I wore a fleece and thick socks for the first time in months earlier this week and resolved to accept that summer is in her last dance; unless the weather plays an encore, it's safe to say all is set for the official beginning of autumn next week.

Personally, I have had a great summer. Oftentimes the promise of summer is sweeter than the experience itself, but this year, summer felt like a high. I want to take this opportunity to look back on the wonderful things I participated in, because we are always in a rush towards the next achievement, rarely savouring the blessings we have in the moment.

Some notable highlights from summer 2026

Growing Together

Many hours spent with the Growing Together team at The Design Museum in Kensington, where we built a pond with the help of artists and Future Observatory designer Rosa Whitely; hosted a Summer Garden Salon; and I harvested spices which I planted in the garden back in March.

Mangoes

Writing about mangoes for Service 95 and speaking on Milk Acid’s panel for their annual Mango weekend.

Azadi 2026

Hosting and cooking with my friend Saliha at our annual Azadi supper club for Pakistan's 79th Independence Day . The dessert, a mango and pineapple sundae was probably the best we’ve ever made.

Gardens for Living etc.

Working on a dream commission writing about gardens for Living etc., which let me spend the summer reading about gardens and visiting gardens; I wrote and edited the piece in August on my annual trip to Greece, where I stayed on a pistachio farm on the Saronic Island of Aegina.

Stories of Spice- Rose

Mostly my summer was filled with roses. The Stories of Spice project, under its current theme of roses, has taken me to beautiful places literally and figuratively. As part of the project, I hosted a Riso workshop in collaboration with Rabbits Road Press, where participants created personalised artworks.  Stories of Spice-rose will now be created into a print publication, which is open for poetry and visual submissions until this Sunday (20/09/2026- submission details here). 

Looking ahead to the rest of the year

My vision is an expansion of Wataan, as a platform where I write about many themes relating to the home.

Stories of Spice - Clove

Firstly, I want to introduce the spice theme for autumn – cloves. Cloves are warming and medicinal, but like all spices, the history of their trade is rife with exploitation and displacement of indigenous populations. I want to look deeper into this spice and tell the stories of the people who farm it, sharing its use in cuisine, medicine, art, and more. As with roses, I will host a workshop where participants will create artworks, facilitated by an art practitioner. For cloves, I am teaming up with Indonesian photographer and textile artist Tikablah on October 31st in The Photographer's Gallery to deliver an exciting workshop and snacks (+beverages). More details to follow; for now, please add the dat to your diary.

Public Speaking

One of my goals this year is to improve my public speaking skills. Two years ago, I attended Yumna Al-Arashi's book, Aisha’s launch, which featured a panel discussion that was one of the most eloquent and captivating conversations. Inspired by this, I wanted to improve how I express myself in conversation and public speaking. So, I feel thrilled and welcome the invitations to speak on multiple panels. In October, I will be speaking at the Design Museum's Autumn Garden Salon about my Stories of Spice project, sharing my research practice and spice-growing experience (this is currently sold out, but should more slots become available, I will share).  In November, I will be speaking on a South Asia Salon panel on the theme of recipes and migration (more details on location, date, and time to follow).

Bagh-Bagh

I spent this summer in gardens researching the piece for Living etc, and I want to continue this work beyond the essay.  With a summer of droughts, unpredictable weather, and climate-related wildfires, floods, and landslides, I anticipate an increased shift toward people turning to gardens and green spaces to seek refuge, grow food for sustenance, and find creative expression. I will be introducing a new theme for Wataan on gardens, Bagh-Bagh, where I share people doing extraordinary things with green spaces, as well as famous gardens or artists' gardens open for public viewing. High on my list are Derek Jarman's garden in Dungeness, Kent, this autumn and the Goodwood Art Foundation.  I am also open to visiting people's gardens, so if you grow a garden and would like to be featured, please get in touch.

Textiles

Finally, I have been laying the groundwork for a textile project that's been in my heart for many years, and I am now ready to materialise it. Recently, my friend spoke about the privileges of moving in silence while building something new versus sharing the process (along with the challenges and joys that come with it), and it really resonated with me.

What’s a working theory you hold right now about the industry, culture, or creativity?

Moving in silence is only possible if you already have a large and engaged audience.

It’s the privilege of those who have thousands of committed people ready and waiting to consume anything, once they release it. Meanwhile, if you’re in the process of building an audience, the less-is-more rule does not apply. And with today’s algorithm, I don’t see that you can afford to not share what you’re up to along the way, most days.

I believe deeply that the journey is just as important as the destination, and I also feel strongly that perfectionism is a barrier to progress. I'll share my journey into the research, product development, and everything else as it unfolds. Right now, I'm spending many hours in Goldsmiths University's textile archives and library. I've also been doing a few fun research assignments in textile shops in Greece and Ireland, plus an upcoming sourcing trip to Pakistan that I am very excited about.

Call for submission to Wataan, Stories of Spice- rose. The rose as a muse, flower and spice.

The rose has long inspired folklore and served as a metaphor for love and endurance since the dawn of time. The rose has range, and it is also a resilient plant. Although, as a fresh flower, it isn’t a spice, its dried form or extracted essence is spice-like.

My summer research project about roses is being materialised into a print publication. Since I began posting about roses on Instagram and Substack, I received so many DMs, WhatsApp messages, and emails about roses and how they inspire mythology, poetry, and art in people’s lives. The purpose of the Stories of Spice project is to create a collective archive of people’s stories, knowledge, and experiences with the spice.

I’m looking for submissions of poetry and visuals in the form of illustrations, paintings, photo essays, and other artworks to go alongside my writing. If you have a poem or a visual artwork you’d like to submit, get in touch. More details on rates, timelines, and submission are below.

Word of mouth has helped evolve this process greatly since the beginning, and I would be grateful if you could share it with your friends, lovers, readers, or audiences to help reach people who may be interested in submitting.

FORMATS

Visuals

* Illustrations

* Paintings

* Other Artworks

* Photo essays

Words

* Poetry

* Recipes

RATES

Visuals - £65

Recipes + Poetry - £40

TIMELINE

Please send all submissions by Sunday 20th September 2026 at midnight BST.

I will confirm successful contributions no later than Friday 2nd October 2026. Please note I may not be able to give individual feedback on this occasion, as it is a one-person show at the moment.

Please send your submissions to hellowataan@gmail.com with "Stories of Spice - Rose" in the subject line.

ADVERTISING AND PARTNERSHIPS

I am also looking for a select few brands or companies to partner as advertisers. If your brand uses roses in products or services (as a spice or flavour in drinks, food, cosmetics, or beauty products, or in floral design) and you'd like to be involved, please get in touch for rates with “Rose- Advertising and Partnership” in the subject line.

The day I begin writing this, it is the 6th of Muhurram. We are 4 days away from Ashura (10th of Muharram). Every year on Ashura, my chachu (paternal uncle) makes a sabeel. This drink stall is set up to provide drinks to revive the spirit of Karbala, where Imam Husain and his companions were denied water (and food) before they were murdered. Helping my uncle prepare these drinks and passing them out to mourners during processions en route to the Imam Bargah are among my earliest memories.  He made one batch of Rooh Afza, a rose cordial drink mixed with lime juice and basil seeds (tukh malanga), and another is Thadai, a milk and sugar drink with almonds, poppy seeds (khaskhash), aromatic spices like cardamom, fennel, black pepper and rose essence.  The meaning and purpose of both these drinks are to 'cool'; both drinks are rose essence-based. It is not just in the drink one sees the roses; the procession is also laden with roses and rose garlands. Roses in my memory belong to Muhurram as much as they do to spring or symbols of love.

I have come to learn a lot of about roses over the last month of heavy exploration on this topic; wherever the rose is mentioned, whether it be in foods and beverages, cosmetics or medicines, it effect is always to come and soothe, much like one feels when one is facing a sight of a rose bush- calm, pleased and at ease (and at awe). Another thing I have come to learn is this: the use of roses in cuisine spread along the routes of Islam, with Iran (which historically covered a vast area from the Indus Valley to the bordering areas of Egypt).  Other cultures have (and continue to) utilise the rose in herbal medicine, for cosmetics, and for burial rituals. Still, it's the Muslims who embraced it with such vigour that it entered cuisines. Having studied the mythologies and their spiritual links, it makes sense, as in Islamic traditions, the rose is linked to devotion, the gardens of paradise, and the Prophet Mohammed. The rose spread with Islam in places like Moorish Spain, North Africa, the Ottoman Empire, the Levant, Arabia, and, of course, the heart of it all, Iran. And when rulers from Iran and Central Asia conquered the Indian subcontinent to form Mughal India (present-day Afghanistan, Bangladesh, India, and Pakistan), roses flourished in gardens and entered the kitchen. Up to this point, the rose was reserved for religious rituals and royalty. Under the patronage of the Mughal Empress Nur Jehan, it entered everyday foodways. I want to pay a deserving tribute to the woman who socialised roses. 

Nur Jehan (meaning light of the world) was born into the Iranian nobility as Mehr-un-Nissa. Widowed and displaced by the oppressive Safavid rule in Iran, she arrived in a more liberal and wealthy Mughal India. She became Nur Jahan upon marrying the Emperor Jahangir in 1611.

"While she lived in a conservative, patriarchal society, she nevertheless showed that the boundaries were less rigid and the limitations less severe than might seem at first glance"~ Victoria Belim-Frolova.

It is said that, due to her husband's declining health, her intelligence, and her refinement and appreciation for art, Nur Jehan amassed deep respect and political clout within the Mughal court. Her husband entrusted her with legislation and political policies, and even had coins bearing her name. According to Jahangir's journal, Nur Jehan's mother, Asmat Begum, discovered rose oil in the roses that had collected in her bath water. She was responsible for her daughter's fascination with the flower. Roses, with their intense fragrance and beauty, were a common feature in the gardens of Iran and Central Asia and are thought to have evoked deep nostalgia for homes they had left behind.

Nevertheless, her new home had perfect climate and soil conditions for rose cultivation, allowing distillation to produce attar and adding a dash of its flavour to drinks like Sharbat, a refreshing drink made by combining rose essence with cold water. With this, the rose entered the kitchens of Mughal India. Innovation and creativity were highly encouraged within the Mughal Empire, and wealth enabled new ways of producing crafts, including culinary arts. Under the Empress's patronage, roses came to be admired and utilised like never before, amongst the aristocrats and the commoners alike.

Much of the food and drink created by the Mughal bawarchis (cooks) is still part of the cuisine across South Asia, especially those that used rose water or essence. In fact, my research did not yield many new ways of utilising roses in the region's cuisine. It should not come as a surprise that rose water-based beverages and desserts are popular. Falooda made with rose syrup, vermicelli, basil seeds, and ice cream is indulgent, fragrant, and refreshing in the summer heat. Refreshing is often associated with rose-flavoured desserts. Jigrathnda, which literally means cooling of the heart, is a cold dessert from Madurai, Tamil Nadu, that could be considered a South Indian cousin of Falooda. It's a concoction of almond resin, rose (or sarsaparilla) syrup, cold milk, sugar, and finely chopped nuts, topped with a generous scoop of ice cream or Kulfi. Kulfi, South Asia's version of an ice cream or cream lolly, can also be flavoured with rose water. My local kulfiwala, Hanif, stood at the corner of our street in Multan, churned his with plenty of cream, both pista (pistachio) and badam (almonds), and a dash of rose water in a salty iced bath, which did beautiful salty and sweet hits of the flavour palate as you licked into its smooth creamy goodness. While I would consider myself a savoury eater, I love ice cream, and Kulfi is where my love for it reaches its peak. If it's dessert you are after, South Asia isn't short of icons to tantalise the taste buds. None is more iconic than a Gulab Jaman! Gulab literally means rose, and this piercingly sweet dessert is a fried dumpling soaked in aromatic rose syrup.

When it comes to rose-flavoured foods and drinks, none captures our collective imagination and quenches our thirst quite like the drink that started it all in the Mughal kitchens: the rose syrup sharbat, now known as Rooh Afza (which translates to 'refreshing the soul').  A Sharbat's main purpose is medicinal, to cool or calm the body. Made from sugar syrup, floral and herbal botanicals, and citrus, it is a common drink across Iran, South Asia, and Arabic cultures (again, places where Islam is the dominant faith).  Offering a sharbat is a symbol of hospitality, care, love and devotion to the divine (again, roses are wherever there is devotion in Islamic cultures). Rooh Afza is South Asia's most popular sharbat; scarlet in hue, fragrant and rosy, and refreshing. Many across South Asia still drink it the way it was created many years ago- poured over ice-cold water with a spike of lime juice (my preferred way!), but there are other iterations. Some drink it with black salt and mint; others like it swirled into a glass of milk. It is also used as syrup for ice cream and poured over shaved-ice cones on sticks, called a Gola (I go crazy for this stuff in the sweltering Pakistani summer heat).  

While sharbat has its roots in the Mughal Indian subcontinent, Rooh Afza is a more recent creation by Unani Tibb (Greek medicine) doctor and Hakim (herbalist) Abdul Hafeez Majeed in 1906/1907. Made by Majeed through distillation of 13 herbs and botanicals that were neglected in mainstream medicine at the time, including chicory, nilofer (water lily), mint, coriander, munakka (dried grapes), vetiver and kewra (pandanus flower water). Today, there are different variations on the exact ingredients depending on the country of manufacturing because, following the partition of the Indian Subcontinent, Rooh Afza travelled to all three nations, Bangladesh, India and Pakistan, each embracing it as a home-grown product. Despite its association with traditional Islamic medicine, Rooh Afza transcends socioeconomic and national borders within South Asia. All its drinkers, regardless of caste, class, or religion, are, for a moment, agents of the same culture. It is as popular during Ramadan as it is during Diwali and Langar at Sikh temples. All over the Internet archives, I find writers from different cultures writing love letters of nostalgia about this beloved rose syrup elixir. During the pandemic summer of 2020, a particularly warm summer, there was a trend among online food publications featuring writing on the drink, including Taste, Bon Appétit, and Food 52. Within Pakistan, however, Rooh Afza has a competitor in its market share: another beloved rose syrup, Jam-e-Shirin (meaning sweet elixir), which is a more delicate, slightly sweeter drink.

