we came back to Mashhad and went to my grandparents to collect Pishoo. He was hiding somewhere upstairs but the moment we arrived he ran to the doorway to greet us, having recognised our voices. When we brought the basket for him he got in voluntarily, and he even stayed calm during the car journey. He knew he was being taken home, he knew he was safe. It was moving to see the usual frightened cat this docile in the face of going back home, even my mom had to admit it. 

I wasn’t in a great place for the next two years, but Pishoo was there by my side and lessened the depression weighing me down from time to time. He was hilarious, broke a few things that made my mom furious, but we played with him and he made us laugh. His life wasn’t without trauma either. Once he was chased by my cousin’s poodle because my father — who was visiting — had insisted he would bring the dog over, saying the poodle and my cat “would become friends”! Pishoo stayed under my mom’s bed for more than 48 hours and the only food he ate was out of my hand, when I squeezed myself under the bed to reach him. Another time we thought we had lost Pishoo during a move and went to the street calling out for him like a bunch of mad people, only to find that he was strategically hiding in the wardrobe in a way that no one could see him unless they put their head right inside and looked around it. 

Pishoo’s most terrifying misfortune however was when he fell out of the balcony. I flew down four flights of stairs in my night things, so hysterical that the neighbors put their heads out of their doors to see what was going on. I found him in the dark parking lot of the building. It was pitch black but I saw a glint of his eyes. I called to him, approached him slowly and managed to get him. My stomach lurched horribly as I found a lot of wet in his mouth. He didn’t protest as I took him in my arms but when we reached the building hall with many worried neighbors around, he panicked and lashed out. All the way to the fourth floor he fought tooth and claws to get off my arms, but I would not let go. I still have some of the scars on my arms. He limped-ran under the bed again as, crying madly I tried to find the number of the vet we hadn’t used for a couple of years. It was about 10.30 pm. The vet was cruel, he told me that by my description, Pishoo wouldn’t survive the night. He did give us his assistant’s number though and he was kind enough to tell us to bring Pishoo over. It wasn’t easy, we nearly had to dismantle my mom’s huge bed to get to him. I wept desperately all the car journey to his studio.

It turned out Pishoo was fine, in the end. He did have a limp, and a slightly torn lip (that had bled and frightened me of some internal bleeding). I was prescribed some sedatives as well, as I was completely beside myself. 

For the next six month Pishoo spent all of his hours under beds and couches, never coming out. When he started to gradually leave his sanctuary, I was ready to go to university. My art and architecture university where I was going to study graphic design was in Tehran. This meant that I had to go live with my father, and a half of the family he had created when leaving us. He had already abandoned the other half. It was a turbulent time for many reasons, perhaps the most turbulent of my life. I had lost all appetite for discovering new things, I resented having to go to a new city, I dreaded living with my father, and I didn’t want to leave my cat.

I left. I would see Pishoo only when I went back to Mashhad every couple of months or so. Then about 2 years later, my mom had to move yet another time and she announced that she would not take “the cat” to the new apartment. There was nothing for it, she would not hear any reasoning; that this cat has lived indoors for 4 years, that he has been a part of our home and you just can’t throw him out. “You don’t live here anymore, so it’s my decision. I don’t want a cat in the new apartment.” 

My mom’s plan was was to leave Pishoo in my grandparents’ backyard. My little baby, who was frightened of everything, who had never been outside since he was a tiny kitten, who slept in the gap under the fireplace in winters, who really counted himself as one of us people, not the pets, and he would not recognize their presence (which was so weird!), was to be abandoned in the backyard of my grandparents who had never been animal lovers. A place where big, scary stray cats wandered from time to time, where huge crows flew, and where neighbors were more hostile towards cats than friendly. 

There were many shouts and rows but in the end, I had no say. She had made her decision; no cats in the pretty, new apartment. I couldn’t quite believe it. It had been only her and Pishoo in the past two years that I had been in Tehran. How could she be so unattached to let go of him as if the living, warm, beautiful, fragile being that had been a part of our lives for the past 4 years had been nothing more than a pot plant? How could you abandon the creature who believed he was loved and safe with us here so easily?

On the day of the move, Pishoo was once again in his basket, almost resigned. I kept talking to him as tears fell down relentlessly, I asked him to forgive me. I told him I knew how it felt like to be abandoned unceremoniously by those you thought loved you (as this was exactly how I felt back then). Time after time again I said I was sorry, not sure whether he knew I really was or not.

My late grandparents were in Sweden that summer to visit my uncles. I couldn’t go to the backyard as my mom “freed” Pishoo there. She told me he went straight behind the big table top that was leaning against the wall. She left food for him. We left. I was shattered into a million pieces.

For the next few days my mom would visit there everyday with fresh food. Pishoo was still hiding behind that tabletop. Then eventually, summer was over, my grandparents returned home and I went back to university in Tehran. My mother would see Pishoo when he visited my parents. This was the only time he was allowed inside. They’d leave food for him and even created a sort of nest for him out of an old chair and blankets, but he was no good at defending these commodities from other stray, possibly more violent cats.

I saw Pishoo perhaps only two more times, the last of which will haunt me till the day I’ll die. It was just over a year since we had abandoned him in that backyard of my grandparents. I knew he had been disappearing for periods as long as a month, always coming back a little too thin, a little worse for wear. I knew that by the day we were supposed to visit, he had not been seen for 3 days.

To our utter astonishment, not even 5 minutes after my mother and I had arrived he came inside — not quite running, but still very fast. I quickly took in his thinner body, the fur that was no longer fluffy and sleek and the dusty gray paws that had once been snow white. But it was his eyes —I will never forget his eyes — that broke my heart all over again. They were listless, as if a light inside them had been extinguished. Sad, devastatingly sad eyes of the little kitten I had once put inside a cardboard box and took home for us to live together, only to be ruthlessly abandoned, never having learned the rules of survival in the wild. 

