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When most people think of Lebanese food, the extent of their familiarity usually stops at meza like hummus, baba ghanoush, and tabbouleh, or street food like falafel and shawarma. Occasionally, labneh, toum, or baklava will make appearances in cooking competition TV shows. These foods have, by now, gone global; today, they’re featured on the menus of upscale fusion restaurants, served from hipster food trucks, and even sold on the shelves of conventional grocery stores. This international expansion has ended up producing oddities like so-called chocolate hummus and tabbouleh with little to no parsley.

While all this is happening, much of our cuisine remains overlooked: dishes that don’t travel easily, those found in home kitchens and unassuming plat du jour restaurants. In fact, I had considered naming my Substack newsletter something like “More than Mezze” or “Beyond Hummus” to reflect that gap. Not because I don’t love hummus—I do, deeply!—but because there is an entire repertoire of dishes that merits equal curiosity and celebration.

Birghul bi dfeen is one such dish.

Bulgur used to be our primary grain, before rice became more widely accessible and stole the show. Every year after the harvest, families prepared bulgur in bulk and in communion: carefully sorting the wheat, par-boiling it, draining it, drying it outside in the sun for several days and turning it regularly to ensure even drying, and then taking it to stone mills to be ground. This process allowed households to preserve the grain in bulk and for long periods of time.

Mouneh (preserved foods) is an integral part of our cuisine; it’s how our people endured both winters and periods of scarcity alike. Preparing mouneh is an annual, multi-generational event where family and friends work together for days to avoid the fate of Aesop’s grasshopper. Growing up, the women in my family and our neighbors made a robust mouneh together in late summer and early autumn, from olive oil-cured eggplants, marinated labneh balls, and dried fava beans to pickled capers, watermelon jam, and tomato sauces and purées. Our pantry shelves were lined with colorful glass jars of mouneh, set beside our year’s supply of olive oil, honey, pomegranate molasses, orange blossom water, and dried herbs and spices such as zaatar and sumac.

Despite rice’s gradual takeover of the Lebanese table, bulgur continues to be used in many of our dishes, including tabbouleh and kibbeh. Its role has remained consistent throughout history, in both good times and bad, because of its affordability, long shelf-life, nutritional value, and versatility. It’s still preferred over rice in many rural areas.

If you haven’t already, I hope you give bulgur a try with this dish. And because we Lebanese are a yogurt-obsessed nation, birghul bi dfeen is always served with laban on the side. Add a few generous spoonfuls, and enjoy. Sa7tein!

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Eating lamb at Easter is a culinary tradition that goes back centuries. Resulting from an overlap of agricultural practices and religious customs, the dish’s origins lie in Pesach, the Jewish festival of Passover, when lamb was sacrificed to commemorate the Jewish people’s liberation from slavery. Christians carried this tradition forward: Jesus Christ came to be known as the “Lamb of God,” his sacrifice echoing that of the Passover lamb’s.

Easter brings Lent to an end after more than 40 days of fasting. When the fast breaks, richer foods return to the table. Decadent and celebratory dishes like whole, slow-roasted lamb and jeweled rice pilaf symbolize abundance.

There’s also a more practical reason: across the Mediterranean, lamb is one of the first fresh meats of the spring season, arriving just in time as the mouneh (winter reserves of preserved foods) begins to run low.

Lamb remains central to Greek Orthodox Easter today. Traditionally, it’s roasted whole on a spit outdoors, slowly turning over an open fire, and shared with family and friends. In diaspora, where roasting a whole animal isn’t always feasible—whether due to space, cost, or sourcing constraints, or simply living alone and not needing such a generous amount—a leg or shoulder of lamb are accessible and practical alternatives.

If you are able, source the meat from your local butcher or farmer directly—they’ll help you choose the right cut, trim it properly, and support a craft that’s becoming increasingly rare. Wherever you are, this meal is meant to be shared. I hope to experience this tradition again in the old country soon. But given the general increase in costs (from grocery and gas prices to tariffs), along with the ongoing regional conflict, this appears unlikely…

Before I conclude, I want to credit one of my mother’s closest friends for sharing her lamb recipe with me via WhatsApp voice-notes. Her name is Liliane Guiragossian. We all call her Lilo. Lilo’s family is Armenian-Palestinian and had lived in Jerusalem’s Armenian Quarter before the Nakba and its aftermath displaced them to West Beirut. They settled into an apartment overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, along the now-vanished Avenue des Français. During the Lebanese Civil War, they were forced to relocate again, first to East Beirut and later to Paris, France. Like many in the Lebanese diaspora, she returned after the war ended. Most of her family, however, remained in Paris. She is an elegant woman; fluent in French, Armenian, and Arabic; hands-down one of the best cooks I know; and someone I love like an aunt.