It's not just sweet foods and drinks that rose flavours find their way into within Mughal kitchens; rose water was used to finish meats, biryanis and pulaos. My mother has a collection of Urdu-language recipe books and food magazines that often call for rose water or essence in savoury meat dishes. Examining Mughal-era cookbooks and journals reveals that dried rose petals are ground into masala (spice) mixes for marinades and curries. In present times, the use of roses in savoury dishes is slowly disappearing from the kitchens across South Asia. Trends in spices and ingredients go through cycles, and we are never far away from a revival. 

North African cuisines, particularly in Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia, still use roses in spice mixes and within savoury sauces. Ras al Hanout translates to 'head of the shop ' and is a spice blend which varies from maker to maker. There's no universal recipe, but many blends contain cumin, coriander, cinnamon, ginger, allspice, nutmeg, cardamom, rose petals, and even saffron! It is used in tagines, couscous, rubbed on meat or vegetables before grilling, folded into rice and lentil dishes, and, within Morocco, it is the key spice in pastilla, the Moroccan sweetened chicken pastry. While I struggled to trace the origins of Ras al Hanout, the spices and roses likely arrived in North Africa much as they did elsewhere, through trade and religion. What is known is that earlier versions began to appear in Egypt and Morocco during the early medieval period, with the arrival of Arabs and Islam.  In medieval Arabic cooking, rose water was used not only as a sweetener but also to rub the pot's sides at the end of cooking. Rose water could also be infused with musk, honey or camphor. Chicken dishes, in particular, very often called for rose-water, alongside rose-water syrup, sugar, and various nuts (almonds, mint, pistachios). The use of rose water in cooking was, like many things, a Persian borrowing. The Sultan's Feast, a medieval Egyptian cookbook, contains a few recipes for a meat stew (usually lamb) called mawardiyya (rose-water).

Today, rose water is still an integral part of Arab cuisines, particularly for scenting various types of sweets (puddings, pastries, ice cream), often as an alternative or alongside orange-blossom water. Similar to Rooh Afza, Jallab is a summer drink that is very famous in Syria, Lebanon, Jordan and Palestine. The main ingredients are carob, dates, grape molasses and rose water, finished off with nuts and raisins.  

In Cyprus, Mahalebi is a popular dessert during Lent (when dairy is abstained from): a cream made with cornstarch (nisiaste) and water, without sugar, served cold with rose syrup (triantafyllo) or rose water.

There aren’t many foods in East or Southeast Asian cultures that call for rose flavours, but there is a drink, Sirap Bandung, popular in Brunei, Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore: an iced rose syrup drink prepared with condensed milk or lemonade (Sirap Limau), finished off with calamansi lime. It is believed that it was Arab and Indian traders may have brought the drink to the region.

Whereas, in Iran, rose flavours are celebrated and used extensively in cuisine. Being the largest producer of rose water, much of it is for domestic consumption within desserts, such as shir berenge (rice pudding), in jams and ice creams such as bastani ba faloodeh (ice cream with falooda), in pastries such as baamiah and halva, and in cookies such as naan berenji. The loved of the golab (rose) is above in the region that began a worldwide love affair with the flower. One of the most globally recognised desserts, lokum (Turkish Delight), most likely originated in 15th-century Iran.  Ahbisa is a likely ancestor of lokum. Its most traditional flavour is rosewater although many different flavours now exist).

Within modern European cuisine, roses are often limited to preserves and tea. As with everything else taken from the colonies, the Europeans did not embrace the rose as a spice to its full potential. It is usually paired with berries or rhubarb for desserts or with hibiscus as a summer tea. There is also a fringe section of the preserves aisle, which may include a rosehip jam or jelly.

It is a savoury iteration of rose petals that is becoming increasingly prevalent on menus and cookbooks across modern European cuisines (as in the 21st century). Rose harissa, which is a version of the Tunisian pepper and chilli paste, harissa or lusa (in Libya), used across kitchens in North Africa and in parts of Europe, is finding a footing as a trend. However, it is usually not the North African chefs who are credited as innovators or champions of this version of harissa, nor does the history of harissa come up in conversation whenever the condiment is written or spoken about. Much of the credit is given to Israeli chef Yotom Ottolegnhi or his European contemporaries for popularising. However, a deeper inspection of the history of harissa reveals a story of persecution and migration (of both people and ingredients). Around the end of the 15th century, during the Spanish Inquisition, many Andalusian Muslims and Jews were brutally expelled from Spain because they refused to convert to Christianity. Tunis was an Ottoman province at the time, and its ruler granted safe passage to expelled Muslims and Jews into what would become modern-day Tunisia, many of whom chose to settle in the city of Nabeul because of a microclimate similar to Andalusia. They brought their culture, crafts, and foods, as well as some of the Spanish Empire's New World (the Americas) exploits, including Capsicum annuum (an ancestor plant of modern peppers and chillies), which grew well in the fertile terrain of North Africa. Many of the newly integrated Muslims and Jews had made Nabeul their home. They lived in harmony, combining their intergenerational knowledge to sun-dry peppers and chillies before pounding them into a paste with a large mortar and pestle. Although the process of making this paste may have evolved slightly and many versions have emerged over time, the core ingredients and final product characteristics have not changed. With another cycle of Jewish movement to settle historic Palestine to create the state of Israel, the Jews of Tunisia may have brought their foods and customs with them. Ottoleghi likely learned about harissa this way; however, when speaking about the paste, he often muddles the history to 'North Africa' or 'Middle Eastern' or, in some versions, leaves its origins out completely. One of his earlier cookbooks, Simple, calls for rose harissa in a carrot recipe, and searching for rose harissa online often leads to this recipe of his in the Guardian. It is important to source the origins of a food's creation, particularly when it is linked with many different layers of oppression. Otherwise, it contributes to food appropriation.

What is apparent is that the roots of the roses were planted in Iran and Central Asia, and the branches spread from there through food and trade links, bringing it eastwards to South Asia and Westwards towards the Arabic-speaking world, all the way across North Africa. From there it entered Europe for cosmetics and medicinal purposes. Until the most recent TikTok viral trend of rose-flavoured foods in the 2020s, how we utilised roses has remained somewhat constant since medieval times. However, an innovative revival could be on the horizon. I certainly hope to utilise dried rose petal powder in two different ways for my upcoming event on roses here in London: in a spice mix to marinate chicken for a tostada and in a spiced tomato sauce to cook rice, which will be stuffed into a courgette flower like a dolma or gemista. Tickets for this are available here (hope to see you there)!

As springtime ends, and we officially approach summer, one thing is apparent: rose bushes were thriving this spring. They may thrive every spring, but I am paying closer attention this year. This spring, I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing roses in places across London and the UK, in Copenhagen and in Amsterdam (where the rose game was the strongest in my experience).

In my research into images, art, and stories, the rose has been a constant source of fascination throughout human history. Fossil evidence suggests that the rose first appeared on Earth over 35 million years ago. It is no surprise, then, that we can find evidence of their presence in a multitude of common myths across cultures and civilisations. While there is conflicting evidence about where roses originated or were first cultivated, China, Central Asia, or Persia are often cited as the first places. However, there is no disagreement that, from the beginning, they have captured hearts and imaginations and are associated with Gods and royalty in the form of love and beauty.

One of the symbols of the rose in mythology, which captured my attention, was within a document titled The Rose: A Sufi Spiritual Journey, describing the words of Sufi mystic Inayat Khan comparing the conditions of a human soul to that of a rose’s petals unfolding, acting as a metaphor for the gradual revealing of spiritual wisdom and enlightenment to the devoted. “The soul can be likened to the rose; as a rosebud blooms, so the soul unfolds itself. For the rosebud to bloom, five conditions are required: fertile soil, bright sun, water, air and space; and the same five conditions are required for the unfoldment of the soul.” Here, the metaphor for fertile soil is spiritual education, the sun is intelligence, water is love, air is art from which a soul seeks inspiration, and space is a wide outlook in life. Thus, given these conditions, the soul blooms like a rose and, much like a rose is held with many petals which slowly unfold, so too does a soul unveil its many depths which may emit like the fragrance of a rose. Much like a rose’s seeds embedded within its pod, the rose hip, the human soul’s seeds are in its heart, touching the hearts of others to leave a lasting impact. The rose blooms and fades, but its essence may linger longer, like souls or personalities, which live a limited, conscious life but may leave a lasting impression through their actions and works in a life steeped in spiritual devotion. Sufi symbolism is often complex and poetic but almost always linked to the divine. It feels fitting to begin with the symbolism of roses, as taught by a Sufi poet who is long credited with being the pioneering figure in bringing Eastern philosophies to the West.

In the beginning…

Indus civilizations and Hinduism

In ancient India (the regions that are now spread across several countries, including India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, and Nepal), the rose always plays a symbolic role in the creation of the world and of humanity—according to early Hindu tradition, one day, Vishnu, protector of the world, and Brahma, the divine creator of the world, argued about which among the flowers was the most beautiful. Vishnu mentioned the rose’s perfect shape, betting on the flower’s superiority. In contrast, Brahma, who had never seen a rose before, sided with the lotus. When Brahma was shown a rose, he was left with no doubt about the unmatched beauty of the rose. At that moment, Brahma materialised a bush of 108 large roses and 1,008 small rose petals, from which Vishnu formed his bride, Lakshmi. Thus, the rose became an early symbol of beauty, and Lakshmi is associated with prosperity; its cultivation and distillation in the lower Himalayas of the Indus Valley are among the oldest.

Ancient Egypt

Ancient Egyptians associated roses with the goddess Isis, a great healer and protector, and believed that roses were created from the goddess of love, Hathor’s, sweat. As such, rose oil and balm became part of burial rituals, and stuffing the dead with rose petals came to symbolise mourners’ love for the dead and their hope for growth and rebirth.

Paintings depicting roses were found on the walls of 5th-century Egyptian tombs. The rose is said to have been a firm favourite of Empress Cleopatra. She used to fill her living quarters with rose petals to win over her lovers’ (including Marc Antony’s) affection.

Chinese mythology

Members of the Han dynasty were obsessed with roses. The Emperor’s library contained hundreds of books on roses, which also adorned the Imperial Garden.

Islamic worlds- Arabia, Persia, Ottomans and Mughals

Throughout history, Persian poets believed that God created the white rose as the queen of flowers. Poets like Rumi and Hafez often compared the rose to divine beauty or the beloved in Sufi mysticism. In Sufi poetry, the rose is often the soul yearning for divine love, while the thorn represents the worldly challenges on the spiritual path. Its presence in classical and modern literature continues to keep its symbolism alive.

The nightingale is a source of allegory in Islamic and Persian culture. Its legend is the story of a poor nightingale that could not sing but merely chirped and squawked. One day, the bird noticed a beautiful white rose and instantly fell in love with it. The little nightingale’s love was so intense that it pushed the bird to sing for the first time. From that day forth, the flower would only open her bud when she heard its singing. The pair was so in love that, one day, the nightingale, overwhelmed by his feelings, held the white rose so tightly that a thorn pierced his heart. The white petals turned deep red, creating an enduring link with their intense feelings of passion and devotion. Persian and Mughal arts often depict a nightingale and a rose together.

The Sufi poet, Rumi, writes, “What is the scent of the Rose? The breadth of reason and intelligence, a sweet guide on the way to the Eternal Kingdom.” This connects to a rose’s scent, and it may be interpreted that the common use of scents in Persian culture stems from the significance of the rose’s sweet, floral fragrance, which is thought to be emitted in heaven.

Roses have been an important part of Islamic culture and dynasties, contributing to the flower’s presence in many Asian regions, both in the East and the West. It was a regular practice to grow roses in special gardens; in Persian and Mughal areas, these gardens were seen as reflections of Paradise. Palaces, such as the Gol-e-stan Palace in Tehran, built in 1865, became known as “The Palace of Roses.” In the Ottoman Empire, roses were classified into ten classes, each named after their original location, appearance, and distinguishing characteristics.

“It restores hearts that have gone (broken) and brings back withered souls,” wrote the Mughal Emperor Jahangir about the essence of roses in his memoir. The Mughal rulers of the Indian subcontinent were obsessed with roses. The first Mughal emperor, Babar, was so fascinated by roses that he named all his daughters after the rose- Gul-chihra (rose-cheeked), Gul-rukh (rose-faced), Gul-badan (rose-bodied) and Gul-rang (rose-coloured). While Emperor Akbar is remembered to date for taking camel loads of roses to present to his allies’ wives. Shah Jahan bestowed his wife, Mumtaz Mahal, with luxuries never given to any living Empress before. It included a residence decorated with pure gold and fountains of rose water! It was Emperor Jahangir’s wife, Nur Jahan, who had a passion for roses, which led to their inclusion in food and cosmetics in Mughal India (more on this in the coming posts).

The rose’s dual nature, its beauty paired with thorns, has inspired countless poets and writers in the Arab world. It mirrors the struggles and triumphs of love, faith, and life itself. While the Quran does not mention roses directly except in one location, its imagery of Paradise, lush gardens, and fragrances has naturally embraced the rose as a symbol of that eternal beauty. Over centuries, roses have become an inseparable part of identity throughout the Muslim world, not just in poetry or tradition, but also in the everyday lives of people. The rose is special because it bridges the earthly and the divine, the practical and the poetic. From perfuming homes and rituals to symbolising love and faith, it is more than a flower; it is a living emblem of Islamic culture and spirituality.