He sat on my lap for a long time. Longer than he would’ve ever done back at home when he was a hyperactive ginger cat. I stroked him and talked to him and with each scar or callus that I felt on his skin another part of me broke down. 

Then he left. And this was the last time I ever saw him. Some time after this, he left my grandparents' backyard and never returned. Judging by the way he looked, he must not have made it. He wasn’t even five years old. 

In the years to come, I went on to develop a severe allergy to cats (and dogs, and rabbits, and horses and a lot of other things). It’s perfectly manageable but I can’t really have cats at home. My mom meanwhile has now “bought” two kittens since last year. They’re of a pure race and expensive and they do the job of entertaining her without being too naughty or jumping on things. She’s a lot more open to them than she ever was to Pishoo, even though Pishoo was a lot more dependent on her than me. 

Now everyone in Iran has pets. There are vet clinics and pet shops everywhere. The regime tries hard to punish people who walk their dogs outside the same way they punish “improperly covered up” women; by harassing or sometimes even detaining them, sometimes even taking the dog away. But much like everything else, they’ve had little luck in making people obey, despite the use of brute force. Pet Shops and clinics are flourishing. Frankly it’s even kind of bizarre, considering the disastrous economic situation, but most people manage to take care of their cats and dogs. It’s become a sort of fashion too, to “buy” the most expensive race of cats and dogs. There are also many who work in animal welfare and shelters, encouraging people to adopt, rather than shop. There are even cat cafes and museums in Tehran and other cities now. People are learning to be kinder to animals all over. Little bowls of food and water are left in alleys and parks for cats and birds, especially on hot days of summer and snowy days of winter. Things have changed. Perhaps we’re still not at the level of Turks in loving our street cats, but there’s hope now. 

I will always miss and grieve my beloved Pishoo, my beautiful, crazy ginger cat who deserved much better. I hope he’s happy in cat heaven, and that he has forgiven us.

Prologue:

During my first, brief round of my Substack publication last year, I started a series of about the process of making my cookbook, Pomegranates & Artichokes. I intended to share my own experience in a series of a few posts, each covering one specific topic; How to write a cookbook proposal, how to choose the recipes, how to decide on art direction, photography style and the choice of props.

I only got to write about the first of these installments before giving up on it all. I had written another story, the genesis story of Pomegranates & Artichokes. While the proposal article is all about pragmatism, this is the part about finding your creative voice, finding your why, trusting your guts and reaching deep, deep inside and work with whatever you find there, however uncomfortable that may be. The “work” may not be an artwork, or immediately an artwork. It may be therapy, or shadow work, or a lot of meditation and the sort of thing I’m not really qualified to write about, but going inside will, one way or another, serve you and your creative journey.

I first wrote this piece for Faire Magazine over a year ago. This story, and the poetry at its heart, are very dear to me. I learned a precious lesson here, and I hope there’s something of inspiration here for you as well.

If left to my own devices, I am more attached to scientifically proven facts, rather than “whimsical” things like meditation. However, during my time on this earth I have learned that many of life's altering moments occur when something bypasses conscious thought, and even skips the heart and arrives in the shape of many dancing butterflies into your belly. We call it “gut feeling”, intuition, magic, or something supernatural. 

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This story is one of those moments. And it doesn’t quite start with this poem, but it has a lot to do with it. 

My debut cookbook, Pomegranates & Artichokes, recipes and memories of a journey from Iran to Italy opens with this quote: 

“I am from there, I am from here, 
but I am neither there nor here. 
I have two names which meet and part . . . 
I have two languages, but I have long forgotten
which is the language of my dreams.”

It’s part of a long poem by the late poet Mahmud Darwish, about his conversation with Edward Said on identity and exile. 

And long before this book existed, before the proposal, before the submissions and before the contract, I knew that, the day my book will be published, it will open with this verse. How did I know it? Because I had already done it. 

I started Lab Noon, my food and photography blog in 2014, after months of research and insecurely stringing a few bits of HTML together. Back then it was nowhere as easy as it is now to set up a blog and make it look nice. I was in my last year of master’s degree in Graphic design & photography at Rome’s historical fine art academy. I had been in that school for a long time, since I had first moved to Rome in 2007. I had literally just graduated in Graphic Design in Iran, when I came to Rome to continue in that field. My first years at the academy were turbulent. Not only the school itself was sort of in disarray about the program of our course, I kept harbouring my old creative trouble; I couldn’t find my own artistic language, my creative medium. I felt like I had many things to express, but I just couldn’t find a visual way to say them, and to say them well

And it wasn’t that I wasn't good, I was! I understood everything at art school perfectly. My rigid logic made me excel at understanding composition and creating a perfect frame. The problem was how to fill it. I was good at drawing, but drawing alone is not a finished work. I aspired to be an illustrator, but I couldn’t find a style or technique that didn’t bore me, or frustrate me or that I could turn into something decent. 

Back in university in Iran, I had had many photography classes too, and it was the sort of thing people these days would kill to have access to at art schools. All on film, developed by us. This might be shocking to those who have come to know me as a passionate photographer, but back then (twenty years ago, Jesus I’m old), for the life of me I couldn’t see the point of photography. 

In the years to come I learned I just needed time. I had majored in mathematics at high school and although I had taken many drawing and painting lessons, my environment was extremely science-oriented. So I simply needed more time to be surrounded by art and creativity and test different waters and eventually, my voice would have come to me, or rather, I would’ve found my creative voice that had always been inside me.