Sa7tein!

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Happy Orthodox Easter, friends! Al-Masi7 Qam!

As you’ve probably gathered by now, I’m Greek Orthodox, and on Easter, we usually prepare lamb over rice. As I was transcribing the recipe for this dish from a WhatsApp voice-note, this post seemed like the right place to add a bit of historical and cultural context about Lebanon’s Greek Orthodox community.

In Lebanon, Greek Orthodox Christians are called Roum, which means “Roman.” Not Roman as in Italian, but as in Byzantine; the Byzantine Empire was for a long time the eastern half of the Roman Empire. In fact, the people we now call Byzantine had always self-identified as Roman, and that identity survived the Great Schism and later the fall of Constantinople.

Across the Levant, the term Roum still refers to local Greek Orthodox communities. When you say Roum, it means of Byzantine heritage; if you mean to refer to Roman Catholics in the way the rest of the world understands it, you would call them Latin, or Latin Catholic.

The Roum of Lebanon are largely not Greek by blood; they are Indigenous to Lebanon, with ancestry extending all the way back to ancient, Native, Semitic peoples like the Phoenicians and other Canaanites. My Greek Orthodox father can trace his family’s West Beirut roots back several centuries—to Mazraa, Mar Elias, Msaytbeh, and the surrounding “gharbiyyeh” neighborhoods. Beyond that, official, written documentation fades into oral storytelling. But DNA tests confirm what we’ve always known: We are Native to this land.

Historically, the Sawans of West Beirut worked as stonemasons and sculptors, and some of my ancestors’ work still stands today in clock towers, mausoleums, and elaborate headstones. Our surname, Sawan, is Arabic for “flint.” Across the region, many family names point to either:

• a trade (e.g., Al-Haddad: the blacksmith / Al-Najjar: the carpenter / Al-Khayyat: the tailor)

• a place (e.g., Canaan / Halabi: from Aleppo / Traboulsi: from Tripoli / Beiruti: from Beirut)

• a religion (e.g., Saliba: cross / Khoury: priest / Hilal: crescent moon)

• nature (e.g., Deeb: wolf / Hout: whale)

It’s possible that our family name reflects our legacy of working with stone. Another, more informal, interpretation I’ve heard is that it reflects our temperament as much as our trade—that we’re stubborn, hard-headed, and fiery, like flint stones. In general, Greek Orthodox people from West Beirut are known for these traits, so the jokes may actually have some truth to them!

Greek and broader Orthodox influences show up in various ways. There’s a distant Greek-Cypriot branch somewhere in the Sawan family. Growing up, I also heard about ancestors from Crete; unverified, and probably just inherited admiration given the island’s history of fierce resistance to Ottoman Turkish occupation. There’s a general affinity toward Russia, seen as a steward of Orthodox Christianity; Moscow was considered the “third Rome” after the Great Schism and the fall of Constantinople.

Greek names also run in the family. My grandfather’s name was Dionysus Sawan (pronounced Dionissios in Arabic). His father, Georgios Sawan. His father? Constantinos Sawan. Across generations, names like Malatios, Katerina, Spyros, Stavros, and Bacchus continually reappear. Phoenician and Punic names pop up as well, like Tanit, Elissar, and Adonis. My relatives are Lebanese; their names speak to both our Canaanite Indigeneity and the enduring imprint of Byzantine culture.

Identity holds deep importance for our people, and our collective memory runs long. More than 800 years later, people still occasionally lament tragedies like the Crusader-led Sack of Constantinople over Sunday lunch (my Greek Orthodox father never fails to glare at my Catholic mother in jest), as well as the brutality that resulted from Ottoman Turkish governance, British and French intervention, and the active complicity and greed of our own country’s upper-class.

My great-grandparents themselves survived Kafno, the Famine of Mount Lebanon. My great-grandfather passed down to my father first-hand accounts of famine-stricken Lebanese children in his village—of Ottoman Turkish soldiers passing them by, dangling loaves of bread in front of them, just out of reach, as cruel taunts. He recalled seeing piles upon piles of emaciated bodies along the roadside, some dead, others in the process of dying. Out of desperation, many had resorted to eating discarded stone fruit pits, only to succumb to poisoning, intestinal blockage, or simply starvation. In part caused by a naval blockade of the Eastern Mediterranean by so-called Allied forces, the famine resulted in the death or forced migration of more than half of Mount Lebanon’s and Beirut’s populations, disproportionately impacting the poor and working-class Maronite community. When people today ardently call for economic sanctions against another country, I don’t think they entirely realize what they are advocating for.