It may be noted that the use of rose in all Islamic cultures (from South Asia, Iran, Turkey, and Arabic) is a way to enhance the sensory experience of connecting to the divine, as the rose’s allegorical link to paradise and the Prophet Mohammed. In Turkish and Arabic Islamic tradition, the rose is thought to have originated from the perspiration of Prophet Mohammed. This belief, especially embraced in mystical traditions, elevates the rose to a symbol of purity, grace, and connection to the divine. During the Prophet’s birthday (Mawlid), rose water is often sprinkled to honour his memory. In rituals, the rose symbolises blessing, purification, and beauty, making it inseparable from moments of joy and devotion. The term “Guli Mohammedi” refers to the “Rose of Prophet Mohammed”. This symbolises the essence of the Prophet’s teachings, his mercy, and the fragrance of his noble character that continues to inspire and uplift hearts throughout the ages. It is a reminder of the love and admiration that believers hold for their beloved Prophet Mohammed, and of their aspiration to embody his noble qualities in their own lives. A sixteenth-century Ottoman poet, Hakani, wrote that “Mohammed’s body was of a medium height, much like the rose buds in the garden of paradise, that his round and wide-open face resembled the rose, and that nobody had smelled anything more beautiful than his body’s rose scent.”

Sweet scents have been an integral part of Islamic culture since their inception and remain so today. Historically, sweet scents were especially important in Islamic spaces such as the Kaaba in Mecca and Prophet Mohammed’s Mosque in Medina. Sweet fragrances are thought to be related to the Islamic idea of Paradise: “paradise itself has soil that smells sweet”. By introducing scents into these spaces, Muslims could connect to paradise by moving beyond the material aspects of the location into a richer sensory experience.

In this way, wearing pleasant scents or fragrances is not merely a matter of personal grooming in Islam; multiple sources describe it as a beloved Sunnah (daily practice) of the Prophet Mohammed. Among all fragrances, roses held a special place in the Prophet’s heart, making ward Taifi, the legendary rose attar from the sacred lands near Mecca, particularly significant for Muslims worldwide. Ward Taifi comes from Taif, Saudi Arabia—a city located near Mecca in the holy Hijaz region. The proximity of this attar to Islam’s holiest sites adds spiritual significance. Many pilgrims performing Hajj or Umrah visit Taif and bring back Ward Taifi as a blessed souvenir, associating its fragrance with their spiritual journey.

In Shia Islamic traditions, the rose is deeply intertwined with the tragedy of Karbala. It represents the blood of the martyred, particularly Prophet Mohammed’s grandson Imam Husain, during an annual commemoration of his martyrdom at Ashura (10th day of the first month of the Islamic calendar Muharram). Furthermore, in Shia literature, the desert of Karbala is metaphorically transformed into a garden of roses because the blood of the martyrs is believed to have blossomed into eternal spiritual grace. As such, roses and rose imagery are a prominent feature during Shia cultural processions, covering the shrines, used as decorations at events, and mourners may carry a single rose in their hands or hand out roses during the period of mourning to represent the sacrifices of Ahl-Al-Bayt (the Prophet Mohamed’s extended family).

Other faiths

The rose is a sacred symbol found throughout the mystical writings and poetry of other religions, particularly Judaism. It is especially developed in the esoteric Christian traditions, where it is also linked to devotion and Paradise. According to a fourth-century priest, Ambrose of Milan, roses first grew in the Garden of Eden, and initially they were entirely thornless. Only after the wickedness of mankind, Adam and Eve disobeyed God and were expelled from the Garden, did these blossoms acquire their prickly defences. Rose blossoms, with their beauty and aroma, serve as enduring reminders of Paradise, even as roses’ thorns remind us that Paradise has been lost. According to Ambrose, the Virgin Mary is “the rose without thorns”: born free of Original Sin, she was free of the thorns — the sins — that had pricked humankind since Eve ate from the apple. The imagery of Mary and roses grew stronger throughout the centuries, with churches and cathedrals including a rose window at the end of a transept or above the entrance, dedicated to the Virgin. Later, Saint Dominic instituted the Rosary, a series of prayers to the Virgin (prayed using beads made of or scented with rose petals), named for the garlands of roses worn in heaven. A young maiden was to be burned at the stake in Bethlehem. As the flames reached up around her, she prayed for God’s help, and at once the flames were extinguished. From the embers sprang red roses, and from the unfired sticks, white roses. The rose is often used as a symbol of Christ. More precisely, it is a symbol of the soul that has recognised Christ’s presence. The rose, with its wine-like scent and deep red colour, is sometimes thought of as a more tangible embodiment of wine -the drink of communion. While no myth or legend mentions any specific rose variety, the moss rose is associated with the Blood of Christ, in the belief that His wounds dripped onto the moss while He hung on the cross.

Western Mythology- Greece, Rome and other European

Before its Christian connotations in the Western world, roses held symbolic meaning among the Greeks; the five-petaled rose was a symbol of Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty. At her birth, the sea foam Aphrodite sprung from turned to white roses, symbolising her purity; when she passionately pursued Adonis, she cut her feet on the rose’s thorns and red roses were created to symbolise desire.

Among the Romans, it became associated with both Venus, the goddess of love, and Persephone, the goddess of spring. In Roman myth, the goddess of flowers, Flora, created the rose from the body of a nymph; other gods contributed by adding life, nectar, scent, and fruit to Flora’s flowers. The rose’s thorns were arrows from Cupid’s bow. Cupid was the son of Venus; the rose became more closely associated with Venus when, in return for keeping her lovers a secret, the flower was gifted to Harpocrates, the God of silence. One Roman belief was that the flowers themselves stored secrets amidst their tightly wound petals. Roses were thus hung overhead during meetings, and the attendees were said to be sub rosa (‘under the rose’): bound to an oath of silence as to all matters raised in that room.

The Roman funerary festival of Rosalia or Rosaria was celebrated in early summer (usually in May); graves and memorials would be decorated with garlands of roses, in part because of the association of blood and blossoms in Greco-Roman tradition, such as the legend that roses bloomed from the blood of the mythical creature, Adonis. This celebration gave rise to a Christian celebration of “Day of Roses” because roses came to be associated with heaven and the afterlife in Christianity, and red roses specifically symbolised martyrs.

Despite all its symbolism, it’s not a flower frequently mentioned in any three of the sacred Abrahamic faith texts. In Jewish sources, the rose often symbolises the people of Israel, while the thorns symbolise hostile nations. It is striking that the Zohar, the central work of medieval Jewish mysticism, opens with an explication of Song 2:2, “Rabbi Hezekiah opened his discourse, ‘It is written, “Like a rose among thorns” — Who is the rose? That rose is the Assembly of Israel.’” Much like Christians and Muslims, Jews also associate the rose (with its thorns) as a potent symbol of love, its ephemeral pleasures and hidden pains. In Jewish folklore, white roses symbolise innocence and honesty (as in the story of the faithful wife Zilliah).

In contrast, red roses symbolise fury and cruelty (as in Hameul, who wrongly accuses his wife of adultery). Poetry emerging from these traditions can often challenge the distinction between the “secular” and the “sacred,” as poets often playfully blur the boundaries between the God they worship and the mortals they desire. An entire genre of “flower poems” emerged in medieval Andalusia, written in Hebrew, Judeo-Arabic, and Arabic. The famed gardens of al-Zahra and al-Hamra, and the broader Mediterranean world, held the seeds, both real and metaphorical, for the transmission of the rose blossom and its rich tradition of symbolism. It is believed that roses themselves — and what might be termed “rose-garden culture” — found their way into the European landscape along this pathway from southern Spain through Muslim rule.

Conclusions

Throughout history, roses carry the binary: the beauty of their flowers versus the threat of their thorns. To ‘come up smelling of roses’ means to rise from an unpleasant, ‘prickly’ situation to a more ‘rosy’ position. Despite its everlasting symbolism, in recent times, it has become somewhat controversial as a symbol of love. This is due to the conditions under which roses are harvested out of season or flown across the world for Valentine’s Day or wedding celebrations in Western countries, with floral growers and suppliers like Natoora campaigning against their use as a symbol of Valentine’s Day (radicchio, not roses campaign). However, gardeners (professional and hobbyist) all agree that the rose as a plant stands the test of changing weather and climate conditions. A few weeks ago, I visited a friend for lunch, and we sat in her garden admiring all the flowers, including roses. We chatted at length about the severely cold, prolonged winter we had just experienced, followed by two spurts of unseasonal heat, and then rain (lots of rain). Through it all, the rose bushes endured these extreme weather conditions, staying true to their allegory of beauty despite the hardships that surround them.

I just spent the most glorious week in my parents’ garden in a small town in the middle of England. It was a perfect spot to ride out the unseasonal heat wave after a prolonged winter.  My mother tends to the garden year-round, it’s her sanctuary, and her roses are the crowning glory. My mother comes from a farming community in Pakistan. Both my parents do, but my mother grew up on her family’s farmlands, whereas my father was raised in cities and boarding school, so his experience is distant. Until recently, I was on a similar trajectory in life; coming from generations of farming, but in a distantly removed from the land, having grown up in western cities and visiting the family farms once or twice a year in Pakistan. However, as I have gotten deeper into my 30s and this country and the world have become increasingly hostile to sustaining a healthy life, my soul has turned increasingly toward the land and plants. Out of this came two out of the three big work projects I am undertaking this year.

Stories of Spice, my research and writing series about spices, where I want to tell the side of spices that isn’t centred on the European age of discovery. Out of this intention and work came an opportunity to become a part of the London Design Museum’s Growing Together team. Growing Together is a group of us gardening, but we are a multidisciplinary bunch that includes curators, designers, artists, anthropologists, researchers, gardeners and retired aunties from different cultures. We are currently growing many plants in the museum's garden, including a whole section on spices (for which I am the lead!). This project has enriched my week and life in more ways than I could have ever imagined. I feel completely whole when we are all in the garden together with the plants and soil. The final project is also related to the land, but in the form of gardens, and uses Pakistani fabrics and embroidery crafts for home textiles, making it a beautiful amalgamation of all my life’s work and interests, centred on the women of Pakistan.

I travelled to Multan, my home city in Pakistan, earlier this year to source fabrics, dyes, and threads, and to meet the women who will bring this dream project to life. It was February, and the Pakistani spring was breaking through. One of the hallmark signs of spring in Pakistan is a rose blooming. It’s cultivated in people's gardens for use in garlands, as petals to be showered at religious festivals, weddings, and celebrations, or for adornment.

You will find sellers on the roadside, or in the flower market stalls in inner cities or at a florist. You will see the mali (gardener) tending to them with the most care. Pakistani gardens are flushed with roses all spring. It is truly a flower which has inspired artists and alchemists alike. So, I wanted to do a whole series on its beauty as a muse in poetry and writing, its uses in food, cosmetics, and healing, and its motif utilisation in the arts and crafts. The rose has range, and it is also a resilient plant. Although, as a fresh flower, it isn’t a spice, its dried form or extracted essence is spice-like.

I want to begin this series with roses in mythology and folklore particularly within Sufism and Islamic Mughal, Ottoman and Persian mythology, followed by their uses in food, cosmetics, and medicine; modern cultivation and horticulture from around the globe; and finish it off with roses as a muse in art, literature, and poetry.

The purpose of the Stories of Spice project is to create a collective archive of people’s stories, knowledge, and experiences with the spice. Since I began posting about roses on my notes and Instagram a week ago, I have had a sea of comments, DMs, WhatsApp messages, and even a few emails about roses and how they inspire mythology, poetry, and art in people’s lives. In that sense, we are off to a great start!

If you have a story, a work of art or an experience related to roses, please share with me and I’d love to read and reference for the upcoming chapters. And if would like read more about roses as spice and muse, subscribe and stay tune.

My family arrived in Ireland on a boat via Cork, and we left for England on a boat via Dublin. I don’t remember the entry, but I do remember the emotional exit through Dún Laoghaire. Some 30+ years later, I ended up taking the same route unintentionally. Ireland shaped so much of my upbringing and childhood. It is a country that I call home in a true sense of belonging, despite being in the Western Hemisphere. I return to Ireland regularly, but never to Co. Cork. But driving around the place for the week of my birthday, it felt like a calling or a homecoming. 

Ireland suffers from the same tourism malaise that Pakistan, my homeland, does- domineering neighbours with better marketing for tourism. However, if you want a richer, slower, and calmer experience, Ireland is the best place to go. It’s steeped in ancient history and mythology, which the people on the island celebrate, such as Imbolc, the spring equinox, and Lughnasadh, the harvest, which is still widely celebrated in farming circles. And it is farming that shapes the land in this country, and West Cork, where I found myself last week, is all farmland for miles. Driving along the Wild Atlantic Way, you’ll find the sea to one side of the road and farms of sheep, cattle and the occasional horse on the other side. The signal is slow to nonexistent, and the light is mythical no matter what the weather. However, I found myself in an unexpectedly sunny, rain-free week, which is a rare occurrence, but it felt like one of the gifts from the universe in a birthday week. 

If you know Irish history in the slightest, you will know that emigration is a huge part of the story of this island. Colonisation and the centuries-long stripping of resources by the British led to poverty, famine, and then unrest in the northern part of the island, resulting in steady streams of people leaving for a better life.

