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I survived the recent heatwave in London (just about) on a daily regimen of crisp, chilled watermelon, swims at the outdoor, cold-water swims in the West Reservoir, closing all windows and curtains from 10am, and delicately balancing fans on chairs in every room while hoping my toddler didn’t knock one over on herself. Reader, we made it.

This recent record-breaking heatwave has come after a series of increasingly warm summers (hi, climate change! 👋🏽), which have changed how many of us experience the city in these warmer months. In my case, that involves trying not leaving the house at all from 11am–4pm, firmly channelling my Middle Eastern ancestors. But scorching heatwaves aside, I do love this season and it is, in my mind, the best time to enjoy this amazing city. So, with that in mind, this week I thought I’d share some of my favourite things to do in London in the summer.

A Picnic With a View

Did you know that London has around 3,000 parks and public green spaces? And that 20% of the city’s total area is dedicated to public green space? For reasons I’ve never quite understood, as soon as the temperature starts creeping up to, say, 22 degrees (71 Fahrenheit), Londoners start appearing in their beachwear at local parks from 10am, desperate to catch some rays. But, you don’t need to pull out your bikini every time the clouds part to enjoy what London’s parks have to offer. In the long summer evenings, when it stays light until around 9.30pm, one of the nicest things you can do is gather with picnic blankets, M&S picky bits and provisions from the local off-licence. My favourite spot to do this is Parliament Hill in Hampstead Heath (pictured above) where you can gaze out across the city, warm beer in hand, and imagine you are a character in a David Nicholls novel.

Feast on the South Bank’s Cultural Offerings

I’ve been living in London for almost 25 years and still get a thrill every time I walk over Waterloo Bridge (mentally reciting my favourite Wendy Cope poem, After the Lunch of course). But the next best thing about being close to the River Thames is the glorious South Bank, home to the Southbank Centre, the National Theatre, BFI Southbank, Hayward Gallery and, my personal favourite, Royal Festival Hall.

From outdoor cocktails to art exhibitions, literary readings, comedy nights, music concerts and family-friendly dance parties, the range of events is endlessly impressive, and the number of free events is outstanding. Every summer, a musical legend curates the Meltdown festival – past curators include Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry, David Byrne, M.I.A. and Chaka Khan – and this summer Harry Styles is in charge of the programme bringing together an eclectic mix of musicians.

Tapas and Free Open-Air Movies by the River

One of the joys of living in London is that you can travel the world through the food you eat, and one of my favourite spots for summer evenings is José Pizarro’s Spanish restaurants on Bermondsey Street. I love the casual, intimate vibe of his tapas bar, José, which is so transportive and makes me feel like I’m in Andalusia. But his restaurant, Pizarro, just a few doors down, often has more space and is also wonderful.

Either way, in both spaces you can knock back delicious Spanish-style gin and tonics or a glass of vino alongside traditional tapas dishes — gildas, croquetas, gambas galore. From there, it’s just a short stroll to the river, where you can catch FREE open-air film screenings of movies such as King Richard and Bend it Like Beckham at The Clubhouse as part of Summer by the River. Other places offering free outdoor films in the summer include Everyman on the Canal at King’s Cross, where you can watch a film on the steps beside Regent’s Canal. Don’t forget to bring your own popcorn. And a blanket.

V&A East and the Olympic Park

Like many Londoners, I was boringly cynical about the Olympics in 2012, but it turns out we were all wrong. Not only was it an amazing event for the city — which everyone still harks on about— its legacy has transformed the area into a much-loved cultural family-friendly site. A particularly rich area is the East Bank: home to Sadler’s Wells East, BBC Music, the London College of Fashion and the newly opened V&A East Museum, a hipper, younger version of the V+A which explores how creativity shapes global culture and society. I was lucky enough to visit a preview of its opening exhibition, The Music Is Black: A British Story, a celebration of the legacy and influence of Black British music, which is a truly moving piece of cultural record. Even better for food lovers, the team behind Jikoni are running the museum café , which is an homage to immigrant food in the UK, blending influences from South Asian, African, Middle Eastern and East Asian cuisines. You can make a whole day of it: visit the exhibition, have lunch at Café Jikoni, then let the kids run around the fountains and green spaces of the Olympic Park.