I didn’t find my visual voice during the years of my (second) BA in Rome’s fine arts academy. I dragged those years mostly to have exams to pass to renew my student fund and permesso di soggiorno (residency permit). But by the end of my course of studies the truth of my reality had finally hit me, something in the first few years in Italy I hadn’t quite grasped: I was an immigrant, and that is a sort of realisation that forever changes a life.

In a quite dramatic turn of events, on one of my first nights back in Iran after my first two years in Italy, I came upon Milan Kundera’s Ignorance. A novel that someone had gifted me before leaving Iran, about two Check immigrants who go back “home” after 20 years. It had stayed in my library until I came back for it, now an immigrant myself. 

The topic got hold of my soul. I started gathering bits and pieces, and not entirely sure what I wanted to make, I started a project for my final thesis about Tehran and Rome, and I called it The Tale of Two Cities.

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A couple of years later, finally arrived that glorious moment when I knew I had found  my own visual and creative voice. Incredibly enough, it was photography, of food and lifestyle. I made this discovery not because I was now at a master’s degree in graphic design and photography, but because I had been on a diet. A strict, unhealthy and obsessive diet while having a gastric balloon in my stomach (A story for another time). Searching for “light” recipes that would also seem edible to humans, for the first time I came upon food blogs, and a then-very fresh Instagram with avant-garde aesthetics. I remember upon seeing the work of some of the best food bloggers of those years I thought “I can do this”! I knew how to make a composition, I had studied lights and shadows for too long both in drawing sessions and art history, and I knew how to use a camera. So I took it in my hands, and it would all come to me easily, effortlessly. Not that I didn’t try to improve, to challenge myself, but the camera would feel as one with my hand and my eyes and my belly. I had at last, found my creative voice. 

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The desire to write a cookbook was born with the blog itself. For my master’s degree thesis I made a cookbook prototype and I did everything; The recipes and photography of course, but also the layout design and every little detail. (Little fun fact, years later, when I had just started pitching my cookbook proposal around I met the editor of one of the biggest publishing houses of illustrated books in London who knew me because of this prototype shared on Bahance. She loved the proposal too, but it didn’t work in the end).

For a couple of years I harboured under the false impression that if I just kept blogging, kept publishing my work here and there, an agent or a publisher would eventually come to me with a publication opportunity. This almost didn’t happen, and I decided to take matters into my own hands and write a cookbook proposal. It was a pragmatic and practical process. But what to write a proposal about?

I remember I had decided to dedicate the whole Christmas holidays to this, and every idea seemed feeble to me. Then I did something that by then I had just learned was good for me, but to this day I don’t do it as often as I should.

I sat down in front of an altar. I went inward in a meditative state, and I started to chant a mantra. Piece by piece I tried to let go of those ideas I didn’t care about and I tried to reach within. I don’t think it even took me a couple of days. Then, during one of these meditations I heard my own voice telling me “but it’s all already here inside you, you have already done this”. And it hit me: 

“So carry your homeland wherever you go, and be
a narcissist if need be/ 
The outside world is exile, 
exile is the world inside. 
And what are you between the two?” 

— Mahmud Darwish, Edward Said: A Contrapuntal Reading

There it was: the duality of immigrant life, my “tale of two cities”, the food of both lands, free of nostalgia that does not awaken memories, free of One Thousand of One Nights, free of the nasty clichés about the Middle East and free of Dolce Vita. Just recipes and memories of a journey from Iran to Italy; Pomegranates & Artichokes. 

I know it was somewhere in me, and yet I couldn't evoke it. It seemed that like some old witchcraft, I needed to know its name to summon it to me. It was mine, but I had to recognize it first to summon it, like a demon, except that it wasn’t a demon, it was my calling, my drive, my book. 

Then I started writing the proposal and more than 3 years later, I signed the contract. During these years I was approached by a couple of publishers, offering me books I had no desire to write because I knew I wanted to write precisely this book. 

When you have an anchor that hooks your stomach to something beyond, you move with no fear. If you do get to do this project, all you need to do is to come back home to yourself when things get hard, and when you feel lost. You have all the answers inside. You reach inward and bring out the light. 

Somebody dear to my heart came back from Iran a few weeks ago. She was already laden with the usual tokens, for herself and friends; saffron, barberries and pistachios. 

I asked her for gojeh sabz, the very sour and bright green greengage plums. It had been years since I’d had them. I wonder how long, too long for me to remember now. 

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Perhaps since that time when I found a tree here in Rome. It was about now, mid-late May to early June. And it was either on my way to, or back from my lawyer. He was taking care of work “permesso di soggiorno”, my permission to stay. The tree was hidden and I think I was on the phone when I spotted a round, shiny, very green, greengage plum and gasped! I picked as many as my hands could reach and gorged on them right then and there. It must’ve been more than a decade ago. That’s way too long to not have gojeh sabz. Crisp, and very sour, ideally sprinkled with salt, a good gojeh sabz is supposed to make your mouth puckle and you’re supposed to be crazy about it, unconditionally. 

I hadn’t always been. When I was little, every child my age was crazy about goje sabz, so much so the adults in the room were often responsible to snatch the bowl out of their hand before the kids ended up with a stomach ache, drunk on too many greengage plums. 

I liked the sweet things. Perhaps because there weren’t too many sweet things in my life back then. Perhaps my palate was not yet properly formed, or maybe I was a little spoiled picky eater then. I loved sour cherries though, admittedly more as jam and sharbat (cordials, god they drove me insane). We used to have those with salt too. Or in pilafs. And rhubarb too. Oh beautiful, silky, crisp and very sour rhubarb. We’d eat it raw, with salt, or it’d end up in the heavenly mint and rhubarb stew with lamb. My mom would put some, together with a few greengage plums on her vine leaf dolmeh. After all, it’s also the season for vine leaves now. There were rhubarb cordials too, but never cakes, or pies or galetts or sweets in general.