However, after Ireland’s membership in the European Union and the Good Friday Agreement, the country became a technology and tax haven, with many multinational corporations headquartered there. This has resulted in prosperity, although its farming and agricultural traditions are still deeply embedded in the hearts of its people. The result is a unique culture, modernity steeped in tradition, and this is precisely why Ireland as a travel destination is not to be overlooked. There is a trend to travel to far-flung places. Japan, for instance, is so popular amongst my peers; yet Ireland offers an equally immersive, traditional experience. Or we flock to island-hop in the Mediterranean, but there are islands with equally stunning beaches and local produce to entice the taste buds. Of course, I am biased; Ireland was my home and refuge for most of my childhood, and it is still my refuge in many ways. I gravitate towards different parts of the country anytime the political situation in the UK gets volatile (which has been frequently, since Brexit).

If you feel enticed to go to West Cork yourself there are few things to keep in mind; everything (and I mean everything) is slower, it will take you longer to get places, you will make conversations that will take longer because it’s soul talk rather than small talk, you will be stop and smell the roses (or whatever breathtaking nature that is before you because you are never far from that in Ireland); cash is king in most places and some places (like the bus or boats) only do cash; you have to go for a swim in one of the many body of waters which you will be spoiled by (this country is a swimmer’s paradise); you’ll eat some of the best western European food, especially dairy, of your life because care has been taken to preserve the traditional food practices like cheese making and fish preserving.

I really enjoyed the cultural commentary cum travel guide I created after my Doha trip in February for TGITE, and I feel compelled to do the same for West Cork. 

Books and writings  

For me, travelling to a place begins long before I physically get there, usually through reading. I would go as far as to say that I visit places I’ve read about in books or articles and seen in art. So, naturally, it feels appropriate to share the works which inspired the trip.

West of West, an artist’s encounter with West Cork by Brian Lalor. A lyrical meditation on Lalor’s travel and painting of West Cork. It’s a beautiful place setting and full of paintings inspired by the region's raw beauty. 

Up there, the Last by is a newsletter about ancient foodways practised within Irish culture, particularly in West Cork, some of which are on the brink of extinction. He writes about traditional dairy farming, interviews makers, and the accompanying photos are truly enticing. 

Over the water, essays on islands by Daunt Books It’s often easy to forget that Ireland is an island. It’s probably the roughness of the harsh waters or the weather which results from being suspended in the Atlantic Ocean. But if you scratch past Ireland’s rain clouds, it exhibits island life tendencies with many islands off its shores. On a sunny, clear day, you would mistake Ireland for a tropical paradise. Snead Gleeson’s essay in this anthology series, titled As in a Sea Parenthesis, is about islands, particularly those off the coast of Ireland. It made me reflect on how I had never ventured beyond the coast of Ireland, and it inspired my birthday day trip to Garnish Island off the coast of West Cork. 

Ireland is small, but it takes time to get places. There are buses, but you need a car outside cities and towns. So, I arrived at Cork airport to pick up my rental and drove towards West Cork on country lanes. The signal dipped in and out, and I had nothing but my music and thoughts to occupy me. The nature hits you so suddenly that my nervous system began to reset into a calmer state of mind. Based on conversations with friends who are familiar with the area and recommendations from local accounts I follow on Instagram, Ballydehob became my location for the week.

Places to stay

Casa Clarig 

I found this wonderful family-run cabin on Instagram while I was deep in training my algorithm to show me more of West Cork. It’s a gem set in the fields with its own sauna and outdoor bath. The family who run the place, Monica and Martin, were the kindest hosts and are keen growers of a variety of fruit, vegetables, and herbs in their garden and greenhouse. 

I spent my days in the fully equipped cabin reading, writing, cooking, and in the sauna, all to the sounds of birds and sheep. It was perfect. 

 Native Cabins 

Owned by a local couple, Simon and Dede Ronan, Native is a sustainability design enthusiast's dream. Beautifully designed by Simon, using repurposed Irish raw materials, and furnished with local linen and wool. The ethos of the place is to shine light on and preserve Irish heritage. There is the main house, garden cabins, and a sauna, with a breakfast menu created to make Irish dairy the star of the show, and their granola is famous.  It’s definitely a place one goes to escape and rewind, although I’d argue being in this part of Ireland itself is an escape.

Native is more than a hospitality business; it is a local community information hub and gathering spot. I’ve been following them on Instagram for a short while, and they share upcoming events and community stories, as well as hosting a spring-summer dinner series for guests.

 West Cork Hotel 

Set on the River Ilen in the charming town of Skibbereen, West Cork Hotel is a traditional Irish inn. Its proprietor, Maureen, is a matriarch who runs the place like a welcoming family home. While I did not get to stay here on this trip, I did have the pleasure of meeting Maureen on an impromptu birthday dinner in my honour, thrown by my hosts at Casa Clarig. I was taken by the Irish charm of a meal of the most succulent roast lamb, three types of Irish potatoes, and the freshest spring greens, with a homemade Irish mint sauce (iykyk) and gravy. When I say the Irish hospitality and community are strong, this is what I mean. I was so taken by Maureen’s warmth at this dinner that I feel obliged to return to West Cork for a future trip to stay at the West Cork Hotel. 

Places to swim 

If it’s swimming you are into, you are going to be spoiled for choice for the best spot. I was lucky to have great weather throughout my week in Ireland, a rare occurrence but a welcome opportunity to take full advantage of.

Tragumna Beach

After years of austerity, the Irish lifestyle now rivals the Scandinavian quality of life with access to so much nature, open waters and woods, which are ideal for a sauna and a cold swim. You will find many sauna stations on beaches across Ireland, but this beach is the one closest to where I was staying in Ballydehob, a stunning swim spot. A small beach with a car park, an ice cream hut (in the summer months- June onwards) and a pub nearby, it’s perfect for a peaceful swim, sauna and ice cream afterwards. 

Blue Pool

A small nature reserve and a ferry docking point for Garnish Island (see below) is also a beautiful swimming spot amongst the seals. It’s a 5 min walk from Glengarrif town’s Main Street, where you can grab lunch, shop in the local wool stores for Aran jumpers (at half the price compared to other places), and get one of the best cone 99 (trust me on this one). 

Lough Hyne

A body of water where locals swim, and it’s also a great place for water activities like kayaking. The water is clear and addictive. On weekends, you will find groups of people picnicking, spending the day swimming and snacking, which made me reminisce about my childhood day trips to Glendalough in Co Wicklow.

Places to eat and drink

Ireland is a European dining destination. It is a hill I am willing to die on. Cut off from mainland Europe and rich in agricultural and dairy practices, and waves of immigration from places like Pakistan, Poland, Nigeria, Turkey, Libya, China, Mexico, Brazil and beyond.  Or the Irish returnees from distant destinations have brought back flavours from these places. This has led to Ireland becoming home to a cuisine that marries local produce with techniques from different cultures. Eating out is a pleasure, but I would also argue for cooking if that is something you are into. I did a mix of the two.

 Dede in Baltimore is a Turkish restaurant that consistently tops Ireland's best restaurant guides. Chef Ahmed Dede and his team consistently push the boundaries of culinary creativity without compromising the authenticity of Turkish or Irish flavours.

Chestnut in Ballydehob is the brainchild of Polish chef Rob Krawczyk, who pays homage to his Polish heritage using a wealth of the Irish larder. 

Connolly’s of Leap- you wouldn’t come to Ireland to eat pizzas, but you would be wrong. It was a perfect lunch after a morning of swimming in Lough Hyne. This is also a brilliant music venue and a great pub, with plenty of pints to wash down the pizzas.

Hayes’ Bar and Kitchen is a seafood restaurant with the freshest daily catches. Menu changes daily, but everything is chef’s kiss!

Nighthawk’s – nowadays, fish and chips feel so Irish that one would think it is a local culinary offering. Still, of course, it comes from the British, who introduced it (after Jewish emigrants from Eastern Europe and Russia brought it to Britain). Up until recently, Ireland was a deeply Catholic country steeped in religious rituals, including abstaining from meat on Fridays. Later, with the British embracing curry during their colonisation of the Indian subcontinent, curry sauce became a thing in chip shops across Britain, including Ireland, which was still a colony at the time. Having lived in England, Ireland and Wales, I would argue that curry chips are a bigger deal in Ireland than elsewhere. When it comes to the chip shop, everyone has a preferred order, and mine is haddock with chips, with salt, or just curry chips. Nighthawk’s has perfected the recipe.

Supervalu (Skibbereen Town) and Skibbereen Farmer market (on a Saturday) - if you do plan to cook on your trip, the Supervalu is a good place to stock up on groceries, although their café for tea and a cake is a worthy pit stop. If you happen to end up in this part of the world on a weekend, the farmers' market is a destination in itself. Local farms come to sell their produce and cheeses. Each stall is better than the next.

 Places to visit on day trips

Ilnacullin (Granish Island)

A horticultural gem in a series of gardens set on an island off the coast of Glengarrif, Bantry Bay. Using the word exotic to describe Ireland seems misplaced, but then again, most people haven’t been to Garnish Island. It began life as a private island owned by the Bryce family, who worked with architect Harold Peto to utilise the island’s mild micro-humid climate to create an exotic paradise that wouldn’t be out of place in the tropics. You need to reach the island by ferry from Glengarriff, and I would recommend spending the day exploring the gardens, ranging from Italian to Greek. There’s a small cafe that serves a menu of soups, sandwiches, and cakes, but my personal highlight was a warm scone for breakfast on my birthday, with cream, Irish butter, and local jam. Much like Violet Bryce, a hundred years before me, I have fallen completely in love with the place, and I’m keenly plotting my return.

Mazien Head

Ireland’s southern most tip which offers stunning views over the Atlantic. Make a day of it with a picnic from the farmers' market in Skibbereen.

Cleire Goats Farm

Set on another island off the coast of Bantry Bay, Cape Clear Island. With just 100 inhabitants, it truly feels like a place to yourself. The farm specialises in raw milk ice cream, butter, and the most delectable goats' cheese. If the day is clear (and it was when I visited), you can walk and swim to your heart's content.

Ballymaloe House and Cookery School

A bonus inclusion, since it is technically not in West Cork, but I did spend one night and a whole day at the cookery school gardens and farm. Much has been said and written about the Ballymaloe estate and farm, which you might expect not to live up to the hype. Yet I was surprised by the house's beauty and the staff's friendliness. Yes, it’s slightly pricey but worth the splurge to stay the night and have a meal in its dining room overlooking the gardens. However, if you are looking for a day trip and a more affordable option, the cafe adjacent to the house is lovely for tea and snacks. The thing that you shouldn’t miss is a walk around the cookery school's gardens. They are special as described. I spent most of my morning wandering the gardens and taking in the aromas from the kitchen, where the students were hard at work. My personal highlight was Shell House, a garden created in the 90s by Blott Kerr Wilson. It’s made entirely from shells and modelled after the Alhambra Palace in Granada. It felt like stepping into another world.

Driving around West Cork felt like being transport back to the Celtic Tiger years of prosperity from my childhood in the 90s and 00s. The towns are alive, and abuzz with independent businesses in each village centre.

Like every other country in the world, Ireland is not without its problems. There is an increasingly anti-immigrant sentiment, and with racism rising across the cities, it feels worrying. There is also a housing crisis, which makes finding a place to live a horrendous process for young people, such that once again, there is a wave of emigration, towards Canada, Australia and the Gulf states of the Middle East. Despite these challenges, there is an optimism and a sense that life needs to be lived, shared by everyone from the Irish people themselves and the migrants who call Ireland home now.

It’s a sentiment that isn’t always there in the UK, where I live now. I don’t mean to keep comparing the two countries, but there’s a stark contrast of mood and energy. I think it has to do with the Irish people’s longstanding struggles and endurance for hardships, and the English people’s longstanding history of colonialism and easy access to resources, which were gained through oppression. We talk about reparations to the colonies a lot, and if we were to put it in terms of prosperity and welfare, then I think the Irish people may be living a better life than the country that colonised them.

Wherever in Ireland you choose to visit, know that it’s an underrated place because everything is slower and calmer. There’s a warmth in this country that nowhere else in Western Europe has.

I returned to Casa Lawa, last weekend. It is a place where I did an art and chef residency in the spring of 2024. However, all weekend I thought about my time and life in Hungary. I lived in Hungary for five formative years, and it’s not something I talk about or even think about often. I arrived as a teenager without any family or knowing anyone. Coming of age in this country and culture that were completely foreign to me. That time of my life has shaped so much of how I view the world and how I approach my life. I was thrust into this unknown.

People were from different parts of the world - Iranians were from Iran, Indians were from Canada, South Africa and Mauritius, Pakistanis were from Norway, Palestinians were from the ‘48, the Hungarians were American, the Greeks were Cypriots and Koreans were from Korea. I had come from England but recently moved from Ireland.

I arrived in Hungary deeply traumatised by the racism in England, something I hadn’t experienced in Ireland during childhood.

Hungary was surrounded by austerity, yet with a sense of hope. This was a time when Hungary had recently become an EU member, and before Orbán. There was so much optimism, which is difficult to convey given the events that followed in the country. Into this mood I came into adulthood. I experienced depression for the first time and overcame it. I experienced failure for the first time and overcame it. Failure and overcoming hardship were major themes of my life in the Hungary years. But despite all that, there was a deeper feeling of belonging to the people with whom I shared these years. There was also the feeling exhilaration after stepping out of a depression or success after failure.

Now, almost 20 years later, Hungary keeps coming back to me like a fever dream. There must be a reason why, but it hasn’t revealed itself to me. Although I suspect it has to do with the traumas of my romantic partnerships, which the universe and my emotional well-being are ready for me to unpack.

All the pictures I have from the Hungary years are grey and monochromatic, yet I don’t remember life in Hungary being this way. Casa Lawa is the opposite; it’s colourful and full of light. It’s a place created to allow your inner artistic and creative imagination to thrive. The time I spent doing my Casa Lawa residency was expansive. It was the first time I connected the links between Sicilian and South Asian cultures having a bilateral link. Their connection through the silk and spice trades, laying the foundation for the work I’m undertaking in my Stories of Spice series. Many projects have come to fruition because of the seeds I planted during my time at Casa Lawa because it was the first time I was given an open space to grow in a creative way. My visit last week was different, I went as a guest but this also helped to open up other pathways of creativity after feeling so blocked recently in my writing work. I call this the Casa Lawa effect- it’s a place that allows you to run your imagination wild, connect with your inner child and expand.