Recollections like those of Kafno are why we begin each meal in prayer and gratitude, why we end it with nothing going to waste, and in part why sharing food is embedded in our way of life.

Food is rarely, if ever, apolitical. And in Lebanon, we are used to experiencing both joy and sorrow together. Our cuisine sits at that intersection, molded by religion, history, conflict, and celebration, and unspokenly understood as something that can provide both comfort and memory, solace and grief, without the need to choose between them.

It’s now Easter, one of the most festive occasions of the year. Since its feast is a more elaborate meal, I’ll share the lamb and rice recipes in separate posts. Sa7tein, friends, and 7aqqan Qam!

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Maronite Lent and Ramadan have ended. Maronite Easter and Eid al-Fitr have passed. But Orthodox Lent continues through today, ending with Orthodox Easter tomorrow. That gives me just enough time to share a recipe that is especially timely: fattoush.

Note: As I was writing this, I realized that every single recipe I have shared on my Substack so far happens to be vegan- and vegetarian-friendly—completely unplanned and unintentional. This coincidence speaks to how naturally plant-forward (and sustainable!) the Mediterranean and Levantine diets are.

Fattoush has long been a fixture on the Levantine table during both Lent and Ramadan. The salad is believed to have emerged in rural northern Lebanon, particularly in Maronite mountain villages, as a practical Lenten dish. Farmers, living simply and frugally, made use of what they had. Story goes that they foraged for native, seasonal, and wild greens; used whatever they had left in their mouneh; and saved stale pita bread from going to waste, thus creating fattoush. The dish allowed them to adhere to the modest, plant-based diet observed during Lent.

Fattoush is enjoyed year-round across Lebanon and the broader region today. You’ll find it on nearly every restaurant menu, and it has become an essential part of our meza and cherished Sunday family lunches. Fattoush’s name comes from the Arabic word fett (“to crush” or “to crumble”), referring to the toasted pieces of pita bread that crown the dish.

At its core, the salad is a reflection of the seasonality and resourcefulness that define much of Lebanese cuisine. There is no single “correct” recipe. When I called my mother to ask for hers, she chuckled and replied that her recipe changes with the seasons. There are, however, a few expectations:

• Traditionally, fattoush was made with stale pita bread that would have otherwise been thrown away—waste reduction long before it became trendy. A fattoush without its toasted or fried pita topping is a disappointing fattoush indeed.

• Greens make up the salad’s base. Lettuce, cabbage, chard, spinach—whatever is fresh and local works. Even wild herbs and weeds can find their way into the bowl; wild thyme, sorrel, and purslane are a few common ones back home.

• Unlike tabbouleh, which is finely chopped, the vegetables in fattoush are cut into relatively large pieces, staying true to its rustic roots. Picture old, calloused hands using an unsharpened paring knife with effortless fluency, no cutting board in sight. This part is where you can get really creative: I’ve seen versions of the dish with chili peppers, bell peppers, white or red onions, apples, and even pickled eggplant.

• Sumac. Enough said.

The recipe I’m sharing is a pretty classic version, but don’t treat it as fixed. Try incorporating your favorite herbs and spices. Experiment with fruits and vegetables native to where you live. With its humble roots, fattoush invites us to slow down, to make do, and to live more in tune with the land and the seasons.

Sa7tein, and Som Mbarak to my fellow Orthodox brothers and sisters around the world, from Palestine to Egypt, Ethiopia, Greece, Russia, and beyond.

Living in diaspora, far from family, often means spending holidays alone—a bleak side-effect of modernity. Away from home, the holidays can be harder to keep track of, especially when you’re no longer in lockstep with everyone around you. The most sacred and publicly-ritualized occasion back home feels like just another uneventful, routine day here in Seattle. It’s rather disheartening, but I refuse to give in to gloom! After all, I’m not only Greek Orthodox from West Beirut, I’m also a Sawan, so consider me doubly stubborn and headstrong! I’ve put together a list of Easter’s milestones—to stay both connected and reminded. I thought others might find it helpful as well.

A few notes before we start, and bear with me, this is a long and detailed post.