There was a compote that my mom made that encapsulated the essence of this season, very late in spring, but not quite summer; greengage plums and apricots and regular plums, sour cherries and perhaps regular cherries and rhubarbs, cooked in water and sugar, and perhaps a dash of rosewater because that’s always present. Left quite brothy, kept in the fridge once cooled down. It stayed there, expecting, for me to come back from school, and fish out a couple of components by hand, or sip some of its juice right off the big container. Or the hot afternoon, when my mom would serve it in  small individual bowls.

Those afternoons, warm and bright as they were, were hardly spent outdoors. We were home mostly. I don’t remember if I felt bored, I don’t think I knew any other way to spend that time. In retrospective, those afternoons were spent a little too much in isolation, but I didn’t feel any rancor back then. When I was little, we lived in a house with a yard, sometimes I went out to play on my own. There would be fresh new cucumbers, again, sprinkled with salts, slices of tiny, golab apples, apricot halves and strawberries lightly coated in sugar, on a little plate that mom brought me half play.

When I was older, school was already too demanding to permit me play time. There were never-ceasing English classes 3 times a week, sometimes drawing lessons which were a breath of fresh air during my bone-dry, crude scientific-doctorinating education, and there were occasional private piano lessons, at which I sucked big time. We kept on because, I don’t know… I guess because we thought we had to.

A relative that we called “aunt” had a house in the countryside, barely an hour out of the city. They had a pool, and an orchard, but not really much else in that house. It was a salvation. I spent way too many hot days in that pool, becoming almost unrecognizably dark for my normally milky-white complexion. Deeper into summer there would be slices of watermelons that we ate inside the pool, (which were often injected with vodka by the time we were older), but around this season, there would still be greengage plums and apricots, and of course, mulberries. 

Juicy, ripe, sweet and sour and criminally red mulberries from the trees not far from that same pool. The trees were short, we would stand there in mud dried from the heat, sometimes in plastic little slippers, often not, in our colorful nineties swimming suits (I had a gorgeous cyan one which had me dreaming I was a mermaid), dripping with chlorine-smelling water, reaching to the miraculous little red fruits. They’d break at our slightest touch, the juices running all the way from our fingertips to our arms, staining our nails, our hair, our lips, our tongues, our teeth. We’d get off from under those trees looking like a bed you’ve just made love in; a little crumpled, with unidentifiable things in unlikely spots and in need of a wash. Reeking with happiness. 

And there were old sheets too. For the white mulberry trees, which were bigger. They were spreaded under a tree laden with fruit, usually it was us children who held it, and then the tree was shaken. Somebody agile would climb up and shake some of the branches too. All sorts of things would fly from the branches to that sheet, giving often way to some allergy attack. Mulberries, red or white were collected in plastic buckets. The white ones were served as breakfast piled on a big, deep plate and eaten with a spoon. The red ones were more rare, so they were served as an afternoon treat, sometimes frozen and served later next to a plain white ice cream that came out of a simple carton packaging. 

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Now the springs of Rome are ever shorter. A confused time between an overdrawn, long autumn and a very hot, very long summer. I hosted an Iranian dinner late in May based on the recipes in my book, and I cooked the pilaf with sour cherries to celebrate the season. Only, there’s no fresh sour cherries to be had in Italy. So I ordered the dehydrated ones on Amazon. It’s a good metaphor of the way times have changed. 

Once, around the same time I found those greengages on a tree in Rome, I also found a tiny sour cherry tree not far from the place I used to live. Its blossom back in February-March had been stunning. It might have had 30 cherries all together on it. Delighted, I put my shopping bags on the ground and gorged on them, right then and there. No less than 3 Italian men stopped to reprimand me “questi non si mangiano! Sono amari”. You shouldn’t eat these, they’re bitter. It’s a shame not to distinguish bitterness from sourness. It’s one of the many losses of living where the trees of your youth don’t grow. In compensation I have learned to borrow more sour cherries from other tables; kabab karaz for example, the Syrian-Anatolian meatballs with sour cherries and pomegranate molasses, and sour cherries on vine leaves dolma, another Anatolian tradition. We love, and cherish the sourness in our part of the world. 

This is a good spring though, my nostalgia for goje sabz notwithstanding. The weather’s fine, life is sweet and the ache for sourness is just a part of memory. Which in any case I much prefer to nostalgia that is a skewed and perverted version of memory. The latter is tangible and crisp, like biting into a juicy, sour, greengage plum you’ve picked from a tree on a sidewalk in Rome. 

I joined substack I believe, in 2020. I mostly just read and the (still among the best), and although I was often tickled by the idea of launching my own publication, I didn’t think it was the right time. I was deep in the process of writing Pomegranates & Artichokes then, and I thought a new newsletter project was something I should do after I’ve written my book. Soon enough though it was spring 2023, my book was coming out and I had to promote it. I thought well, this sounds like a good moment to publish this Substack publication, finally.

It was not. 

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I did my homework, studied the platform and tried to plan things. I had a little strategy too, to start with free posts and later paid posts. Some of you were quite generous and signed up as paid subscribers right away. Others started paying within a few weeks. But planning things has never been my forté, and if you put me under the stress of publishing my first, much awaited baby book, with many little moving pieces to plan IRL promotions in 2 countries and many online ones all over the world, my “plans” are the first thing that fly out of the window. 

I stopped posting. First because I had just fallen off the track. Then, weeks turned into months, and I just couldn’t pick it back up. Words, together with the will to do anything new, or anything at all, had abandoned me. I felt unmotivated, drained and eternally too exhausted to think I would ever have anything more to say, let alone write. Later I learned it was called burnout. I canceled the paid subscription (not as soon as I should’ve done) and thought myself defeated at the game of Substack. For the one element you apparently need to win here is consistency, and the only consistent element of my life then was exhaustion, with a hefty touch of depression.