Maybe Hungary returns because the proprietor of Casa Lawa, Lukas, is from Poland, also Eastern Europe. He’s a person I talk to about Hungary a lot because he understands the culture and emotional sentiments of the region. Or maybe thoughts of Hungary came back to serve a purpose, to realise how far life has evolved into its vibrancy.

I was invited by my friend Raoul to write about the cultural history and significance of chai. I loved diving into the history and this post below featuring Raoul’s beautiful images and videos from his time in Rajasthan and my writing is a product of our shared efforts.

This inspired me to share some great tea related content I’ve consumed lately.

Aylar from The Table Theory, wrote about the traditions of choy and the designs of teapots in her latest Substack. I could quote the entire post but below are some quotes which spoke to my heart.

She writes on tea drinking traditions in Central Asia :

In Central Asia, tea is communal by design. Brewed in a large teapot, poured into pialas - small, handle-less, bowl-shaped cups that might look unfinished to an unfamiliar eye. But the piala is clever - without a handle, you can only hold it comfortably once it’s reached the right temperature. The object teaches you patience and urges you to stay awhile.

You can tell a lot about people by how their tea rituals are designed. In Central Asia, the teapot is made to be shared - the small cup ensuring every sip stays hot as conversation stretches on. In England, the large mug suggests the opposite - this my time, all to myself.

And on the teapot:

Central to all tea ceremonies is the humble teapot. The teapot holds a strange kind of power. It is one of the most designed objects in the world - iterated across centuries and cultures, solved and re-solved, and yet we keep returning to it. There is always, apparently, more to say.

…most of us are drinking from mugs we didn’t choose, pouring from kettles we bought for their price. Which is fine, but consider this - what if it wasn’t the only option? Not in a maximalist, buy-everything way. But in the sense of: what if one object in your daily ritual was chosen with the same care that Sakiyama brings to a teapot? What if the thing your hands reach for every morning was something that made you pause, even briefly, and feel?

Another detail of note in Aylar’s post is in passing. She mentions the vessel in which to drink the tea from- “pialas - small, handle-less, bowl-shaped cups that might look unfinished to an unfamiliar eye.” This vessel without a handle is something I’m familiar with in the farming tribal life of my own family, we also drink our morning chai from a piyala in Pakistan. An object that invites you to be still while it reaches the prefect temperature before consumption (usually alongside a paratha and egg or leftovers from the night before but usually fresh yogurt made daily). I’m always struck by the similarities between South Asia and other regions of Asia (or the world for that matter). Proving that borders and nations are truly arbitrary in the length of human history.

As is the handless clay pot, a matka, used in other parts of Pakistan, designed to keep the flavour and temperature optimal. And let’s not forget the glass from which most of South Asia’s chai-wallas deliver their daily doses to hundreds of millions of chai addicts.

It’s this addiction that is the subject of commentary in Shandy Lewis’s fiction, On the Greenwich line. It’s an astute yet cleverly funny insight into the very British business of tea enterprising and imperial strategising.

The British are sharp as a tack. They can sell anything. They sold opium to the Chinese, then bought tea, took it to India and sold that to the Indians (and more opium, of course). Tea became British, as did most things. They say they are a nation of shopkeepers, which is not only true but reveals the virtues of both self-deprecation and self-reliance that any good trader must possess. Naturally the British stopped dealing hard drugs once they’d got the world hooked on tea, and on this point my Aunt Hilana was quite right. When her village neighbours made fun of her for so keenly following British politics - Fancy yourself English, do you?’ - she’d simply raise the cup of black tea that never left her hand and reply, ‘Don’t we all? Then she’d point a threatening finger at the tea leaves, and that was enough for them to understand what she meant and bow their heads. Auntie Hilana always used to say that the secret to British success wasn’t so much that they’d turned a good profit on tea, but that they taught the world how to enjoy a nice cup of tea and even went to war for the sake of it. A nice cup of tea is an idea, and ideas are the most lucrative business of all.

We have embraced tea as our own in South Asia with a passion. Carrying it wherever we scatter on this planet. However, it’s always in our homelands where we return to wax lyrics of the beautiful rituals of daily cups of chai. Over the winter break two of my friends (or more accurately my tea muses)- Punam in India and Abeera in Pakistan, kept my longing topped up with their daily cups on the road, in the libraries, in gardens and in art galleries, providing endless pleasure through their Instagram stories.

I was very well fed by friends and myself. Nourishing meal plate variations of my fave theme - vegetable dishes, some meat, condiments and little bit of bread (I prefer rice or potatoes as a carb is probably the title of my memoir).

My leisure time was limited all January because I was working six-day work weeks. So, sneaking out to see Kerry James Marshall on the final week at The Royal Academy of Arts, one lunchtime, was truly a grounding mental break.

The weather has been truly miserable all month long and natural light exposure almost non existent, so I found moments of nourishing my soul through pockets of light catching me at unexpected moments; on my way to a conference on a Saturday morning and a glimpse of my first aurora borealis sighting late one night.

I am always accepting contributions for this feature, if you’d like to share way in which you nourish your body, mind and soul, please get in touch.

“the mustard blooms hold a promise of budding romance” - Gautam Chintamani.

Mustard isn’t something you’d associate with love, and yet for a generation of South Asians, mustard fields represent nurturing, romance, love and loss. Its leaves are stewed for hours, to make Saag in the winter months throughout the region, the seeds are tempered, crushed into a paste, the oil is used to cook, make achar and as part of hair care and the flowers, when in bloom, have a strong place in our collective imagination for lovers’ embrace. From a mother’s love folded into the dishes, to self-care for wellbeing, to the ultimate symbol of springtime romance. We love love in South Asia, and we love mustard.

It is a spice that has conquered our hearts and travelled as one of the originals, changing flavour profiles. The history of the world has been a quest for spices (and other resources) that have reached Europe, particularly from the Indian subcontinent. Mustard is no different.

Mustard and its seeds have captured our imagination; they’ve been part of shaping our world since Neolithic times, encompassing multiple industries, migration across borders through trade routes, cultural exchanges, and technological advances over the last 4000 years, making it one of the oldest spices.

Religion and ritual

“The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed that a man took and sowed in his garden, and it grew and became a tree, and the birds of the air made nests in its branches.” – Luke 13:19

Mustard seeds are referenced in major faiths, including Buddhism, Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, and Sikhism. The earliest theological references come from Buddhist traditions relating to a story of a mother Kisa Gotham, who seeks guidance from Buddha after she is overcome with grief after the death of her young son. She finds solace in knowing that grief is as common as a mustard seed and everyone experiences loss.

“Mustard seed is easy to obtain, but a house untouched by death cannot be found.”- Buddha.

While it plays a role in cleansing rituals within Hindu faith practices, a mustard seed under the tongue during prayer is used for protection and strength against negative energies, and the seeds, when burned in diyas (clay or bronze lamps) with camphor or mixed with ghee, are used to purify the atmosphere.

The Sikh faith has long been associated with the mustard plant due to strong farming traditions, particularly its distinct yellow flower, which has long been a feature of faith folklore. Since the November 1984 pogrom in Punjab, India, it has come to symbolise the multiple genocides against the Sikh youth.

All three Abrahamic faiths use the mustard seed as a parable. Jewish faith compares the size of the universe to a mustard seed to show our mortal insignificance for humility. Christianity has the same metaphor, but here it is used to demonstrate that something insignificant can grow into “a tree, and the birds of the air made nests in its branches.” (Luke 13:19).

There are multiple references to the Mustard seed in Islam, both in the Quran and the Hadith (the teachings of the Prophet Mohamed as narrated by companions). Like the two faiths before Islam, Khardal or mustard seeds are once again described as the smallest of all seeds that carry significant meanings. Mentioned twice in the Quran, to signify that nothing goes unnoticed by Allah, even if it weighs as little as a mustard seed (Surah Luqman, verse number 16), and the second mention is in Surah Al-Anbiyah, which is a commentary on justice and accountability on the Day of Judgment, such that no soul will be wronged at all.

And if there is (an act) the weight of a mustard seed, We will bring it forth (- Surah Al-Anbiya, verse 47).

There are multiple references to mustard in the Hadith, and the most well-known is narrated as follows:

“No person will enter Hell who has a mustard seed’s worth of faith in his heart, and no person will enter Paradise who has a mustard seed’s worth of pride in his heart.” - Abdullah ibn Mas’ud

Given the extensive references across faiths in the ancient world, it’s evident that mustard was ubiquitous yet prized.

Ancient History

It is unclear where and when mustard originated, but there is strong evidence of its migration throughout human history. Most likely beginning life as a wild species, the earliest archaeological record of human use comes from Syria’s Jerf el Ahmar site, where Neolithic peoples ground mustard seeds into cakes. The first cultivation, around 5000 BCE, emerged in multiple regions of the world, including China, the Indian subcontinent (in the Indus Valley, present-day Pakistan), and later Bronze Age Switzerland. Ancient civilisations quickly recognised mustard’s versatility. Ancient Egyptians incorporated mustard into culinary preparations and placed mustard seeds in the tomb of Pharaoh Tutankhamun, demonstrating its cultural significance. The spice rapidly spread through ancient trade networks. Assyrian texts document cultivation in Mesopotamia, while Phoenician maritime traders distributed mustard throughout Mediterranean settlements. The plant’s medicinal properties were equally valued: the Greeks used mustard poultices for scorpion stings and lung infections, establishing therapeutic traditions that would persist for millennia. Medical applications pioneered and documented by the Greek physicians were first translated into Arabic and later into medieval texts.

A legendary exchange between Alexander the Great and Darius III illustrates mustard’s ancient association with strength: when the Persian king sent sesame seeds representing his vast army, Alexander responded with mustard seeds symbolising both quantity and fierce potency.

The Romans were the first to prepare mustard as a condiment. Columella documents a recipe using crushed seeds and vinegar. With the spread and legalisation of the Christian faith, a mandate on mustard cultivation helped to spread its use within Europe. French Benedictine monasteries commercialised production. By 1292, mustard condiment-making became recognised as a guild profession, known as moutardiers. It is in this time period that Dijon emerged as Europe’s mustard capital, a reputation cemented when Pope John XXII appointed his nephew, the Grand Moutardier du Pape, for Dijon.

With the advent of printing and cookbooks during Renaissance Europe, recipes using mustard spread even further. Due to the lack of flavour and the availability of other spices as a luxury, a typical English household in the 15th Century is believed to have consumed vast quantities of mustard.

It is also in this period that the European age of colonisation began, driven by a monopoly over the spice trade, and mustard arrived in the region of its first cultivation, Goa, India, as a condiment, brought by the Portuguese. However, it may have been used as a condiment in West Bengal and Assam simultaneously. Elsewhere, it spread to North America, reaching present-day Canada with the French, and Spanish missionaries created El Camino Real, a golden flower trail, by scattering seeds along their mission paths in present-day California. Within the Americas, indigenous peoples adopted the plant, using it for medicinal purposes and giving it spiritual significance due to its association with healing and transformation. Indigenous peoples also believed that carrying a small bag of mustard seeds could bring good luck or protection against harm. Centuries later, this trail has had a destructive impact on the indigenous plants, such that Black Mustard in the region is now considered a weed.

By the time of the Industrial Revolution, its oil form was used as a fuel for street lamps in major European cities.

Because recorded history is from a conqueror’s perspective, there are significant gaps in detailed written records of mustard’s use at this time in the non-European, non-Christian world. However, strong oral storytelling practices and the passing of traditions through generations, as well as its metaphysical and healing properties, have led to the continuous cultivation of the mustard plant, particularly in South Asia.

Modern and contemporary Cultures

Communities with a strong agricultural background organise around crop cultivation, so its harvest is part of farming life. Punjab, on both sides of the 1947 partition lines, in India and Pakistan, is particularly associated with mustard cultivation, which is present in multiple facets of everyday life.

It’s a life cycle that my family has adopted. However, not Punjabi but now living within modern-day Punjab, Pakistan, my people, the Balochis, have forged a rootedness and a connection to the vitality of the lands that gave us a home after centuries of nomadic migrations, displacement through climate instability and conflicts that have pushed eastwards towards the farming lands of Punjab. Today, my maternal lineage is proud growers of legumes (chickpeas), wheat, and, of course, mustard. My grandparents’ village is a small, unassuming yet lively part of the country where the borders of Punjab, Balochistan, and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa intersect. Every January, there is a buzz around mustard greens, to be devoured after being turned into saag, with generous heaps of ghee. Come February, March, the fields are a glowing sea of gold flowers, ready for sonnets recitation in their honour, and then the harvest comes, April onwards till early June. Mustard seeds are dried for use as a spice or turned into oil, which may have multiple uses, from culinary to medicinal. One of the uses of oil is making achar (a broad term for a spicy preserve) to be enjoyed year-round. In my family, the fruits of choice are carrot, lasoda (glue berry) and mango (the crop cultivated by my parental lineage, which also assimilated Balochis to Southern Punjab).