Cycle Through Hackney Marshes and Hackney Wick

The waterways of East London come alive in the summer, and one of my favourite ways to experience them is on two wheels be that your own, or a rented Lime bike. Start around Springfield Park or Clapton and cycle south along the canals, through the wide-open stretch of Hackney Marshes, where London suddenly feels as though it has loosened its grip. There are narrowboats drifting by, rowers on the water, pockets of wildflowers and, later in the summer, blackberries growing all along the towpath, which I pick every year to make jam. From there, you can carry on to Hackney Wick. Stop for a cocktail or something to eat at Barge East, or head to Grow, a bar and grassroots music venue, for drinks and music as the light begins to soften.

And perhaps that is what I love most about London in the summer: the city feels a little less hurried, a little more generous. There are long evenings to stretch into, rivers to wander beside, and unexpected pockets of culture, music and food around almost every corner. Yes, there will be heatwaves, sweaty Tube journeys and the occasional moment when you find yourself desperately googling “portable air-conditioning units” at 2am. But when the sun is shining and the city is in bloom, there really is nowhere I’d rather be. *cue putting on LDN by Lily Allen*

Have a great week

Yasmin x

I hadn’t expected to find myself lying on my sofa at 8.53am on a wet and windy Tuesday morning curled up with Nigella Lawson but, dear reader, here we are.

Having ushered my partner and toddler out to work and nursery (wave, bye!, close door, breathe a massive sigh of relief), my first hour of the day normally consists of tidying, putting a load of washing on, and sitting down to go through my work to do list — a delayed newspaper feature I was commissioned to write whirring anxiously in my mind.

But then I spotted How to Eat, Nigella’s seminal debut, on my bookshelf and, for no reason other than remembering there was a section on feeding children (and when you have a pressing writing deadline, distractions come more easily), I picked it up.

I had intended to flick through it, maybe find something to make later in the week, but instead I sat, burrowing deeper into the sofa, reading and laughing, utterly enchanted. I didn’t look up again for 30 minutes, until a glance at the clock made me realise I was late starting work. I carefully folded over the corner of a page containing a recipe that had caught my eye and made a mental note to make the rhubarb meringue soon.

So much has been written about Nigella Lawson’s prolific career as an author, journalist, broadcaster and unabashed food enthusiast. Primarily known to British, American and Australian audiences through her television work, she has achieved national treasure status and is known on a first-name basis alone. Whilst I’ve always enjoyed watching her on television (and I can’t to see her on the next season of Bake Off) it is her writing that I have connected with most and I have read How to Eat, from cover to cover, on countless occasions.

The book, Nigella’s debut, was published in 1998 and my copy — a first paperback edition — came out the following year, which coincided with when I went to university. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say the book taught me how to cook. Or rather, how to cook food that I hadn’t grown up eating.

I remember feeling very glamorous in my twenties, living in a flatshare in Brixton, south London, assembling three-course meals of British classics such as shepherd’s pie or trifle, that felt a world away from the Persian khoreshts, Pakistani dals and rice pilafs I grew up with. I felt a particular sense of achievement making homemade lemon curd from scratch one day, a dozen lemon halves strewn across the kitchen counter, thinking as I spread it over hot buttered toast that, with its lip-puckering tartness and daffodil-yellow colour, it tasted like bottled sunshine.

So it’s all the more remarkable to me that almost 30 years after it was published, it’s still a book I return to. Though these days more for Nigella’s supportive and unapologetically assertive views on how to feed children. I remember picking it up when I started weaning my daughter 18 months ago and finding it so reassuring that someone else, like me, felt there was slightly too much nonsense around feeding children and maybe they could just eat good food, like we do? At the time I was immersed in NHS guidelines about feeding infants bland purées, which my daughter, with good sense, never took to. Chickpea and butternut squash coconut curry were her much-loved early purees (now, in toddlerhood, rejected with a turn of the head and a sniff as she is currently in a phase of refusing to eat chickpeas whole but devouring them ferociously in the hummus I serve her, so who’s really won that one, Mitra, I smirk to myself).