Now more than a year has passed since my first attempt here and it finally seems — knocking on wood — my burnout days are finally behind me. I’m taking walks, hanging my clothes nicely off hangers — as opposed to making a huge pile on a chest of drawers to pick out from, I cook a little and even go to the gym sometimes. I have learned a valuable lesson in taking care of my body, my food and my sleep, and I’m blessed with a few happy things in life, oh do they help us thrive. And I also find myself wanting to give this Substack thing a new try.

The reasons are mostly the same as before. I desire a little space of my own in which to write, and that space has long ceased to be social media. I have a strong urge to leave social media altogether, but for now that’s not wise. I want to be in direct contact with my audience and not be at the mercy of the algorithm that shadowbans me for speaking my mind. I want to practice my writing muscle and above all perhaps, I want a different rhythm. 

A rhythm to create and consume creative material that is not immediate and expirable, as more than a decade of facebook and instagram has taught us, but to take time, to write, to create, to sit on it and then send it to the world knowing its lifespan won’t be just 20 minutes. I want to read work made with the same thought. I want to give my time to what people create. I want to learn to have patience. The patience of long reads, and the patience of writing. I want to learn to hate scrolling aimlessly, then stop it.

And I have a plan, again.

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For the moment, Noon will be published fortnightly on Fridays at noon EST, and it’ll be free.

These free articles are mostly writings as I had announced in the beginning, the perspective of an immigrant woman from Iran, living in Italy, in a fat body and in a non conventional family life. Don’t expect dolce vita from me, and don’t expect nostalgic musing on a long, lost Persia from me either. Instead expect snippets of life. It’s my idea that representation of different bodies, different origins and different lifestyles is so scarce in the food and travel sphere, and that’s what I hope to bring to the table. Perhaps there will be occasional recipes as well (like now! At the bottom), and of course announcements of events, dinners and cooking classes.

Eventually there will be exclusive writing for paid subscribers as well, but these fortnightly essays will always remain free. This is my space to practice patience and freedom, and yours to get to know me, to see whether you like what you’re reading, and to share your views with me, hopefully.

I have plans for the future paid posts as well, but I would love you to tell me what you want from me. What do you think I can give you that that’d be worth not just your time, but also monetary support? Please let me know. At the moment I’m preparing city guides, link roundups, Q&A with people in food, travel, publishing and beyond, and of course, exclusive recipes. But nothing would be as valuable as your suggestions here.

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Let’s celebrate this relaunch with something sweet

I am, to be quite honest, a little proud of myself for not throwing the towel completely, as I know I would’ve once done, but going forward instead of admitting total defeat, bringing in a little more discipline, but at the same time being kind with myself for not having made it at Substack at the first go, and hopefully also from now on. So here’s some easy strawberry ice cream for you, from someone who doesn’t have an ice cream machine and hates difficult ice cream recipes. 

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Makes 6-8 portions as cups

• 500g strawberries, chopped

• 200g condensed milk

• Juice of a lemon

• 250g single cream

• 3 tablespoons sugar

In a baking tray freeze the strawberries for at least 4 hours, possibly overnight. Mix the frozen strawberries with the condensed milk and lemon juice in a food processor. You may need to help with a spatula a few times until smooth. Put this mix back in the same trey and put it back in the freezer while you proceed.  

Whip the cream with the sugar until firm. Then take out the tray of strawberry mix out of the freezer and very gently mix the cream in with the help of a rubber spatula. When the mixture is smooth, put it back in the freezer for at least 2-3 hours or overnight.  

This is a type of gelato that actually freezes and becomes quite hard. So you need to leave it at room temperature for about 10 minutes before serving. Or 15-20 minutes in the fridge. Use a spoon to make a scoop or use an ice cream scooper to serve in cups. Serve immediately. 

Happy birthday, P&A!

Last week, when I was grappling with a particularly nasty flu, my first baby book, Pomegranates & Artichokes turned one. During this year I’ve had the pleasure of hosting many events, cooking the recipes from the book (the last of which was nights ago at the American Academy in Rome, as the guest chef at the Rome Sustainable Food Project). Many events, but not many cooking classes (in Rome).

So to celebrate the first birthday of my cookbook I’m teaching two cooking classes on Saturday 18 May and Sunday 19 May, based on the recipes of Pomegranates & Artichokes.

We will follow the chapters of the book and will cook dishes of Iran, The eastern Mediterranean and the Levant, and of Italy. We will talk about the similarities of these recipes, these cultures and these people.

When

Choose a date between Saturday 18 May or Sunday May 19

We start at 10. The cooking class usually lasts until early after noon, after a late lunch

Where

Latteria Studio

Monteverde Nuovo Neighborhood

Price

€150 per person

includes the cooking class, 4 course lunch, snacks, wine and the recipes.

Reservation

In order to book, please reply to this email or send an email to info@labnoon.com and I will give you the details for bank transfer or PayPal payment.

There are only 6 spots available for each class and seats tend to sell out quickly.

P.S. On Sunday at 3 pm I’ll have a talk at Salone del Libro, the Turin book fair called Le Avventure del Cibo. Come say hi if you’re around.

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Buon compleanno, Melograni & Carciofi

La scorsa settimana, mentre io cercavo di riprendermi di una brutta influenza, il mio primo libro (nell’edizione originale in inglese) ha fatto un anno di vita. Durante questo anno ho avuto il piacere di ospitare tanti eventi e cucinare le ricette di Melograni & Carciofi (L’ultimo è stato due sere fa all’American Academy di Rome, come chef ospite a Rome Sustainable Food Project). Tanti eventi sì, ma non tanti corsi di cucina (a Roma).