This is likely the story of many families in Punjab, and one that has been a bridge in moments of deep longing and homesickness. My friend Rabia’s family are from Sialkot in Punjab but now live in Oslo, Norway. Much like my family, they too have a connection to the farms and growing mustard. We met and lived together in Hungary, where we both went to university. We adopted each other as our own to feed the homesickness. Everything Rabia cooks deserves its own essay, but her saag is legendary. It is her mother’s recipe, and it perfectly highlights the ingenuity that comes from migration so far away from one’s home comforts. Part of the Brassica family, mustard is a close relative of broccoli (which grows more abundantly in Europe through the autumn and winter months), making it an excellent substitute for mustard greens at this time of year for making Saag. While there is no comparison to the real thing, this is a very close alternative that will turn any sceptic into a convert. It appears that Rabia and her family aren’t the only ones doing this!

Across the border to the other side of Punjab, in India, another one of my university friends, Keerat’s family are Sikh Jats, an agricultural people. They, too, have a strong connection to farming, binding communities together through festivals, particularly Lohri, one of the first festivals marking the harvest of winter crops. At Lohri, the farmers thank God by lighting a bonfire and seeking His blessings for a successful harvest. It is a rich Punjabi festival, featuring traditional dances, songs, and, of course, the backbone of it all: food. Sarsoon (mustard) ka Saag is a star dish of this festival because it is made when the mustard fields aren’t yet in bloom, and the tender greens are ripe for the taking, cooked into a hearty dinner served alongside maki (maize flour) ki roti on a chilly winter’s night bonfire. While Keerat’s family now lives in Canada, the communal joys of this time of year live on through their family gatherings, which I have been privy to on many occasions since living together in Hungary during university.

The mustard fields of Punjab, India, are associated with spring, Basanat, and romance thanks to cinematic depictions in multiple Bollywood films. An entire generation of not only Indians but also other South Asians grew up with Shah Rukh Khan, the ultimate 90s heartthrob lover boy, romancing his leading ladies on screen in mustard fields. The most recognised is Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge’s iconic song set against a sea of mustard flowers. While Bollywood portrays Punjab as a poetic utopia of love and laughter, the mustard fields also hold sorrows and painful memories for Sikh farmers. Sikhs have suffered three genocides during their short 600-year history, and during the most recent, 1984 pogrom in India, mustard fields became the site of a killing ground for thousands of young Sikhs. It is against the backdrop of this tragedy that many Sikh families were displaced or immigrated to Canada, building a rich cultural identity in their new home, which included strong farming community traditions and values.

Such is a story of a similar tragic fate, befalling another community within South Asia. In the aftermath of unimaginable horrors of a violent separation of East and West Pakistan into Bangladesh and the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. Fleeing for safety and better life prospects, the Bengali people found themselves in the belly of the Empire in the UK. They, too, brought with them the flavours and traditions of home. Mustard is the backbone of Bengali cuisine, often the main cooking oil.

My friend Lisa’s Maa, haling from border town of Rajshahi, Bangladesh, uses both oil and seed, with onion garlic and panch phoron (a Bengali spice mix fenugreek, nigella, cumin, fennel, and mustard seeds) to create a “subtle tanginess” to any dish, be it a daal, or vegetables such as aubergine, potato and peas, spinach, or pumpkin. Like families in Punjab, communities in Rajshahi have their own customs surrounding mustard harvest. One that Lisa’s Maa narrates is the arrival of fresh mustard from the fields, ready to be dried and turned into oil. The first batch was received by the elders, who then distributed it to siblings and younger family members.

Whereas, another friend, Rahmia, whose family are from Sylhet, muses that mustard scents her childhood, marking the beginning and end of summer with fond memories of her mother, growing and harvesting the plant in her tiny East London garden. Shorshe or Lai Fatha is an integral part of regional Northern Eastern Sylheti dishes. Prepping and finely chopping it raw, with chillies, to add to sautéed onions and garlic, and grilled mackerel in a warm salad, Lai Fatha Satni, to be eaten with boiled rice. Another way is to cook the fish in a curry, with green mustard leaves folded in. Rahima now keeps her mother’s traditions going by growing mustard at home and sharing it with her Gujarati and Pakistani neighbours.

Across the border into Kolkata, West Bengal, India, my friend Ishita (with an aptly named Instagram handle, withmustard_uk), a mother herself, also describes mustard as the key flavour arsenal in her Bengali family’s kitchen. For her too, the mustard oil is the first choice for frying, marinating and finishing a dish. Fish being an integral part of Bengali cuisine, it is no surprise that a mustard seed-containing marinade plays a role, and the one Ishita describes uses soaked mustard seeds ground into a bata (paste), with salt, green chilli, fresh coconut and yoghurt to coat prawns and fish for steamed dishes like Bhapa Ilish. She often documents her family dinners on her Instagram, including how she has adapted a traditional dish to her daughter’s flavour preferences, creating a prospective culinary archive.

Kasundi relish made from fermented mustard seeds is not only a staple condiment to be enjoyed with meats, daal chawal or fried snacks, but it is also a cultural icon of Bengali pickles, known as the ‘queen of pickles’, due to its ability to last up to 20 years without spoiling. The historical and ritual significance of making Kasundi underscores its high status in Bengali cuisine. Traditionally, the preparation process began in winter with the mustard harvest, often starting on Akshay Tritiya, a day considered auspicious for new beginnings in the Hindu calendar, underscoring Kasundi’s association with prosperity. The mustard paste is dried in the sun to remove the bitterness and add pungency. other spices and fruit, other additions vary across West Bengal and Bangladesh, making each family and region’s version unique.

While my focus has been on the uses of mustard among the Punjabi and Bangladeshi communities, other communities also have their own ways of incorporating this important spice, which is grown across the region. In the process of speaking to friends and family about mustard, my long-standing disenchantment towards an English winter deepens. My seasonal depression has been getting worse with each calendar year, especially in February. I have considered this increasingly; is the reason for the separation from the land and these seasonal festivities that I feel a deficiency within my soul? That my February and spirits would be so much more uplifted should there be yellow fields of mustard flowers to set my sights on in winter? While pondering this question every winter, I console myself by cooking another mustard-heavy dish. Kadhi, a vibrant yoghurt stew tempered with spices in mustard oil, with pakoras folded in at the end to deliver a bright yellow colour and a sharp, tangy, rich flavour and eaten alongside simple boiled rice or a roti, depending on who you ask- flipping the script completely to rice in Punjab and roti in West Bengal (according to Ishita). It is genuinely a solace for sadness.

Outside the kitchen

Apart from being a visual feast for the eyes and a balm for the soul, mustard has long utilised for health and wellbeing. Mustard contains many bioactive compounds that confer antibacterial, anti-inflammatory, and antioxidant properties, which explain its widespread use in medicinal applications. It is still the oil of choice for hair and skin nourishment in parts of South Asia. In Nepal, it is popular for massage; in Bangladesh, India, and Pakistan, it is used in bridal pre-wedding rituals with turmeric on the skin and as a laxative.

Being part of the cruciferous family, along with broccoli, cabbage, and turnips, mustard greens are great for liver support. They are high in vitamins C and K, as well as in minerals such as magnesium, potassium, and zinc. Mustard leaves are also a source of dietary fibre, helping feed the bacteria, aid digestion, and support the elimination of toxins. Every variety of mustard is a source of bioactive chemicals, glucosinolates that, together with the other vitamins and minerals, promote health by acting as antioxidants, anti-inflammatory agents, and more. Glucosinolates are sulphur-rich byproducts of cruciferous plants that have shown promising anticancer properties. Mustard seeds are high in oils, which, depending on the variety, may be a good source of omega-3 fatty acids and Vitamin E, making them great anti-inflammatories and good for skin.

However, where there are benefits, there are also cautions and dangers. Mustard plant contains erucic acid, a monounsaturated fatty acid that accumulates in the body’s tissues. A diet containing large amounts of erucic acid can lead to hardening of blood vessels, which increases the risk of high blood pressure and heart disease. Consuming cruciferous or Brassicaceae plant products is not advised in people with thyroid conditions such as hypothyroidism or Hashimoto’s thyroiditis, due to their potential to impair thyroid function and enlarge the thyroid gland by activating goitre-producing glucosinolates, such as thiocyanate.

In the 21st Century, mustard oil has been converted into biodiesel for use in the aviation and farming industries to power tractors and other equipment. With an ever-growing energy crisis and climate change issues surrounding fossil fuels, mustard may become a vital energy source. However, while there is scientific interest, there isn’t a substantial financial backing to make this a viable alternative fuel. The focus, particularly in Western capitalist frameworks, remains on fossil fuels and mustard farming, which is done in a monocrop extractive manner, leading to detrimental climate consequences. Where there is community, folklore and festival, closely interwoven into most Eastern farming practices, in the West, however, mustard farming has been reduced to a sterile, profit-maximising practice. Temperate climate conditions are best for mustard growing; yet the largest grower in the Western Hemisphere is Canada. As climate change and soil conditions worsen, the mustard crop, while resilient, faces a precarious future. So, once again, industries are looking eastwards. In recent times, Nepal has been the largest producer of mustard for commercial use. However, the monocrop models introduced are likely to have detrimental consequences for local communities and ecosystems that still live in harmony with the seasons and other beings around them. Whispers of this change are already brewing; as the world gets connected and closer than ever, the flavour preferences are shifting amongst younger generations. Other oil sources are increasingly replacing mustard oil, and spice combinations are increasingly produced industrially. Younger generations don’t have time for grinding spices, pickling, or making condiments. Yet, we are seeing a movement towards preserving heritage and reconnecting to roots, particularly amongst a subset of the South Asian diaspora and beyond. Will they become pollinators to keep the crops going and traditions going for a new era? My optimism says, yes.

When you think of mustard, you don’t think of spice, love, religion, genocide, or renewable energy. Yet it’s a spice deeply tied to various expressions of life, particularly in many South Asian cultures.

“The seed travelled with migrants, spread through trade networks, transformed alongside technological revolutions, and adapted to each era’s needs—from Roman banquet tables to medieval monastery gardens, and from Victorian medicine cabinets to modern biodiesel refineries. The mustard seed’s history is inseparable from the history of agriculture itself, marking key transitions from foraging to farming, from artisanal production to industrialisation, and from traditional crops to climate-resilient alternatives for an uncertain future.” – Brian D. Colwell.

References

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Bhangwar, S., Luhur, M.R., Walasai, G.D. and Alghamdi, T.A.H. (2024). Impact of mustard biodiesel and clove oil additives on particulate matter emission and carbon deposition in diesel engines. Frontiers in Energy Research, 12. doi:https://doi.org/10.3389/fenrg.2024.1395545.

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In October, I went to my friend Zeina's home in South London on one of those golden autumnal days, when the sun shines over you. We had coffee and made Kaek be Zet, a bread made as part of a grieving ritual that honours the person who has passed away and as a Sadagah (a charity on behalf of on behalf of the deceased) in her hometown of Nablus, Palestine. I left that day with many emotions because our conversation was so enriching. The bread-making was a cathartic experience, but what lingered in my senses were the aromas of Palestinian olive oil, harvested in autumn and used abundantly in this recipe, and the spices we used to make the bread. The bread is spiced with sesame seeds (one of oldest forms of spice), fenugreek seeds, anise seeds, mahlab, and fennel seeds. The bread's spice profile has stayed with me.

Zeina and I met, like most of my adulthood friends these days, on the Internet after she DM'd me on Instagram towards the final stages of publishing the print version of Wataan's first issues (currently sold out, working on reprint asap) to contribute her entry, the recipe for Kaek Be Zet. Her recipe, while a last-minute addition to the publication, sits proudly in the middle, completing the story of bread in its many iterations within Palestinian culture.

Since our first online encounter, Zeina and I have often shared many ideas and conversations on Instagram, ranging from heavy topics like the violence that occupation brings to our homelands (hers, Palestine, and mine, Balochistan) to lighter topics like what we are currently reading. And it is this exchange of reading material that has been the final key to the project I am about to embark upon over the coming months. In one such exchange, we shared our frustration with the lack of good writing about spices. At the time, Zeina was reading a book on spice about the nutmeg trade, called Nathaniel's Nutmeg by Giles Milton. Our conversation spurred me on a quest of my own, to find all the writing on spice and here is what I discovered (to my deep frustration); that the story of spice whenever its told has focused chiefly on the European experience making the Age of Discovery a focal point, that the authors are primarily white men of an academic background and always leave out the soul of spice in their works. These stories focus on the juicer spices like nutmeg, mace, cloves, and pepper (all reasons for the Age of Discovery and the European empires), with others mostly ignored or mentioned in passing. I also went looking for other sources- podcasts, documentaries, and academic. I came back to a similar situation. As you can imagine, I was disappointed and dissatisfied by the lack of resources, since spices have played such a role in the daily human experience since antiquity, in fields such as cuisine, medicine, cosmetics, religion, and festivals.

Two exceptions to this are Dr Anna Sulan Masing's Taste of Place podcast for Whetstone Radio Collective on the Sarawak pepper, which has remained at the top of the podcast recommendations almost four years since I first listened to it. The other is Amitav Ghosh's work, his fictional works via his Ibis Trilogy which touches on the spice trade, set on the island of Mauritius and his most recent nonfiction work Nutmeg's Curse that tells the story of spice such that it centres the indigenous populations and the impacts of European landings on their door steps to monopolise the spice trade and maximise profits. He also writes of the human interconnectedness to the Earth, which was all but forgotten by other authors writing about spices.

I came to Ghosh's work a couple of years ago through another one of my Instagram adulthood friends, Selen. Like Zeina, she DM'd me. It was while I was travelling around Mauritius in early 2024. On that particular day, I had spent the day on a spice farm, where I was staying with a family of Vanilla farmers. She replied to my story on the farm, recommending Ghosh's work.

