I had two grandmothers. Two kitchens. Two completely different women — and between them, everything I know about Lebanese food.
One was loud and strong, with fair skin and blue eyes and a voice that could fill a courtyard. The other was quiet and gentle, with dark hands that moved slowly and deliberately, always saying bismillah before she cooked, before she stirred, before she handed you anything to do. Yalla bismillah. In the name of God, let’s begin.
I spent the first seven years of my life in Lebanon, before we came to Australia. And in those seven years, I was in and out of both their kitchens — absorbing things I did not know I was absorbing, learning things I would not understand until decades later, when I started cooking seriously and realised that the foundation of everything I do was laid in those two rooms.
This article is for both of them.
🌿 My father’s mother — the bright kitchen, the strong voice, the communal table
My father’s mother lived as part of a communal family home — her house connected to the homes of her sons and their families, a shared courtyard between them. It was never quiet there. There were always people. Always voices. The aunties would argue and yell and laugh all at the same time, somehow, and you were never quite sure if there was a real disagreement happening or if this was just how they talked to each other. It was both, always both, and it was the best kind of noise.
Her kitchen had what we called an abajar — open shelving on one side, and on the other, shelves closed off with a screen door, like a mesh screen that kept things accessible but protected. A small table sat in the middle of the kitchen. Under the sink, a curtain hung on a rope that slid both ways — and behind it, the big jars of olives, preserved vegetables and olive oil. Both my grandmothers had this. It was the Lebanese pantry before anyone used that word.
Light came from a side window. And that window is where she became a village legend. She would lean half her body out of it and call down the hill — across the main road, three kilometres to the village pond where my father and his brothers swam. The whole village heard her. The kids heard her. They came home. She was known for this. That voice, that window, that certainty that they would come.
Outside, she had a verandah where the drying always happened. A timber table with a sheet or blanket spread across it, and on it — always something. Kishek. Dried peppers. Tomatoes. Za’atar and oregano. Mloukhieh. Anything that needed to be dried and preserved for the colder months. She made everything from scratch. Freezers were not part of life. What she had, she preserved. What she grew, she dried. Around her, always, healthy green plants. And on quiet afternoons, she made us necklaces from jasmine flowers and from fitin — a flower we now know as frangipani — threaded together and placed around our necks like we were the most important people in the world.
In the corner of the outside area, there was a coal burner. This was where the big washing was done, where the water was boiled — and where she fried. Fish. All kinds of food. You would stand at the far corner near the door of the house and look across and just see smoke rising in the air, and you knew she was out there cooking over the coals, completely in her element.
She was known in the village as the most beautiful woman — fair, blue-eyed, strong. Her eyes did the talking before her words did. She had your back completely. But you did not cross her.
The barbecues — and the tribe
The courtyard was where the real gatherings happened. Barbecues that started in the afternoon and ended when everyone was too full to move. My aunties and uncles all there, everyone talking over each other, the smoke from the coals drifting across the courtyard.
On special occasions, the thing that went on the barbecue was tribe — offal, cooked over charcoal until it crisped and charred at the edges. There was only one accompaniment: a bowl of garlic with lemon and a drizzle of olive oil, and fresh bread. You took a piece of tribe, dipped it in the garlic, and ate it. Nothing else alongside it. If you did not like tribe, that was your problem. Nobody made alternatives.
More often, the barbecue was chicken — a crowd-friendly choice, always with hummus and mtabal alongside, tabouli, and when parsley was not in season, a simple cabbage salad with tomato, budget-friendly and just as good. And always, always fried chips. No Lebanese barbecue in that courtyard was ever without fried chips.
The chicken that went on the barbecue in that courtyard, over and over again, at every gathering. Served with hummus, mtabal and whatever salad was in season alongside.
What she made from scratch
Hummus was always made from scratch. Always. Dried chickpeas soaked overnight, cooked slowly, blended smooth. The kind of hummus that takes time and tastes completely different from anything made quickly. You could always tell.
The hummus made the way she always made it — from dried chickpeas, from scratch, with patience. Never from a tin.
She dried her own za’atar on that outdoor table every season — the wild thyme that grew nearby, spread out until it was ready to be ground and stored. This is my version of that blend. The ingredient is the same. The sun and the table are the memory.
→ Lebanese Mloukhieh with Chicken
The mloukhieh she dried on that verandah, stored through winter, then cooked slowly with chicken into the dish that carries an entire season in a single pot.
🌾 My mother’s mother — the quiet kitchen, the gentle hands, the healing gift
My mother’s mother was a different kind of woman entirely. Quietly spoken, peaceful, unhurried. She worked alongside my grandfather on their fruit farm — the kind of physical, outdoor life that builds a certain stillness in a person. Her hands were dark and strong but gentle. She moved slowly and with intention. And before she cooked, before she stirred, before she handed you anything to do — bismillah. Always bismillah.