• Informally, Lebanese Christians refer to Easter as The Big Feast (Eid el-Kbir), while Christmas is colloquially referred to as The Small Feast (Eid el-Sghir).

• In Lebanon, the two largest Christian denominations are the Maronite Church and the Greek Orthodox Church of Antioch. Maronites are, in a nutshell, Eastern Catholics. When it comes to Easter, Maronites follow the Gregorian calendar, while Greek Orthodox communities follow the Julian calendar.

  • Many dates aren’t fixed and vary from year to year as they are determined by the timing of the spring equinox and the lunar cycle.

  • In 2026, Maronite and Catholic Easter falls on April 5, while Orthodox Easter falls on April 12. With a Greek Orthodox father, a Catholic mother, and one Maronite grandmother, I grew up celebrating two Easters each year. They only overlap once every few years, but when they do, it is especially joyful.

  • Although Maronites are generally aligned with the Roman Catholic Church, some aspects of their liturgy and traditions differ, reflecting their Indigenous Syriac heritage.

• Lastly—and I cannot stress this enough—Eastertide in Lebanon isn’t viewed as a secular or commercial occasion like it often is in the U.S.; rather, it unfolds over many weeks as a structured period of observance with specific rites.

What follows is a crash course in Lebanon’s Paschal season. I hope I’ve done it justice.

Paschal Season 101: Eastertide in Lebanon

• The start of Lent—and the beginning of Lenten fasting—is determined by counting backward from the date that Easter falls on that year. Remember, the exact date changes every year, based on the timing of the spring equinox and the lunar calendar.

• In the Greek Orthodox Church, Lent begins with Clean Monday. For the Maronite Church, it starts on Ash Monday, while in the Roman Catholic Church, it begins on Ash Wednesday.

  • In 2026, Ash Monday falls on February 16, Ash Wednesday on February 18, and Clean Monday on February 23. As a result, Maronites/Catholics will celebrate Easter several days before their Orthodox counterparts; in fact, Maronite/Catholic Easter Sunday will take place while the Orthodox are still celebrating Palm Sunday.

  • On Ash Monday, Maronites mark their foreheads with ash crosses as an outward sign of inner commitment. You can receive the cross at any local Maronite church in the morning before heading to work or school, and it’s always fun to spot others who are also wearing the ash cross as you go about your day. Catholics do the same on Ash Wednesday.

• Throughout Lent, discipline takes center stage. In general, people speak and eat less, and they abstain from foods like meat, dairy, and eggs, as well as anything considered decadent (e.g., chocolate), addictive (e.g., coffee; cigarettes; alcohol), superficial (e.g., make-up), or vulgar (e.g., swearing). It is a time of restraint, moderation, and modesty. If you’re looking to give up a vice, this is the perfect time—and you won’t be doing it alone.

• Feast of the Annunciation: The day the Archangel Gabriel told the Virgin Mary that she would conceive Jesus Christ. It takes place every year on March 25, exactly nine months before Christmas, which is when most Christians celebrate Jesus’ birth*. In Lebanon, the Feast of the Annunciation is a national public holiday, so workplaces and schools close. It’s even observed by many Lebanese Muslims.

  • *Armenian Orthodox communities celebrate Christmas on January 6, while Russian, Coptic, and Ethiopian Orthodox communities celebrate it on January 7. But that’s a post for another day.

• Holy Week (or the Week of the Passion, as it is called in Lebanon) arrives after around 40 days of fasting, bringing Lent to its final stretch. Daily Mass is observed, and most days are designated national public holidays, meaning workplaces and schools close. The Week consists of:

  • Palm Sunday: The day Jesus entered Jerusalem. People proclaim “Hosanna!” and wish each other a Blessed Palm Sunday (Sha3nineh Mbarkeh). Palm fronds are gathered—some braided, some shaped into crosses, others left as they are—and carried in procession. Children decorate their candles with care and creativity, competing over who has the tallest or best-decorated one. It’s not a time to blend in; my mother remembers candles that stood taller than she did as a child. After mass, a procession moves around the church and through the neighborhood, with children often sitting on their fathers’ or uncles’ shoulders, proudly holding up their lit candles. Everyone dresses in their best. Some children wear religious clothing, others even costumes. In some villages, donkeys still appear in reenactments of Jesus’ joyful entry into Jerusalem.

  • Holy Monday

  • Holy Tuesday

  • Holy Wednesday / Wednesday of the Betrayal / Job Wednesday: The day Judas agreed to betray Jesus for 30 pieces of silver. It is a quieter, more solemn turning point in the Holy Week. On this day, Maronites observe the Rite of the Lamp, a ceremony in which priests bless oil and anoint the faithful with it; they also light seven candles that are set into dough.