Allora per festeggiare un anno del mio libro faccio due corsi di cucina sabato il 18 maggio e domenica 19 maggio, in cui faremo le ricette del Melograni e Carciofi.

Seguiremo i capitoli del libro e cucineremo ricette dall’Iran, dal mediterraneo orientale e il Levant, e dall’Italia. Parleremo delle similitudini di questi piatti, di queste culture e di questi popoli.

Quando

Scegli una data tra sabato 18 maggio o domenica 19 maggio.

Il corso comincia alle 10. Il corso di solito dura fino a primo pomeriggio

Dove

Latteria Studio

Monteverde Nuovo

Prezzo

€150 per persona

Include il corso, pranzo di 4 portate e stuzzichini, vino e le ricette.

Prenotazione

Per prenotare per favore rispondi a questa mail o scrivi a info@labnoon.com e ti darò i dettagli per il bonifico o il PayPal.

Ci sono solo 6 posti disponibili per questo corso e solitamente esauriscono velocemente.

P.S. Questa domenica alle 15 sarò al Salone del Libro a Torino per parlare delle Avventure del Cibo. Spero di vedervi.

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It has been multiple times now — four or five if I’m not mistaken — that I have attempted a return to this space. Each one of them invariably has started, with a sort of an apology. A justification. A feeling that I’m now begging to understand as “shame”.

The shame of not having been here when the whole rest of the world apparently has. The shame of the (seeming) lack of productivity. The shame, and the blood curling fear, of not having much to say. 

This is where I have been in the past months; a place of very few words that I want to put in the world. A place where, what I really want to do is avoid the billions of words gnashing at the world in every waking and dreaming instant. There’s just TOO MUCH OF EVERYTHING, don’t you agree? Too many images on Instagram (and tiktok, if you live there as well); ever revolving, chaotic, soundtracked, accompanied by more words, colorful, and nauseating at times. 

And too many words here too, on Substack, the “ writer’s dream place”, often better written, by too many people, talking about too many important things. Too many recipes, too many thoughts, too many offers. So many I often wonder how to keep up.

And in the streets of Rome, there are too many people even in what was once blissfully low season February. Too many shops and bars and restaurants cater to this crowd. Statistics cry bigger and bigger numbers, and yet it’s ever more difficult to find a place at these restaurants.

A state of eternal tiredness lingers in the Eternal city. No time for it to breathe for the big high season, looming ever closer, bringing many, many more people with it. 

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I’m at that stage that whenever I’m exposed to the internet, which is sadly almost always whenever I have my phone in my hand, which is the majority of my waking hours, all that occurs to me is “should I add to this huge, indistinguishable jumble of stuff”? My logic says “no” terrifyingly fast. My greed for self satisfaction says “well, you’ll be forgotten otherwise”, and my longing for self expression wonders “how will you put out your art otherwise”?

I’d like to think “books” can be a safe haven, quiet and analogic and away from all this noise, despite being full of words. And yet I’m the one who can’t sit still with a book for more than 10 minutes these days. The lure of too many images and words and people and bars and dishes tops that quiet all the time. I feel trapped.

No. No, I don’t think trapped is how I feel. Tired. I am tired. Of many things and of nothing in particular really, but I constantly feel exhausted. Images, words, sounds, people, things, things, things. All too much.

Funnily enough I think it might be that,— at least partly— my exhaustion comes from creating one of those “safe havens”. Writing, but mostly promoting a book so far has been extenuating. A hard work that is barely seen, involving a billion little micro-managements. They call it “burnout” these days. 

In the words of , burnout is “the body talking to the mind and spirit and agreeing in complete unity that they could no longer go on. Which is to say burnout feels a lot like complete and utter exhaustion. Exhaustion that makes you depressed, sometimes rageful; it can make you binge or it can make you starve; it can look like sleeping all the time or being incapable of getting a single hours sleep. Burnout is vague because it’s different for everyone.”

In all these multiple times that I have tried to write my return back to space and eventually gave up, there's been an account of this burnout. Then, the sticky shame of nagging. Eventually I always gave up, deciding perhaps it’s not time yet. This time I’ve decided to go through with it.

I can’t promise you consistency at this stage. I can’t deliver anything weekly, or even monthly, but I will appear now and then to say and share something interesting. (I turned off the paid version many months ago, but I might turn on the pledge if any of you feels like supporting me). 

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Cooking mojo, is that you?

One of the things a cookbook burnout made me go through was an utter unwillingness to cook — and sometimes even to eat —anything at all. In the past couple of months however something of my cooking curiosity and passion has come back to me. Nothing elaborate, Iranian or Italian like the recipes in Pomegranates & Artichokes (I do them for events). But, light and bright things, modern, mostly meatless and quite a few in the form of salads. (It has been such a ridiculously warm winter that I never felt bothered by cold salads for a meal). 

I think some of these meals are worth keeping for the future, so let’s make an archive of them here. In an old fashion blog sort of way. I hope you’ll like them. But don’t expect precise recipes, these are just ideas. To be perfectly frank, as unconventional this may sound coming from a person who writes recipes for a living, I really believe lots of food ideas should be non-recipes; no measurements, just ideas. Trust your instincts and make this idea yours. 

Gather your oranges while ye may

It's the citrus season, possibly the best moment of the year, to match the stone-fruit season (but that’s hellishly hot, so I stick to this one).

My favorite recipe to make is orange season is Claudia Roden’s orange and almond cake. It’s quite well-known and it appears everywhere from New York Times Cooking (behind a paywall) to the Guardian, and of course her legendary cookbook, the Book of Middle Eastern of Food. You boil two oranges whole for a long time (making the house smell like heaven), then you blend them whole, add 6 eggs, 250g almond flour, 200g sugar, bit salt, bit baking powder and bake it for about an hour. Heaven. 