I had booked my trip to Mauritius as a treat for myself after completing my postgraduate training in periodontology, and it was intended to serve as a reset before beginning my PhD on a topic relating to the oral microbiome, nutrition and human behaviour at UCL in London. However, after a lifetime and adulthood dedicated to academia, I had become disenchanted with the Western academic experience. The flame that once burned bright in my spirit had worn to near extinguishing. I loved learning about nutrition and human health, but continuing on this path felt self-serving. On that trip to Mauritius I realised that I was exhausted, needing an extended period of rest, and that I wanted to continue on this path, but not along a conventional route. I remember writing this in my journal the day I was leaving the farm. I didn't think or do anything actively, except that I delayed the beginning of the PhD till the following year, and then again last year. At the end of last year, I made the decision to am no longer pursue the PhD; instead, I will embark on this even bigger project, Stories of Spices, which will be at the intersection of all my interests and skill sets. Writing this feels great because, on the one hand, it’s a closure that was needed for so long, and, on the other hand, it thrills me about work in a way I haven't felt for so long.

I hope to bring in collaborators in the form of academics, healthcare and nutrition professionals, writers, poets, photographers, artists, farmers, chefs and any human who has something to share about spices and wants to contribute to such a project (please do get in touch if this is you).

Last year, I had a taster for such collaborative work when I brought to life a salon on the migration of the potato with Colombian artist and creative Laura, the founder of Hito studio. Together, we hosted a Sunday Salon: the Potato, which was part art installation, part academic research coming to life, part food curiosity, and, most importantly, the story of the migration of a humble staple crop which left its home in the Andes of South America to arrive at the farms of South Asia. Travelling in the European hands of our colonisers, the potato changed the gastronomy of every cuisine it encountered from origin to destination. Like all migrants, the potato was initially mistrusted and then embraced to the point that local cultures seem incomplete without it. Many people I speak to are surprised to learn that the potato didn't originate in Europe or Asia. During my research for this project, I went deep into the different ways in which empanadas, the potato-filled beloved Latin American snack, are made. We were serving them alongside the beloved South Asian snack, samosa. It quickly transpired that as potatoes (and other native Americans like the chilli or tomatoes) were travelling East towards Asia, spices were travelling West towards the Americas. Together, these migrations have created the foods we know and love, like empanadas and samosas.

As I write this, the world is in an upheaval, and a man of European descent is once again threatening the safety of the people in South America to monopolise control and maximise profits of a local resource. In the fifteenth century, it was over spices; today, it is over fossil fuels. Today, migrants fleeing their lands made inhabitable through political instability, genocides, multiple wars, resource exploitation and climate insecurity are either exploited for cheap labour akin to modern-day slavery or scapegoated and vilified, with their plight weaponised for political gain. Suffering a similar fate to the indigenous inhabitants of the Spice Islands, the Indian subcontinent, and Africa during the Age of Discovery. It is the same story in many ways. However, for the first time, there are tools at the disposal of people of colour and the marginalised in the form of technology and its reach, our interconnectedness on the Internet, and the willingness and ability to commit our stories to writing and to artworks. I plan for this project to contribute to the human record in the form of historical archives, which I hope will eventually be accessible in languages other than English. 

I have ambitious long-term plans, but for now, I hope to share a monograph, history and stories of their migration and evolution, alongside health links (where applicable) for you to get to know the highlighted spice in a way that de-centres European discovery and re-centres indigenous people and lands. The aim is to create a complete picture from its origin to its current status in contemporary life within cooking, human nutrition and health as the primary focus.

Looking back, Selen played a role in planting the seeds for this project. Laura's collaboration and artistry were instrumental in cultivating the blueprint for how I anticipated a project like this could come to life. And Zeina was the one who gave me the final push towards fruition. From Colombia to Turkey, Palestine and back to Pakistan, I travelled to many places with the help of these three women in search of my next big body of work, and I want to thank each of them. I want to dedicate the beginnings of this project to them.

I have spent the last ten days in Saudi Arabia (KSA). While it was mainly for Umrah and downtime, I did spend a little time walking within a few malls and bazaars, primarily because in the Muslim holy cities of Makkah and Madinah, it is impossible to eat or go for prayer without passing by retail opportunities. I am no expert on civic planning and city infrastructure, but it becomes quickly apparent that these areas of devotion are designed to encourage consumerism- the shops and malls are closer to the mosques than any hotels or amenities like an emergency response centre. Places to eat have limited seating, arranged in a grab-and-go or fast-food style manner. Everything is designed to spend money. There are even memes, reels, and TikTok poking fun at this (my current algorithm is all this content).

I will refrain from sharing my opinions on the need for capitalism when the primary reason for visiting both cities is spiritual. Instead, I’ll focus on sharing the emotional side, the discomfort, and the overwhelming sense of dread I felt as I walked past shops. There is a feeling of obligation that comes over oneself with a need to bring back presents, yet the shops are filled mostly with cheaply made stuff of exploitative labour (most likely) from India and China. There is also jewellery, particularly gold, for which KSA is famous, but that too is likely sourced from extractive colonial practices. I considered buying non-gold gemstone jewellery to give to friends, but walked out of the shops in fury after discovering that the sources of these too were unethical. I don’t want to single out KSA because most of the world’s economic systems are based on extractive capitalism. It’s nearly impossible to escape this conundrum, so I have this feeling for the last few years wherever I go. However, it’s heightened since October 2023, when I amped up my efforts to boycott economies complicit in genocides to extract resources for capitalism. I have only brought back Saudi dates and Zam-Zam holy water to give as gifts to friends and loved ones. A feeling of guilt hangs over me because this feels inadequate, and I must keep reminding myself that this is how the system is designed for me to spend and consume.

I’d also like to touch on my personal experience in my efforts to boycott for ethical and political reasons, with an anecdote about my winter coat, which I bought on my last trip to New York in the winter of 2019 (which feels like a lifetime ago). It’s from a now non-existent Korean brand called ‘EARLGREY_PEOPLE (creations_seoul) and I bought it in the Frankie Shop store on the Lower East Side. It’s tailored and drapes beautifully around the body. It fulfils both aesthetic and functional criteria to a point of satisfaction. I found it on an unexpected morning while I was waiting for a lunch table at the café next door. As soon as my eye caught sight of it from the window, there was an internal signal that told me we were meant to be together. Love at first sight (and wear). It was a completely impulsive purchase that set me back a few hundred dollars. The initial dopamine hit and the subsequent endorphins from each wear have made it one of the best investments. This coat has had many lives and we have had great times together.

However, here lies my dilemma: when I need to find a replacement, because even the most well-made product has an expiry date, and I will need a replacement soon because this one is starting to wear out. Ever since I began actively participating in boycotts, my joy in sourcing clothes and shopping has been replaced by apathy. It is like a mask has been lifted from my eyes, and everything in the shops feels the same, and I don’t want to engage. When I set out to disengage with consumerism (back in 2021 but ramped up in 2023), I anticipated that I would return to binge due to deprivation. Instead, it went the other way- my desire has withered into nothingness such that when I do need to make a purchase, for buying essentials or presents for others, I can’t even stomach a search without anxiety, like I have felt shopping in KSA. It’s like a satiety gene has been switched on, and I can’t seem to regulate the imbalance.

I still love beautiful things, for my home, myself, and to give away to others (in fact, buying things for other people and getting them just right used to bring me an infinite amount of joy, although I do wonder lately if it was a form of validation I was seeking, a topic of exploration for another time). My approach has changed, and I now don’t go looking for stuff. I let things find me instead, and I buy from the makers directly (see my collection of tiny bags bought in Mauritius, Sicily, and Japan above). I buy gifts in the form of edible variety, which contribute back to communities in areas of occupation and land injustice. While well-meaning, I know, long-term, that my approach isn’t sustainable. Towards the end of last year, and it will continue this year, I am trying to get the balance back. Because when your winter coat is tearing in places and boots are breaking at the soles (despite both of them being repaired a few times ), and your running shoes have holes, letting a perfect replacement find its way to you can’t be the only approach. Repairing a torn item is excellent and gives similar dopamine hits as buy a new item may do, and vintage shopping is an alternative which has served me well for statement pieces but this approach won’t work for everything and even the best-made product will have an expiry date.

This post feels self-indulgent. However, I wanted to write about this because I usually find clarity by committing my thoughts to words and by opening up a conversation about how different people are approaching similar conundrums. I don’t have answers, and my life is a constant quest for clarification. I am constantly seeking a better approach and deeply curious about how others tackle an issue I have been struggling with.

We can’t escape the deep depths of capitalism we find ourselves in, so we have to make it work in a way that eventually lets us break free. I wanted to begin the year with something which has been playing at me for over a year, in an effort to engage people in conversation on the matter of how we go from here- our collective efforts to boycott at advanced level are beginning to show some success and as time goes on more people will engage into this movement but what’s the next step for when we need to buy stuff for the reasons I outline here?

I didn’t think I would write another newsletter till early next year because 2025 is supposed to be a year of rest and relaxation. I aimed to keep a slower, calmer pace in December. However, anyone who does December in the West and Northern Hemisphere knows that December is neither slow nor calm. Instead, we all get pushed onto a conveyor belt of deadlines at an accelerated speed on the countdown to the final week before the year ends.

This recipe is an integral part of this year’s story and ties into what I would primarily love to focus on in the newsletter early next year- the migration of our foods and ingredients, along with the stories that are carried with them. Who gets to tell these stories? How do they translate in a country that had an empire built for the sole purpose of exploitation of goods and people, but also for the monopolising control of access to resources in parts of the world they had no business being in? What happens to the foods of migrants when their safety and future hang in a precarious balance in a place they call home?

Earlier in the summer, American influencer chef Chloe Walsh, who goes by Chloe Cooks on Instagram, came to London and Europe. During her stay, she had lunch at Leila Shop on Calvert Avenue in East London, where she ate Chef Alex Jackson’s ‘Keema Muttar’. All fine so far, and I got a bit excited to see a traditional Pakistani / South Asian dish on a very white café’s menu. However, it got weird when Chloe implied that this dish is a genius creation of Chef Alex, a white man who cooks from whichever culture inspires him (according to him, as per our DM exchange). A discomfort fell over me as I watched Chloe’s Instagram, and I thought about sending her a DM. I held off because I’m often the one in people’s DM’s having these conversations, and the emotional labour is always high. So I did what most people would do, I got annoyed, bit my tongue and moved on.

Chloe spent the entire summer travelling and cooking through Europe, sharing dishes on Instagram and being very specific about their origins by region, while being celebrated and applauded by other women around her. I didn’t pay any attention to what Alex Jackson did over the summer because he’s a white man and his life is of very little interest to me.

Cut to August, and I wrote up a recipe for Keema Aloo Muttar. In the same week, Chloe shared a post on her Instagram (which is no longer on her feed) featuring a Keema Muttar she had cooked, and unlike the recipe from her European travels, there is no mention that this dish is of South Asian origin. Instead, she again credits Alex Jackson. The timing was bad because I was writing up my recipe when I saw her Instagram post, and, having spent an entire summer watching her stories, my frustration boiled over into something closer to anger. I share this on Instagram stories. I didn’t hear anything back from Chloe for a little while, but Alex was in my DMs. My knowledge of him is very basic, and while I’ve followed his work on Instagram, I have only eaten his food once. I did know that he had an inflammatory exchange with someone else I follow on Instagram regarding the future Leila Shop earlier this year. He was on the defensive. He argued that he is just a chef who loves to cook food from all over the world, and that he grew up in the Midlands around Pakistani people, so he loves to cook the dishes he ate with his mates. This seems innocent enough. However, he fails to grasp that he was not the party under attack; he also fails to take responsibility as a non-marginalised individual in a position of privilege.

The food world is increasingly appropriating from migrant cuisines, and the talk of cultural erasure through theft of food and arts is at an all-time high in the backdrop of migrants being scapegoated by the government. In an effort to seem cool and stay continually on trend, there is a tendency to revert to the age of discovery style behaviour amongst chefs and food content creators. While this may not be important to a white chef, in fact, it benefits them greatly because they come out on top, appearing to have been the first to share their exotic discovery with their unknowing followers. However, these dishes and the stories that surround them matter to the communities that brought them to the West. In some cases, this dish may be the only connection a family has left to their homelands or their heritage.

When I did hear back from Chloe, she, too, did not seem to grasp the responsibility she had in sharing the dish’s origins. She did, however, change her caption, removing Alex as the origin of Keema Muttar and adding words about Pakistan (before removing the post altogether).

I do not know either chef beyond their Instagram accounts, and my aim is not to single them out (there is also another story about two white chefs involving chicken tikka, but that is for next year). I have friends in common with both Alex and Chloe—friends whose opinions I respect and cherish. I have been assured that neither party would willingly appropriate (which I believe). However, my frustration lies in the fact that neither appreciated the extra mile of responsibility that comes with the foods we cook and share that do not belong to our culture.

Dishes aren’t just food, and recipes aren’t just instructions. They are a family history and heritage. In some cases, the only artefact left behind. Produce isn’t just ingredients; it is a connection to the land. In some cases, the only thing tying someone to their origins is. When we cook through other people’s recipes, it needs care and respect. When we use produce grown in different parts of the world, we need to appreciate the hands that grow it, the people who transport it to us, and the shopkeeper who stocks and sells it with pride. It might just be mince meat (keema) or spices to us, but it could be someone’s whole world, and history. It might just be a comforting curry in your eyes, but it’s the love of a grandparent carrying someone through a hard time.

I love Italy, especially the South, Sardinia and Sicily and fresh produce and how people are connected to the land. It reminds me of Pakistan, where we also live with the seasons and from and by the land.

I spent last spring in Sicily, going to markets and cooking at a little farmhouse homestay that is Insta-famous (incidentally, Chloe also cooked here this summer). In fact, my friend Yohan and I opened the season there last year, and we had a great time being challenged creatively and inspired by the people, produce, and landscape.