  • Maundy Thursday / Thursday of the Mysteries / Thursday of the Washing: Commemorates the Last Supper and the night Jesus washed the feet of His disciples. Priests reenact this scene during the liturgy as an act of humility and service, washing the feet of twelve men and boys from the local community. Worshippers also visit seven different churches that day; my parents and I would walk to all of them on foot (yes, there were really that many churches in our neighborhood within walking distance). With nearly everyone taking part in the custom, we’d frequently cross paths with neighbors, relatives, and friends among the bustling and lively crowds.

  • Good Friday / Great Friday / Friday of the Passion: The day Jesus was crucified. It is marked by solemn services tracing the 14 Stations of the Cross. Processions are accompanied by statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, mournful hymns, and choral pieces. Strict fasting is observed, lasting into later hours of the day than usual, with many adhering to a simple diet of just plain bread and water. Some observe a daylong vow of silence. In villages, locals forage for wild, seasonal greens to prepare a meatless kibbeh made with bulgur and semolina to break the fast.

  • Saturday of the Light: Mourning and stricter fasting continue. In Greek Orthodox tradition, laurel leaves, bay leaves, and flower petals are scattered across churches during morning service. In the evenings, the Holy Fire from Jerusalem is shared with Orthodox churches around the world. Worshippers bring candles to their local churches to receive the flame, trying to keep the candles lit for as long as possible and sharing the flame with those who are unable to make it to church. As a child, I felt reverent awe for this flame that had come to us from the Holy Land itself.

    • At midnight, many attend the Easter service. The Mass moves from silence and darkness into one of the most powerful moments of the year, when loud knocks on the church doors at the stroke of midnight mark the shift from mourning to jubilant celebration. All proclaim that “The Messiah is risen!” and “He is not here, for he is risen!” My aunt remembers being frightened as a child by the darkness, thick incense, and sudden burst of commotion; I only recall intense excitement. A procession around the church follows. The sound of church bells from countless churches, near and far, fills the air.

  • Easter Sunday / Pascha / The Big Feast: If you were unable to make it to the midnight service, you attend one first thing in the morning. After Mass, people proclaim that “Christ is risen!” (Al-Masi7 Qam!), to which the response is, “He is truly risen!” (7aqqan Qam!). They also wish each other a Happy Easter (Joyeuses Pâques). Lenten fasting is officially over. There is a large family feast, often with lamb or sometimes turkey. Ma3moul (cookies shaped in traditional molds and filled with dates, figs, or nuts) and colorfully-dyed boiled eggs come after. Women not-so-secretly compete over whose ma3moul is best. Children join an “egg-tapping” competition to see whose egg is strongest, then eagerly devour the eggs after more than 40 days without them. There’s always a family trickster, usually an uncle, who sneaks in a painted, egg-shaped rock or piece of wood into the competition, leaving every Lebanese child just a little more suspicious forever after.

    • Thankfully, these days only Easter eggs are dyed. Growing up, I remember street-carts filled with brightly dyed, chirping chicks being sold. I can still vividly recall how they looked, sounded, felt, and smelled. Those poor souls. I’m relieved that practice is a thing of the past.

  • Monday of the Sending of the Departed: Similar in spirit to Boxing Day, it is a continuation of the celebrations—a day to socialize, rest, and enjoy leftovers. After the austerity of Lent, some indulgence is welcome. People visit or call one another to wish a Happy Easter; it is customary for younger family members and neighbors to reach out to their older counterparts as a sign of respect. Every home must be kept spotless and immaculate for the steady flow of visitors, who all leave with generous mounds of ma3moul and other sweets including mlabbas (sugar-glazed almond dragées). Children are gifted cash from their visiting elders.

    • Because of my mother’s partial Syriac ancestry, my family also marks this day by visiting our family’s gravesites and remembering the departed.

• Ascension is celebrated 40 days after Easter, commemorating Jesus’ ascent to heaven, while Pentecost is celebrated 50 days after Easter, marking the coming of the Holy Spirit to His followers.

Born in the Levantine region of Asia, Christianity steadily grew into an international religion.

Many Americans I meet view Christianity as a European religion. While it is indeed the predominant religion across Europe, it is in fact Indigenous to Southwest Asia. Christianity reached Egypt and India as early as the 1st century AD and had arrived to Ethiopia and Eritrea by the early 4th century AD.