A citrus salad may be a bit banal to some, never to me. You may know about the famous Sicilian version, with oranges, fennels and black olives. I have recently come to pair oranges with just a tad of celery. I’d like to use a combination of regular oranges, blood oranges and grapefruit for an aesthetic effect. Then add some chopped pistachios on top. Salt and good olive oil.

This one is already a bit out of season but it has been a revelation to me. You need the hard type of persimmon aka Japanese Persimmon. In Italy they’re called cachi mela or apple persimmon, which is cute. Cut them into thin slices and place on a dish, top with slivers of a strong-ish cheese, like gouda. Make a sauce with vinegar (white wine or rice vinegar), lots of chili flakes and salt and pour over it. Add chopped salted peanuts. Sounds unlikely but it’s astonishingly good. 

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A bit of book news

This week I’m back traveling for book promo events.

• On Tuesday 13 February, I’m very proud to present Pomegranates & Artichokes at The University of Gastronomic Sciences of Pollenzo (UNISG), the acclaimed university is part of the Slow Food movement and is a food person’s dream (they call it the Hogwarts for food). Follow along on Instagram stories if you want to see more. 

• On Wednesday 14 February I’m presenting the Italian edition of my book Melograni & Carciofi in Turin (at Via Galliari 15bis Torino 10125) at 5.30 pm with Montera and Lucilla Iannone di Frollemente. Come join us!

• On 28 February I will hold a lecture at Loyola University Chicago's John Felice Rome Center about Mediterranean food cultures.

• On 11 March I will return to Auburn University (Alabama, USA) Rome Campus for the third time to hold a lecture on the Middle Eastern and Mediterranean diet.   

Please let me know if you’re anywhere near these places. 

What is your favorite way with citrus? 

Lastly on burnout again, this is a great piece by Emma Gannon. Have you had to deal with burnout lately? Any advice?

Hello!

It’s been a moment since I last wrote a Substack newsletter. I had so many plans for this platform, but life happened, and it was unexpected and unpredictable and at times very low, then sometimes a bit high and a bit in between, of course. 

Perhaps some other time I will write about those moments; the times I started to write, or tried so hard to want to write, and just couldn’t go on, and the causes and impacts of sheer, severe burnout, but not today. 

Today I’m very excited to announce something I have long been thinking about, to invite you over for a meal with me. And here it is, this December, join me for a breakfast feast from Iran, Italy and and in between. 

Italiano segue.

You are invited to a festive morning banquet (I don’t like to use the word “brunch”, but yeah, it is a brunch) inspired by the recipes in my book Pomegranates & Artichokes, plus a few extra things.

Not only will you taste some of the breakfast recipes from Pomegranates & Artichokes, you will also get a signed copy of the book (in English or Italian), included in the price. An early Christmas present for you or a loved one.

WHEN

Choose a date between Saturday 9 December, or Sunday 10 December [UPDATE: Sunday December 10 is sold out.]

Breakfast is served from 10 am until lunch time. 

WHERE

Latteria Studio 

(Monteverde Nuovo Neighborhood)

What’s Served

• Sheermal Bread (a brioche bread with milk and saffron from Iran) 

• Lavash bread

• Fattah (toasted flatbread layered with a lemony, yogurt sauce with tahini, chickpeas and topped with pine nuts and fresh herbs, served as weekend breakfast in Syria) 

• Filo triangles stuffed with feta, drizzled with honey (from Turkey and Greece)

• Necci (chestnut pancakes from Tuscany), served with Ricotta and honey / salame and cheese

• An orange scented rice cake (Southern Italy)

• Date frittata (Iran)

• Soft/hard boiled eggs

Plus: Assorted jams, feta, walnuts, cream, honey, Labna (strained yogurt) with za’tar, cucumber, tomatoes, olives

Drinks: My grandmother’s bicoloured tea / coffee / milk / juice + bubbly

PRICE

€65 per person

Includes all food and drink and a signed copy of my cookbook Pomegranates & Artichokes (or the Italian edition, Melongrani & Carciofi)

RESERVATION

In order to book, please reply to this email or send an email to info@labnoon.com and I will give you the details for bank transfer or PayPal payment. Remember to specify whether you want the Italian edition of the English edition of my cookbook.

Hope to see you for breakfast!

Per l’occasione delle feste, sei invitat* al banchetto mattutino ispirato dal mio libro di cucina Melograni & Carciofi. (Non amo la parola “brunch”, però di fatto è un brunch festivo).

Non solo gusterai alcuni delle ricette di “colazione” da Melograni & Carciofi, ma riceverai anche una copia firmata del libro (italiano o inglese). Un regalo in anticipo per te or per chi ami.

QUANDO

Scegli una data tra sabato 9 dicembre, o domenica 10 dicembre [UPDATE: Domenica 10 dicembre è sold out].

La colazione viene servita dalle 10 fino all’ora di pranzo.

DOVE

Latteria Studio 

(Quartiere di Monteverde Nuovo)

MENU

• Pane Sheermal (un pan brioche con latte e zafferano - Iran) 

• Pane Lavash

• Fattah (Un”’insalata” di pane tostato con strati di yogurt colato condito con limone e tahini, ceci, pinoli e erbe fresche, che viene servito in nord Syria sul tavolo della colazione del weekend.) 

• Triangolino di pasta filo ripieni di feta, con miele (dalla Turchia/Grecia)

• Necci (“pancake” toscani fatti dalla farina di castagne), serviti con ricotta e miele/ salame e formaggio.