But back to Nigella and this extraordinary book, which is written with such wit, candour and practical wisdom that it genuinely feels like that old cliché of having a friend in the kitchen with you. Unlike many modern cookbooks, it is text-heavy, with not a single photograph of a recipe. This says so much about her skill as a writer that I only properly noticed this when I sat down to write this piece. You never feel the absence of photography in How to Eat. Rather, like a good novel, the sensory detail of the writing allows you to conjure up mouth-watering smells and textures in your own mind, where they become even more evocative (as anyone who has watched a disappointing film adaptation of a beloved book knows).

This is fitting perhaps, because I feel that at its heart, this is a storybook as much as a cookbook, telling the tale of what it means to live a life in which food is comfort, joy, togetherness, necessity, celebration and indulgence all at once. Broken down into chapters such as One and Two, Fast Food, Cooking in Advance, Weekend Lunch, Low Fat, Dinner, Feeding Babies and Small Children (including, FYI, a very useful section on children’s birthday parties), it tells the story about how food marks all aspects of our lives and encourages us to enjoy it with ease and with abandon. “Easier said than done, I know” she remarks on a few occasions.

One of the book’s funniest sections is where she presents a menu for entertaining — you know, when you want a few dishes that go together, plus pudding, for four or six people for different settings. There are the menus you would imagine, for the seasons, outdoor eating, special occasions such as Christmas or Thanksgiving. But then there are the ones which have their own specific Nigella twist from Camp, But Only Slightly, dinner for 6 (pheasant with gin, little gem with green goddess dressing and pavlova, if you were curious), Tarted Up Homey Dinner (chicory and mustard salad, ham and pea orzotto with leeks, poached pistachio-sprinkled apricots stuffed with crème fraîche) and the decidedly un-PC White Trash Lunch for 6 (Ham in Coca-Cola, parsley potatoes and cherry pie).

Decades on, what’s interesting to me now is that I can spot the diversity in the recipes in a way I didn’t when I was younger and was heading straight for the British classics. I can now attest to the moreishness of her Indian-inspired Panch-phoran Aloo (spiced potatoes), the punchy fieriness of the Cambodian Hot and Sour Beef Salad and the transportive quality of the Turkish Delight Figs that taste like a rose garden in early summer.

When I first read How to Eat in my twenties, I think I saw it mostly as a manual for becoming the sort of woman I wanted to be: generous, capable, someone who could whip up an apple tart from scratch for friends. Reading it today, more tired, in mid-life, and constantly wiping something sticky off a surface (or off myself), I find myself drawn to different aspects of the book, the practicality, the humour, the reassurance and the permission not to strive for perfection.

It made me think of something I was once told about good writing: that the real achievement of a book is its ability to grow alongside you. At 21, How to Eat taught me how to cook. At 45, it’s reminded me how to live. The best cookbooks don’t simply sit on our shelves collecting dust; they become woven into the story of who we are.

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I burst into tears at Specsavers last week which feels like it should be the opening line of an emo British folk song, but was actually just a woman in her mid-forties not quite knowing how to process change.

It wasn’t Specsavers itself that was the issue, per se. I mean, apart from the terrible overhead lighting, the spotty teenage boys working behind the counter, the rows of budget glasses that made me question my life choices, and the haunting earworm of their advertising campaign permanently ingrained into my brain. But being told that I would need glasses felt like the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

For context, I’ve actually worn glasses for most of my life. I was diagnosed with severe myopia as a child, meaning that I couldn’t see anything more than about 15cm from my face, and as a result, from the age of six until forty I lived in a rotating cycle of glasses and contact lenses, reaching blindly with my hand for my glasses on the bedside table as soon as I woke up.

Then, five years ago, in March 2020 (remember that super calm and normal time?) I had laser eye surgery, a genuinely life-changing experience that freed me from the half-blindness that had shaped most of my time on earth. It was hands down one of the best decisions I have ever made. Being able to open my eyes in the morning and simply see felt like a miracle. Suddenly I could swim and be aware of what was happening around me. I could stay out late without worrying about contact lens solution. I could wear sunglasses normally. My eyes stopped aching from tiredness and soreness caused by over wearing contacts.