Fast forward more than two thousand years, and Christian celebrations have been adapted around the world to reflect local seasons, landscapes, cuisines, languages, and cultural expression.

One of the most historically grounded observances of the Holy Week is, of course, in the Holy Land. Processions in Jerusalem follow Via Dolorosa, the route believed to be Jesus’ final path before crucifixion, and pilgrims from all over the world gather at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, built on the site said to be the place of crucifixion and resurrection.

From Palestine to the Philippines, Ethiopia, Greece, Vatican City, Spain, Mexico, Guatemala, Brazil, and beyond, the Holy Week takes on diverse and splendid forms.

Happy Easter, friends! Al-Masi7 Qam! 7aqqan Qam!

In Lebanon, when jasmine and gardenias bloom, we gather some that have fallen onto the sidewalk and bring them home, placing them in bowls of water. It’s a simple way to mark the time of year. I couldn’t find jasmine or gardenias in my Seattle neighborhood, but cherry blossom trees are all around, so I adapted the ritual.

Across different Southwest Asian traditions, it’s a season of celebration: the spring equinox, Nowruz (Persian/Zoroastrian New Year), Lebanese Mother’s Day, Lent continuing its march toward Easter, Ramadan culminating in Eid al-Fitr, and Pesach (Passover) just around the corner.

There is a great deal of beauty and meaning, life and death, around us. To give in to despair would be inconsiderate of our ancestors, our descendants, and our other-than-human kin. As Mariame Kaba reminds us, hope is a discipline.

Stay disciplined, friends. And go outside.

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The years when Lent and Ramadan overlap always feel special. With each community observing its respective rituals, the whole country settles into a sort of collective rhythm. And as always in Mediterranean and Levantine cultures, family and food take center stage.

Growing up, I always heard how nutritious dates are. The first time I came across the American saying “an apple a day keeps the doctor away,” I remember thinking, that’s not apples, that’s dates! And we had scores of varieties to choose from—some sweet, others more nutty, some the deep color of caramel or molasses, others golden or pale yellow. All of them delicious.

Dates are traditionally eaten to break the fast, and serving them with tahini is a popular treat across the region. This snack, like many Mediterranean and Levantine dishes, also just happens to be vegan- and vegetarian-friendly.

Dates are also used to make ma3moul, molded cookies that are a staple of both the Easter and Ramadan/Eid al-Fitr tables. Many families have their own unique molds that are passed down from one generation to the next, some etched with religious, national, or tribal motifs. Every Easter, there’s an unspoken competition among the women in the family and neighborhood over who made the best ma3moul.

The usual joy and festivities of this holy season have, naturally, been shadowed by yet another war. As I write this, more than 80 children have been killed and more than 700,000 people have been displaced in Lebanon alone—all in the span of just a week or so! And, sadly, the situation only seems to be escalating… All the more reason, I think, to honor our country’s diverse communities and steadfastly mark our traditions.

Sa7tein, and if you’re fasting for Lent and/or* Ramadan: Som Mbarak.

*Unlike most of the region, inter-religious marriages are not unusual in Lebanon, and many families equally observe the religious traditions of both parents.

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Eaten across our region in various styles and different ways, this dish goes by many names. In the Levant, it’s called msa23et batenjen, or maghmour. In Iraq, it’s tapsi batenjen. In Greece, it’s known as moussaka. The Levantine version came before the Greek version, and the Greek name actually derives from the Arabic name; moussaka/msa2a3a means “cold” or “chilled”. This dish can indeed be enjoyed hot or cold. It also happens to be vegan- and vegetarian-friendly, making it ideal for those fasting during Lent.

While I’ve never been a picky eater (I used to eat fwerigh like other kids ate candy), I actually disliked eggplant as a child. When I was about six years old, I accidentally locked my parents’ car keys inside the car. It was a whole ordeal, and the “punishment” for my carelessness was to eat a serving of msa23et batenjen at dinner. It was love at first bite. Eggplant is now, hands down, my favorite vegetable. That incident unlocked a world of flavor for me, from mtabbal and baba ghannouj (no, they’re not the same thing) to makdous and batenjen 7arra.

I’ll be honest: The last few days have felt especially stressful, following the news from back home. Regional airspace has closed indefinitely, which means that I, once again, find myself unable to go home. I am keenly aware how lucky I am that my parents in Beirut are still relatively safe for now and that I can reach them by phone. With our loved ones far away and so much out of our control, sometimes the only thing one can do is cook something familiar and find a small bit of comfort and meaning in it. If you make this dish, sa7tein. If you’re fasting, Som Mbarak. May peace prevail.