She had a gift. Her grandmother had it, her mother had it, and she had it. People from villages around would send their sick children to her — children with sore throats, adults who were unwell. She would open your mouth, place two particular fingers at a specific point on your throat, and something would happen. It cannot be explained, only felt. We all went to her. It was rooted in her faith, in her deep spiritual belief, in something that had been passed down through the women of her family for generations. We called it a gift from God. It was.
Her home was communal in the way Lebanese village homes often are — homes built above homes, families layered on top of each other, always connected. The entrance was darker, but opened at one end where natural light came through. And it was there, just as you entered, where the pomegranate molasses was made. Vague memories of being there with her — a large stainless steel pot over a burner, the pomegranates being opened, the seeds pressed, the deep red juice going in. Only sunlight, whatever came through. Bismillah before she stirred. Bismillah when she handed me something to do.
Her kitchen had shelving behind fabric, some solid cupboards, and under the sink the same curtain on a rope that slid both ways — a concrete slab beneath it where the big bottles of olive oil, the preserves and the olives were stored. Both my grandmothers had this. It was simply how Lebanese kitchens were kept.
What she preserved and made from scratch
She preserved tomatoes. She made kishek. She made makdous. She dried her mint. And she made her own za’atar — but with something no one else did. She washed and toasted watermelon seeds, milled them, and added them to the za’atar mix. Her sister-in-law who lived on the floor below— my mother’s aunty — did this alongside her. They made it together. Her own version, her own blend, something my mum has never tasted anywhere else.
They also made bread together, she and her sister-in-law. And while the dough was being made, one of them would sauté meat with onion and press it over the raw dough before it went into the oven. Or they would fry meat, crack eggs over the top, season it and bake it. Mama still talks about the smell of it. She can still taste it. Neither of us can recreate it exactly. But it lives in the memory the way the best food always does.
Kishek the fermented yogurt and wheat powder she made by hand — is the base of our Ghamroon recipe. She made her own kishek from scratch. I buy mine from the Lebanese grocer. The dish is the same.
Makdous she made her own every year — small baby eggplants stuffed with walnuts, garlic and red pepper, preserved in olive oil. Always a jar of it somewhere in the kitchen. Always on the table when we visited.
My grandfather and the kibbeh uras
My grandmother was known throughout the village for her kibbeh uras — the charcoal version, shaped by hand. She would mould them one after another and pass them to my grandfather, who sat on the balcony cooking them over the coals. And while he cooked, he sang. Loud and clear, that voice carried across the courtyard. Everyone heard it. I do not have this recipe yet. It is one of the things I most want to learn, most want to document, most want to carry forward.
The round tray — whenever we ate at her house
She had a large round tray. Whenever we ate at her house — whatever the time, whatever the occasion — it always felt the same way. The food assembled on the tray, brought to the living room, and we sat gathered on the floor around it. Always mezze-style. Always abundant. Always colourful. Beans sautéed and warm. Kafta hot off the charcoal. Tabouli, and hers always had cucumber in it. Olives. And always chips. It was always about the kids. Whatever was on that tray, it was put there with us in mind.
→ The Lebanese Breakfast Table
The article about the Lebanese table — the small plates, the bread, the olive oil, the gathering around food. Her round tray, her floor, her way of feeding people is the memory behind this.
The sweets she made for us
Awamat — the Lebanese doughnut balls from Tripoli, fried and drizzled with syrup — she loved making these for us. The smell of them frying, the warmth straight from the oil. A Tripoli sweet she made with pride and gave generously.
And mamoul. Her mamoul was known. The recipe came down through my mother and it is the reason I have what I believe is the best mamoul recipe — because it came from her hands, her knowledge, her way of doing things that has not changed.
Her recipe, through my mother’s hands, through mine. The gathering on the floor, everyone assigned a task, the wooden moulds, the rose water, the icing sugar dusted at the end. This one belongs to her.
What they left me
I did not grow up thinking of myself as someone who was learning to cook. I was just a child in two kitchens, watching two women do what they had always done.
But everything is in there. The way I reach for bharat without measuring. The way I make baba ghanouj from the fire. The way I say bismillah — not always out loud, but always somewhere — before I start something that matters. The way a round tray of breakfast food on the floor still feels, to me, like the most natural way to eat.
Both my grandmothers cooked from a place of complete knowledge and complete generosity. Nothing was written down. Nothing needed to be. It lived in their hands and in the rhythm of how they moved through their kitchens.
I am writing it down now. For them. For my boys. For anyone who wants to know where this food comes from and what it has always meant.