But perhaps more than anything, I no longer felt dependent on a crutch I’d physically carried since childhood. Without glasses or lenses, I had always felt extremely vulnerable as I couldn’t move through the world on my own. So being told that my eyesight had deteriorated again landed far more emotionally than it probably should have done (even though I had been warned at the time of surgery that with such a high initial prescription the results might not last forever). Whilst the deterioration is fairly minor at the moment, I’ll be needing glasses for driving and anytime I need to focus on long distance and I was also told I needed reading glasses to correct a new ailment: age-related deterioration in my close-up vision. I stared at my reflection in the mirror as I tried on a range of new glasses and wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to be looking at. Because the glasses themselves weren’t really the problem. The issue was that my life was shifting in a myriad of ways I hadn’t seen coming.

The last few weeks have been a time of profound change. I sold my flat in Hackney, East London, an area I’ve lived in for 17 years and which I love deeply, but where I can no longer afford to buy. We’ve had an offer accepted on a new, larger, family home in Walthamstow which I’ve bought with my partner, going in on a house together for the first time which has brought with it so many feelings for both of us. My daughter turned two and we started potty training, the infant years suddenly officially behind us, along with the end of describing her age in months. For a variety of reasons, it’s unlikely we’ll have another child. So among the happiness of seeing my daughter become more independent, there is grief there too. Of a change in my vision of what I thought my parenting would look like. Added to this, my partner got a new job and I sent off a new book proposal, so our work lives are starting a new chapter. And of course, I discovered that the headaches I’d been blaming on stress were actually because I can no longer properly see.

None of these things are catastrophic. In fact, many of them are really positive and very exciting. But together they created a strange emotional pile-up that left me feeling overwhelmed. And suddenly I found myself crying in Specsavers when a very kind woman asked if I’d prefer to try tortoiseshell frames.

I’ve realised over the years that I am not the kind of person who glides through transitions easily but rather I tend to cling on, way past the time I need to make a change, preferring the discomfort of certainty over the fear of the unknown. I also have realised that part of the reason why big changes can feel overwhelming is because they seem to happen without clearly marked transition points. There is simply no pause between one version of yourself and the next, you just keep moving while your life shifts around you with no ability to hit the pause button. And for me at least, that lack of control can feel alarming.

One minute you’re crying in the bathroom holding a newborn who is refusing to sleep and the next you’re crying in the bathroom negotiating with a toddler about whether they’d like to, you know, let out the poo they’ve been holding in for two days while they scream “NO MUMMY NO LOOKING.”

One minute you’re going out dancing and getting wasted until 3am and the next you’re earnestly researching school catchment areas, reading Ofsted reports and trying to decide whether a garden shed work well as an office.

One minute you have what you thought was perfect eyesight and the next a woman is shining a light into your eyeball and asking if you’ve considered varifocals. (I was aghast at this phrase in particular, of course I hadn’t).

I also think modern life asks us to absorb change while continuing to appear to function normally. We are expected to process uncertainty, financial pressure, political instability, parenting, climate anxiety, work stress and endless admin while also replying to emails with “Hope you’re well!”

But sometimes I am not especially well. Sometimes I am standing in the kitchen staring into the fridge unable to remember why I opened it. Sometimes I feel so overstimulated by noise, decisions and life admin that choosing between two pairs of glasses feels emotionally catastrophic. Sometimes I am replying “Absolutely no rush at all!” to emails while internally feeling like a Victorian woman dying of exhaustion.

I think I’ve spent a long time believing that if I just became slightly more organised, slightly calmer, slightly better at time management, I would eventually arrive at some magical state of adulthood where everything felt manageable. But increasingly I’m not sure that place exists. As the joke goes, adulthood is just saying 'after this week, things will calm down' over and over again until you die. Nonetheless, we get through it by admitting when things are hard. It’s hard to move from a house and area you loved. It’s hard to realise you’ll never have a contact nap with a baby again. It’s hard to realise your body is changing in ways you can’t control anymore.

In the past few weeks, as I’ve felt wobbly from change, I’ve turned to a few trusted aides. Carbs in all their forms (we’ve had pasta for dinner every night this week). Going for walks without listening to a podcast. Going to bed early with a mug of haldi doodh and a novel. Getting on a mat and doing some abdominal breathing. And perhaps most unexpectedly, getting glasses again.