• Torta di riso al profumo d’arancia (Sud Italia)

• Frittata dei datteri (Iran)

• L’uova alla coque/sodo

In più: confetture assortite, feta, noci, panna, miele, labna con za’tar, cetrioli, pomodori, olive.

Da bere: Il te bicolore di mia nonna, caffè, latte, succhi e prosecco

PREZZO

€65 per persona

Sono inclusi tutto il cibo, le bevande e una copia firmata del mio libro Melograni & Carciofi (o l’edizione originale in inglese, Pomegranates & Artichokes)

PRENOTAZIONE

Per prenotare il tuo posto (ce ne sono pochi) semplicemente rispondi a questa mail, o scrivi a info@labnoon.com e ti darò i dettagli per il bonifico o PayPal. Ricordati di specificare se vuoi l’edizione italiana o inglese del mio libro di cucina.

Spero di vederti per colazione!

I am beyond excited to announce the first Pomegranates & Artichokes event: A cooking class with no other than the legendary at her new space, Enoteca Marilu.

When: May 27, 2023, 10 AM

Where: Enoteca Marilu, San Miniato (about an hour from Florence), Tuscany

What: We will cook recipes from my newly published cookbook, Pomegranates & Artichokes, recipes and memories of a journey from Iran to Italy. Naturally, some dishes will be from Iran, some from “In between”, and some from Italy. The focus of this will be on stuffed vegetables that best showcase the “journey” of the food and ingredients in these regions. There will also be nibbles and dessert.

How: For information and booking please contact Emiko. The ticket includes the cooking class, all the food and wine, plus and a copy of Pomegranates & Artichokes.

BOOK NOW

A heartfelt thank-you

I owe all of you, here, on Instagram, twitter, facebook, whatsapp a huge thank you after the overwhelmingly warm reaction to the publication of Pomegranates & Artichokes. There was a lovely, intimate book presentation here in Rome that I will talk about later, and I have been showered with love by all of you. So thank you from the bottom of my heart. I will share more soon.

Other books events

At the moment I’m quite busy organizing events to celebrate Pomegranates & Artichokes and I will soon announce more book signing events, cooking classes and supper clubs in Rome, Florence, Milan and London.

Make sure you subscribe so that you won’t a miss a post.

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I would’ve liked to post this video directly here for you, but I’m still not among those few on Substack who can post videos, so please watch it on Instagram.

“Rich with detail, this beautiful and beautifully written book bridges two culinary worlds and invites us to cook.”

— Rachel Roddy, author of An A to Z of Pasta, Two Kitchens and Five Quarters

BUY NOW

I have talked long about what this book is and I’ll probably talk even more about it now that it’s finally out in the world, but today I want to talk about the unbelievably amazing and talented team of people who made the existence of this book possible.

Many thanks to everyone at Murdoch Books, my dear publishers Corinne Roberts and Céline Hughs, my editor Katri Hilden, the amazing Jemma Crocker-Wilson at the publicity team and everyone else at the editorial and design team for making all of book dreams come true, thank you.

I’m forever grateful to Giulia Picardo for all the recipes testing together in the longs winter of the pandemic, to Alice Adams Carosi for cooking the food in the book so beautifully with the help of Elisabetta Busini. Many thanks to (Valentina Solfrini) for infinite help and having been an extra pair of hands and eyes to me during the photoshoot, and to Mariangela and Giulia of Madonnella Agricola for the hospitality and friendship.

My gratitude goes to my dear agent Victoria Hobbs at A.M. Heath.

Last but certainly not least, very special thanks to my dearest Tommaso Javidi for sincere friendship, incessable support and making these beautiful, beautiful videos for Pomegranates & Artichokes.

And of course, thanks to all of you subscribers, those who have pre-preordered the book, or are planning to purchase it now, and thanks for all the kindness and support you’ve shown me. I hope you’ll enjoy the book.

“Refreshingly unusual in its concept and geographical spread, filled with heady pleasure, deep locality and genuine know-how, Pomegranates & Artichokes is also quite possibly the most beautiful cookbook I have ever seen.”

— Caroline Eden, author of Red Sands, Black Sea and Samarkand

“Saghar's food and story is rich with culture, history and beauty. I cannot wait to cook from it and lose myself in its pages.”

— Olia Hercules, author of Mamushka, Summer Kitchens and Home Food

“An utterly enchanting book that captures the essence of migration and the magnificence of Iran's culinary traditions, with stunning photography, captivating stories and mouth-watering recipes.”

— , author of Ripe Figs, Zaitoun and Saffron Tales

“I want to [get] lost in her photography, find connections that transcend physical places and pore over the kind of food that I want to immediately cook for friends and neighbours”.

— , author of Florentine, Tortellini at Midnight and Cinnamon and Salt

“Saghar Setareh guides us on a spirited and soulful culinary journey. This is not a cookbook lost in the nostalgia of a bygone era, but an invitation to Setareh’s table firmly planted in the here and now. And what a delicious table it is.”

— Naz Deravian, author of Bottom of the Pot

“Saghar Setareh guides us on a spirited and soulful culinary journey. This is not a cookbook lost in the nostalgia of a bygone era, but an invitation to Setareh’s table firmly planted in the here and now. And what a delicious table it is.”

— Naz Deravian, author of Bottom of the Pot

“A jewel of a cookbook: With her graceful and passionate writing, Saghar Setareh offers a powerful testament to how much more imaginative our cooking can be in a world where borders—whether literal or figurative—don’t exist.”

— Mayukh Sen, author of Taste Makers

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Previous Posts about Pomegranates & Artichokes

Teaser: The Journey of Pomegranates & Artichokes

That’s it for now. I still plan to post about the process of making the book, I was so exhausted and close to burnout that I couldn’t before. I hope you like the book and thanks for the support again.

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