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Lent—and the countdown to Easter—has officially begun.

Easter is one of my favorite holidays. Unlike Seattle, religious tradition, ritual, and celebration still play a central role in Lebanon. For better or for worse, religion isn’t kept private or confined to the home; it’s a core part of public and daily life. You can hear it all around you in church bells and mosque adhans, in Sunday mass and Friday prayers. You can see it in the names of neighborhoods and streets, in the roadside shrines to the Virgin Mary, in the blue-and-yellow Komiteh-ye-Emdad donation boxes, and in the candles flickering before statues of patron saints and photographs of deceased relatives. And while coexistence hasn’t always been peaceful, it’s nevertheless beautiful seeing crosses and crescents casually side-by-side. Living in Seattle, I find myself missing that ineffable, “old world” sense of identity and community.

What is Lent?

Lent is an annual, roughly forty-day period of fasting leading up to Easter. It marks Jesus’ forty days of fasting in the desert. Beyond giving up certain foods or habits, Lent is rooted in repentance, self-discipline, and community. It’s about intentionally trying to be a better version of yourself by embracing accountability, making amends, sharing what you have with those less privileged, and pushing back, even a little, against the relative ease and excess of modern life.

My father is Greek Orthodox, my mother is Catholic, one of my grandmothers is Maronite. In Lebanon, a confessional state and patriarchal society, you officially “inherit” your father’s religion. That makes me Greek Orthodox, as my patrilineal line has been for centuries. But the way our household practiced our faith was never dogmatic, rigid, or constraining; funnily enough, the way many American Christians preach and practice seems considerably more conservative and strict to me.

While my father’s entire family is fully Indigenous to Lebanon (aside from one distant Greek-Cypriot ancestor), my mother has mixed Lebanese, Syriac, Armenian, French, and Italian heritage. So, I grew up celebrating two Christmases and two Easters. I’d wear the ash cross on my forehead on Ash Mondays and Ash Wednesdays with all the Maronites and Catholics, but I’d also joke that Allah Roum (God is Orthodox) if it rained on Orthodox Good Friday instead of Maronite/Catholic Good Friday.

Wait… There are two Christmases and two Easters in Lebanon?

Yes. The timelines for the two sects differ slightly (long story involving the Gregorian and Julian calendars). Orthodox Lent began on Clean Monday, while Maronite Lent began on Ash Monday. In practice, they’re pretty similar. Both emphasize fasting and eating more simply and humbly overall. Meat is largely off the table in both traditions. Orthodox fasting tends to be stricter, with eggs and all dairy also given up, and in some families, even olive oil.

All this talk of food brings me to my Lent Diaries. I’m excited to share some of the dishes I grew up eating every year during these forty or so days. Along the way, we may touch on a few rituals: walking to seven different churches, decorating candles, the braiding and weaving and waving of palm tree fronds. We mark the end of Lent, as we always do, with a proper Easter spread: a lamb or turkey feast, ma3moul cookies, colorfully-dyed boiled eggs, and the annual egg-cracking showdown, where the holder of the last intact egg wins bragging rights.

But before we get to all that, I hope you enjoy the first recipe of my Lent Diaries. Sa7tein, and Som Mbarak!

Story

When I shared my family’s mjaddara recipe, I suggested serving it with a side of salatet malfouf. Then I realized I never actually shared the recipe for it. Salatet malfouf is one of my favorite sides, and like mjaddara, it’s easy to make. Perfect for anyone in the diaspora juggling solo living and full-time work. It also happens to be vegan- and vegetarian-friendly (again, just like mjaddara).

I inherited my love for aggressively lemon-y salads from my mother, who drowns everything in citrus whenever the opportunity presents itself. Whenever we eat salads like salatet malfouf, tabbouleh, or fattoush in the privacy of our own home, we save the best part for last: once the salad is finished, we hold up our bowls to our mouths and drink the salty, citrusy, olive-oil-rich goodness that has pooled at the bottom straight from the bowl itself. Just thinking about it instantly makes my mouth water. Naturally, this little tradition of ours is reserved strictly for private settings; when eating out or hosting, table manners (and social etiquette in general) are of the utmost importance in Lebanon.

One last note: Never, ever, ever buy pre-squeezed lemon juice. Always squeeze it fresh for a brighter and more vibrant flavor—a lesson etched into my brain over the years by my mother, grandmothers, and aunties. Sa7tein!