A few days after the Specsavers meltdown, I walked home wearing my new lenses and suddenly realised I could properly see individual leaves on trees again and read the signs on the tube from a distance. Slowly, tiny details I hadn’t even realised had disappeared came back into focus and the world looked sharper, brighter, more defined. My headaches stopped. I found my glasses kinda cute. I’ve started looking forward to having a new kitchen which is big enough host parties and of the idea of building a family home.

Because that’s the thing about change. Yes, it can be messy, unpredictable and scary. But hidden somewhere inside all the discomfort, there is also the possibility of seeing your life differently too.

We hear a lot about the magic of newborns. The sleepy cuddles. The tiny fingers. The sweet smell of their first hair. But that wasn’t my experience of it. This week I’m writing about the shift I’ve experienced in motherhood these last six months and the unbridled joy that I didn’t see coming.

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It’s 5:47am. My daughter is lying …

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This week I’m sharing a cultural recommendations round up along with an exclusive new recipe for Date, Cashew and Ginger Energy Balls (pictured above). If my writing resonates, please consider supporting my work by upgrading to become a paid member.

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As the war in Iran and across the Middle East goes on — plunging millions into poverty, destroying vital infrastructure and accelerating climate change — I’ve found it hard, in all honesty, to focus on much else. This Substack has, in recent weeks, inadvertently become a kind of war diary, and I’m afraid, dear reader, the entries are getting bleaker.

At the time of writing, the US is contemplating sending ground troops into Iran (what could possibly go wrong?), Trump and Hegseth claim regime change has already happened (which is like me claiming I’ve redecorated my house because I replaced the dining table chairs), and one of the primary war aims now seems to be to open the Strait of Hormuz (which, notably, was open before the war started).

Meanwhile journalists spend hours trying to decipher the words of the Orange Man as if they have ever had any coherence or clarity, while Iranians inside the country face greater repression, and Israel declares it is permanently occupying southern Lebanon. I’ve been trying to find a silver lining in any of this but the only silver around seems to be lining the pockets of those who have been using insider information to place bets on the war.

So, what to do? There’s only so much value in describing how awful this all is, so instead I’ve been trying to punctuate my days with meaningful interactions — something made much easier by having a two-year-old to care for — and take small bouts of escapism through food, friends, films and other forms of art. Because life, somehow, continues alongside all of this.

With that in mind, I hope you enjoy the cultural recommendations that have got me through this month, plus a new 10-minute recipe for Date, Cashew and Ginger Energy Balls — naturally sweet and gently spiced with cinnamon, orange peel and vanilla — that provide a quick burst of energy and comfort when a proper meal feels out of reach.

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This week I’m sharing a personal reflection on what it means to be of Iranian heritage in a time of war. If this kind of writing resonates, you can support my work by subscribing or upgrading to become a paid member.

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I’m grieving a lot at the moment.

I’m grieving the soil that nourishes Iranian families with its yields. I’m grieving the sea…

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When I was four years old, I smuggled a piece of gaz — a soft and chewy pistachio and rose-fragranced nougat — into Qezel-Hesar prison in Iran, where my uncle was being held.

It was Nowruz, the Iranian new year, and we had travelled as a family — my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins — all piling into a small min…

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A quick note –– next month, I’m teaching a workshop at Kings Place in London on ‘How to Tell Stories Through Food’. It’s a brilliant opportunity to learn how to turn ingredients, memories, culture and history into compelling stories across books, journalism, podcasts, and campaigns, with practical exercises and insider t…

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Mid-December always feels like a pause. The year hasn’t quite ended, Christmas hasn’t quite begun, and everything feels a little suspended. It’s one of my favourite times of the year as emails start to fade, mulled wine and cheese are acceptable sources of …

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Dear friends,

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about my smartphone addiction and how much I dislike the person it makes me. How often I reach for it without thinking, how I toggle endlessly between apps as if something urgent is waiting, the late…

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Holy shit, the news is insane right now. Not that I imagine you need a reminder. I’m spending a lot of time thinking about the current climate and how I want my next project to contribute in some way (so far I think it comes down to – how do we make people less racist? ) but in the meantime I’m also going juggling everyd…

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Thank you for subscribing to this newsletter, I really appreciate you being here! If you have enjoyed my writing and recipes, please consider upgrading to becoming a paid subscriber. Your support enables me to continue with this Substack and also supports the hours of writing and thinking that goes into it. Thanks so much! x

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The temperature dropped abrup…

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As Israel begins its ground offensive on Gaza City, despair isn’t an option. We have power, and the past shows that when people organise, we can change history.

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Hi everyone,

I’m just back from the US and I’ve been kinda quiet on the political front as I didn’t know if I’d have problems getting in or out. Thankfully, that was …

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Nothing says glamorous book tour quite like writing a newsletter at an airport gate, balancing a Starbucks blueberry muffin on my lap while a man in Crocs snores three seats down. I’m at San Francisco airport, in the Harvey Milk terminal, waiting for a delayed flight to Los Angeles. It’s my fourth US city in a week promoting my my book Sabzi, and I’ve o…

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Greetings from the United States. I’ve been in New York these last 12 days – working, touristing, eating a lot of bagels, enjoying the late summer weather, and kicking off my US book tour for my new cookbook (come join me for remaining events in D.C., NYC, S.F., and LA!).

Despite all the horror stories other parents felt they needed to pass on to me abou…

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There is just one week until my new cookbook Sabzi is out in the USA! Please pre-order a copy if you can (it makes such a difference to authors) and join me on my book tour. I have events in NYC, Boston, D.C, San Francisco and Los Angeles and it would be great to se…

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If there’s one highlight of this year for me, it’s packing up my bags and flying to the USA for the Sabzi book tour later this month. If you’re in one of the cities I’m visiting, I’d love for you to come along (and bring a friend!).

Pre-order Sabzi in the USA now

It’s easy, as someone looking in from the outside, to be critical of the US – from the gun culture and healthcare system, t…

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Thanks to everyone who has bought a copy of my new book Sabzi (the Halloumi Lasagna seems to be a big hit!). If you’ve enjoyed the book, please consider leaving an online review from the place you ordered it – I’ll be forever grateful! The book is out in the USA and Canada at the end of August and I’ll be announcing the US book tour next week 👀. Until then, if you are in the Americas, please consider a pre-order, it really does help authors so much.

Get a copy of Sabzi

The poet wrote a moving essay this week called Are We Allowed to Enjoy Things While Gaza is Starving which I found so thoughtful and considered. I carry a heavy weight with me all the time with regards to the genocide with acute waves of sadness, anger and grief hitting me on an almost daily basis. But of course, the multitude of human existence and my privilege means I also experience joy, pleasure and delight on a daily basis too (truly the best aspect of parenting a 1-year-old is how much unbridled laughter each day contains). So I hope this list brings some needed respite from the heaviness of the news. We need not feel guilty for enjoying our lives, as long as we are also spending part of our time and income helping others. So keep sharing, talking, writing, donating and protesting in any way you can. Every little contribution makes a difference in the short, medium and long term 🇵🇸

• Cherry season is well and truly underway which means it’s time to make my annual cherry pie. It takes time to make pastry, fill it with fruit and bake it in the oven but the rewards - sweet, sticky, crisp and comforting pie – are totally worth it. The recipe I always use is from Stella Parks’ Brave Tart: Iconic American Desserts which is a truly wonderful cookbook. It’s also up on Serious Eats so you can get the recipe here

• I had a great meal at The Bull Inn in Totnes whilst visiting the area as part of my book tour. It’s one of my favourite pub restaurants in the UK. The food is locally sourced, seasonal, organic and packed with flavour and colour – taking inspiration from Mediterranean and Middle Eastern influences as well as British classics.

• Also on the book tour I ate at Solina pasta, a casual neighbourhood pasta joint in Bath Spa with a small menu of freshly prepared pasta. I ate spagetti in a shellfish bisque with pangrattato and it was truly exquisite.

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I’ve had a lot published in the last few weeks but today I wanted to share a piece of writing with you that I’m the most proud of. It’s an essay I wrote for The Guardian this weekend about how we make a difference, the role of solidarity and how ordinary people can change history.

Read It Here

Specifically, it’s the story of my role running a justice campaign after …

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It’s been quite the whirlwind week.

My new book Sabzi: Fresh Vegetarian Recipes for Everyday was published last Thursday (thanks to all have bought a copy!) and it’s been a joyful occasion with a flurry of media interviews, lots of positive press and a lovely dinner at my neighbourhood restaurant Jolene in Newington Green to celeb…

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