Story

Mjaddara.

Cooked across Southwest Asia since at least the year 1226, it’s become the quintessential go-to meal for every broke student, every tired worker in diaspora. It’s sometimes called “the poor man’s dish” due to its inexpensive ingredients, though its name is more likely a reference to its “pockmarked” appearance. It’s been part of my own meal-prep rotation since I left home. It’s easy to make, relatively high in protein, and just so happens to be vegan- and vegetarian-friendly. As good cold as it is hot. And did I mention how easy it is to make? But after cooking it month after month for years on end, it started to feel uninspiring. I’d open the fridge, see the same five Tupperwares, and sigh. Laziness on my part, sure, but also fatigue.

I started to dread planning my meals for the workweek ahead. As someone who lived alone and worked a demanding 9-to-5, I wanted something healthy, delicious, and easy to make, but I’d wince at the thought of eating mjaddara again. Before every annual trip to my maternal grandmother’s, she’d ask on the phone, as she always did, “What would you like me to prepare for you?”

I’d list my usual requests: Wara2 3arish, shish barak, kbeibat.

“Mjaddara?” she’d suggest.

“No!!!” I’d immediately assert, to her confusion.

I felt ashamed for being picky about food, knowing I should just be grateful instead. Still, I couldn’t help being sick of this dish. How had I ever looked forward to it?

And then one day, during a visit to my grandmother’s, she and my two great-aunts—Zouzou, visiting from Damascus, and Samira, from Montréal—were remembering old times. They spoke of their own parents and grandparents, who were from Mardin and Adana: Indigenous Syriacs and Armenians forcibly expelled from their ancestral homelands, survivors of genocide and ethnic cleansing—experiences all-too-familiar to Native peoples worldwide. After my ancestors suffered systematic murder, torture, and sexual violence at the hands of Ottoman Turkish forces and their Kurdish auxiliaries, the remaining survivors were marched on foot through the Syrian desert. It was a death march. My great-grandmother—whose own husband, father, brothers, and father-in-law had been executed—lost her newborn son to malnutrition and exposure during the march. He died in her arms. He was hastily buried in a shallow, unmarked grave. The march must go on.

When they began to reach larger cities, some of our relatives chose to settle in Syria. My great-grandmother and others pressed on, eventually reaching a refugee camp in Baalbek, Lebanon. There, they were met by Catholic priests and nuns who were preparing food for the newly-arrived.

And the meal they were preparing for them?

Mjaddara.

The first taste of their new home.

This is why it’s the very recipe I’m opening my Substack with. And why I’ll never complain about making or eating it ever again.

The past few years have felt like a fever dream of unending heartache. Restless sleep, followed by checking the news before your eyes have even fully opened in the morning. Forced smiles and I’m fine’s, pushing through the workday as if everything were business as usual—only to find yourself crying on the bus ride home. And sometimes, out of nowhere, a WhatsApp message from your mother ten time zones away lights up your phone screen in the middle of the night: In case you see the news, don’t worry, we’re safe.

I have chosen to live in diaspora. I know I am privileged, and I never lose sight of that. How could I, as horrors unfold on our screens day in and day out?

In the midst of it all, I turned to the one thing that could provide me with a semblance of comfort: cooking and eating Lebanese food. It’s been meaningful trying my hand at family recipes that have been passed down through generations along with stories I’ve heard more times than I can count. I thought I could document that journey here. I’ve had no formal cooking training, but then again, neither did any of the women in my family, and they are all exceptional home cooks. Better than many professional chefs, in my humble opinion. And keeping with family tradition, food and stories are meant to be shared, preferably together.

Friends here in Seattle can’t fathom why I—or anyone else from the region—would want to go back home for a visit these days. There’s no easy answer. Is it the chronic pain of missing our loved ones? The need to feel like we belong again? Is it the sacred pull of our Native homelands? Or have we simply grown used to circumstances that most would consider unthinkable? I’ve heard it described by many as resilience, by some as apathy, and by others still as fatalism, recklessness, or even stupidity. Maybe it’s a little bit of all the above. But I’ve made peace with the fact that there are parts of us—parts deep in our brains and our bodies shaped by a different kind of normal—that others might never be able to fully understand. That’s fine by me. And even as our people back home watched missiles trace back and forth across the night sky like shooting stars, we in diaspora kept telling one another: See you in Beirut, whatever happens.

I won’t be able to go home for now, it turns out, but I can try to recreate a small piece of it 6,670 miles away.