Now imagine I came home and produced a cookbook on Sicilian cuisine, or ran supper clubs featuring dishes from Sicily, without mentioning the sources of the produce or the inspiration. I wouldn’t be able to do it justice because while it’s similar and familiar, it’s not my story to share and write about. Nor do I want to write about it when I know so many accomplished Italians who are the most skilful artists in the kitchen and articulate storytellers. If and when I do write about Italian cuisine, it’ll be with the care that does justice to the people who have been cooking these dishes for generations.

I had one of the best gelatos of my life in Catania, a toasted Sicilian almond flavour. Now I wouldn’t dare try to replicate it because the flavour is of the land and the hands that know the produce and techniques intimately.

So why is it okay for white chefs to go to places like Italy or Greece or even places further east and south to come back and create entire bodies of work lifted from these cultures?

In fact, when I was in Sicily, I saw so many white people ‘researching’ projects they would undertake once they returned home. I’ve also seen this happen in Morocco and Bali. When does inspiration become appropriation? What’s the boundary? I’m perpetually perplexed because it’s a fine line, and I never seem to have the correct answer. However, for me, it’s always about centring the people and the source.

If you made it this far, I will now begin where I wanted to start in the summer, but got sidetracked by the extra emotional labour. Had I intentionally let it slide, how long before our cuisine is reduced to an unrecognisable version of itself, or, worse, claimed entirely by the West? Such is the case with so many cultures, but the most stark example in our times is Israel’s theft of Palestinian culture, and a close second is probably many North African dishes being sold to us as French. More on all this homogenisation and fictionalisation of food origins next year, for now, I share Keema Aloo Muttar.

Keema Aloo Muttar is a cherished dish in our home, and in many homes across South Asia, particularly Pakistani homes. Like many meat dishes in the Subcontinent, it reached our lands through the Mughal rulers and may have an ancestor dish in Persian, Central Asian or Turkish cuisine. Of course, these cuisines married the richness of South Asian spices such as black pepper, cloves, and cinnamon, along with coriander and cumin, to become the dishes that exist in kitchens today, particularly within predominantly meat-eating Muslim communities in Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka. Add to this that these dishes travelled with South Asian migrants to the West in a steady stream since the British Empire broke up. So the dish has evolved further (i.e., the addition of tomato puree and frozen peas are all contemporary conveniences)

I’m going to keep the recipe as an instruction (mom style).

For the ingredients you will need – keema (mince meat), an onion finely chopped, crushed garlic and ginger, a blob of tomato puree, chopped tomatoes or a couple of finely chopped tomatoes in summer, a couple of potatoes cubed, and some frozen peas, a dollop of yogurt, finely chopped fresh coriander, a couple of fresh green chillies, some cooking oil of choice and the spices – cumin seeds, black peppercorns, couple of cloves, a cinnamon stick, a black cardamom, bay leaf, cumin powder, coriander powder, chilli flakes, chilli powder, and salt to taste.

For method: heat a pan (with a lid) and toast cumin seeds, cloves, bay leaf, cinnamon stick, black cardamom, and black peppercorns (should take a couple of minutes). Add the oil and heat till the spices begin to sizzle. Cook the onions until they are somewhere between translucent and caramelised. Add garlic and ginger, tomato puree, tomatoes, and the keema. Fry the meat until brown, and then add all the remaining spices and the yoghurt. Stir to coat the spices, then add the potatoes and a splash of water, and cover with the lid to cook until the meat is tender and the potatoes are soft. At the end, add the peas and cook for a further 5 minutes until the peas are just tender. Garnish with the fresh coriander and green chilli. Serve immediately or warm if reheating. Pairs well with either bread, or rice, a little dollop of yoghurt and some achar (pickles) to cut through the fattiness of the keema.

Hope the end of the year is one of restfulness and reflection. I’m really looking forward to the next year and to sharing a project that’s been brewing for a little while.

This was supposed to be a year of rest and relaxation after a life of being a doer but it ended up being a year of life’s greatest lessons. Lately, feel like my current life or rather the life I had a year ago, no longer fits me anymore. Out of the many learning and unlearning, these are the top five to take into the next year.

1. Boxing oneself into a single category is to calcify.

There are no limits to what one can achieve in life. Our life story isn’t tied to one path. My professional life began as a dentist at the tender age of 15 when I went in to my family dentist in Castleknock, Dublin on a work experience week and ended up getting a job which saw me through various stages within dentistry- reception assistant, dental nurse, dental student, maxillofacial surgery SHO, community dental services, associated dentist, postgraduate dental student, periodontist, lecturer and clinical teacher. I’ve lived many lives just within the dental profession.

I maintain I love dentistry but what I truly love is humans- their bodies, minds, emotions, and wellbeing. We are such a deeply complex and fascinating species. Out of this curiosity and drive to learn everything that is human stem all my other interests in life.

I also love food. To eat and feed. Food systems, food origins and food history but also food’s migration from sources of origins to places where it evolves to become something completely different all together.

At the dawn of my 30’s I discovered a love for writing. It is a perfect companion to my life long love affair with reading. Writing has made my life unimaginably richer. Its brought both clarity and comfort. Incidentally, I began writing as a way to process my thoughts and memories after I began long term therapy at the age of 30. It has taken me to wonderful places.

The last two years, my world opened up once more. To a pursuit that I have thus far been an observer but life draws you to places which are your destiny ( if you are paying attention). This time towards the world of art. I have had a deep appreciation for art and photography since a very young age. My art teacher in school was disappointed that I wasn’t pursuing it to a higher level in some form and I consoled her (and myself) with this; that dentistry is a form of art. This new avenue is still in its infancy but my recent collaboration with Hito Studio on Potatoes has given me a taster for where I’d like to take things.

Health, food, writing and art are all part of the human experience. Yet, people have said ( often behind my back) that having so many balls up in the air is a recipe for failure and that I need to stay in my lane. What exactly is my lane when there are so many outlets which make my soul sing with joy? I would also argue that it is always a great idea to not have all your eggs in one basket when we only get one chance at life.

2. How someone receives your love is not your problem.

This year has been a lesson in staying soft in the face of unkindest from people I knew to be my dearest friends and closest allies. It’ been a lesson in choosing love again and again which itself has been a unlearning, a few years in the making.

Over the course of the last two years, I have sat through many conversations on love being an act of resistance or a paucity of love in the world. However the same people are closed off to love sitting there in the room next to them. Problem isn’t the lack of love in this world, it’s the act of receiving the love that is all around us. How someone receives my love and kindness is not my problem.

My core is a hopeless romantic, and an eternal optimist. This year I really refused to let people starved of love dictate the way in my life, which lead to a mass exodus of people and a great deal of emotional pain.

One does not have to be perfect (I’ve come to learn that perfection is the tool of the oppressor, used to keep us down), but one does have to choose love and kindness everyday. If that makes people think you are an idiot and your love is unworthy, then the joke’s on them, because the wisest souls are always the kindest.

3. Growth is bittersweet.

There are no coincidences in life. Everything you encounter and everyone you encounter are in a string of serendipity. I have become more attuned to the clues from the universe as I have gotten older. I will find a book or a work of art at the just the right time, a trip will arrive as a moment of respite in life’s current dilemma. People will enter life in the most aligned moments.

There is so much synchronicity which our maker sends our way that when we pause and reflect, it’s a truly humbling experience.

However, the thing I’ve learned is to not hold on to current circumstances as a constant state. So, people may enter and leave, not everyone is a part of my entire life’s journey. A place might be home and then feel unfamiliar.

I lost my ring in October and felt like a part of me went missing. A devastatingly painful feeling. I have no attachment to materialistic things so the grief surprised me. Now I think I was mourning what the ring represents- the ring was a symbol of striving through no matter what life’s circumstances. I’ve made my peace with the material loss but the sentimental value of what the ring guided me through over the last five years is a bigger emotional loss which will take some time to overcome. I go to look down on it as a reassurance that everything will be okay and it’s no longer there. It’s like being thrust into an abyss.

As humans we love the path of familiarity and we are averse to change but the magic lies in letting life unfold in all its glory. We outgrow things, places and people, we evolve into a higher field such that its no longer a fit. This is a beauty of life, this bittersweet feeling of growth and I truly believe the ring has served its purpose in my life, such that I’m being propelled towards something far greater.

4. A seed sown may take many years to bloom and ripen into fruition.

I wrote in length on this previously. Your journey towards your future self begins even before you were born in the stories of your ancestors and in the lands which you belong to. This is somewhat related to lesson no 3- that life is ever expanding and transitioning. You may intend or plan to do something in life, but it may not reach it’s full potential for years.

Sometimes life hands you a bad card and there appears to be no silver lining in sight, yet it is these moments that need further marination, fermenting or germinating for your future self to reach a moment of peak.

5. Leaning into life with Tawakkul is a power move.

One of this year’s hidden themes turned out to be spiritual devotion. It began late last year at the cathedral in County Donegal on a trip back to Ireland. I have loved a Christmas time church visit to sit and reflect, light a candle for the coming year before leaving. A practice which was instilled within my Catholic Convent school upbringing and later in the church near my home in Hungary. I am not a Catholic and no one in my family is from the faith. Yet, I have found this practice to be soothing and nourishing but fell out of it in my 20s. However, going back brought back a feeling of peace to my soul. I can’t quite make out if this was a starting point to my eventual journey through spiritual practices of different faiths but in 2025, I got to witness and move through spirituality all over this planet. From Buddhist shrines forest walk in Nagano, Japan, to the devotion towards the Guru Granth Sahib, the central holy scripture of Sikhism at my close friend’s wedding in Canada and I hope to finish this year with an Umrah, the pilgrimage to Makkah for Muslims.

In the course of this year, coming so close to religious practices, my inner world has become louder. I used to find prayer and meditative practices anxiety inducing because I was terrified to confront my fears and limitations. However, for the first time in my life, it brings me inner peace.

In Islam, a central part of our belief system is Tawakkul. Which is an Arabic term meaning “to place trust” or “to rely,” especially on Allah and His plan. It involves making a sincere effort towards a goal and then entrusting the outcome to Allah. It is not passive resignation but an active process of taking all necessary steps while having complete faith that Allah will handle the rest. I have always believed in Tawakkul, but, this year was the first time, I practiced it with all my being. It truly feels like gaining a superpower, unburdening me from anxiety, and heaviness in way one does after deep rest and relaxation. It feels like an exhilarating place to end this year.

All images are from my trip to Japan in April, 2025- which in itself was a long time in the making and resulted in reaping and sowing seeds for many things in my life.

One of the most frequent conversations I had with people in 2016 during the Brexit campaign related to the origins of produce in our supermarkets, usually from Europe (or further afield). At the time, I lived and worked in Kettering, which voted overwhelmingly in favour of leaving. I was heartbroken by the results, but I wasn’t surprised, as I was aware of the local sentiment in the town where I lived. The morning after the election results were announced, a man approached me in the produce aisle while I was examining a Spanish watermelon and told me to leave the country. I told him I was Pakistani and Irish, and that I’m a dentist who pays a hefty tax bill to live in this country, and therefore I wasn’t going anywhere. However, the result would impact him in many negative ways, starting with his food and then everything else. I hate to say I was right, but it all proved to be true. For me, the conversation always begins with food, which is a basic human necessity.

Around the same time as Brexit, I was reading Helen Attlee’s The Land Where Lemons Grow, which tells the story of citrus fruits and how Sicily became the place most prominently associated with lemons, despite the origins of these citrus fruits being on the other side of the world. Most likely, South East Asia, most probably China, or the region now known as Myanmar. They were brought to Europe during the Arab Muslim rule, and this is how they ended up in Sicily.

Colonisation and imperialism connect most of the world in many ways. The produce and foods on our table are the most relatable form because we all eat for nourishment and survival as humans. However, we rarely stop to consider where this food originates or how far it has travelled to become part of our daily lives. A modern example of this phenomenon is the matcha culture that has taken the Western world by storm, causing such a burden on Japanese farms that most matcha now comes from industrial farming in other East Asian countries, where the traditional health benefits are stripped away. Yet, if we fast-forward to a few generations down the line, will they consider all this when having their daily cup? Do the current consumers consider all this?

In many ways, Attlee’s book was a turning point in my personal journey, and therefore, this work is a valuable contribution to my life. The book became a catalyst, but it’s possible that I was always destined to consider the interconnectedness, having done so when I studied dentistry; I had always had a restless yearning to know how oral health was linked to the rest of the body. It’s logical to connect the mouth and body. Still, you’d be surprised to learn that many doctors and dentists do not. Since reading The Land Where Lemons Grow, I’ve spent most of the last decade exploring various ways in which ingredients migrate, much like people, and become part of the local culture. I do this when I travel or in my professional life, such as when planning patient care or considering menu planning for my supper clubs.

I spent last spring in the Sicilian countryside as a chef-in-residence at the beautiful Casa Lawa. It’s situated on a former vineyard, now a cherry orchard. My days began with a granita and a coffee, followed by a visit to the local produce and fish market to source the ingredients for the day’s menu. Before beginning in the kitchen, there was a time to swim, sit and read or write by the sea.  The afternoons and early evenings were spent creating dishes for the dinner menu or teaching a cooking class. I thought a lot about Helen Attlee’s writing and lemons, which were abundant in the markets. I also thought a lot about produce in general and how some spices and nuts in a Sicilian grandmother’s kitchen are similar to those in my Pakistani grandmother’s kitchen. I thought about how luxurious this entire experience was, yet this is how humans are supposed to live; with the rhythms of nature, in seasonality and having time to reflect and create at the same time as produce and consume. I can say that my creative world and my heart expanded exponentially during my time at Casa Lawa.

It was under these blissful circumstances that I met Laura Hoyos, a Colombian multidisciplinary artist and creative based in London. She attended one of the cooking classes I was teaching. That particular class was on a version of pakoras, which are typically vegetable (usually potato) and gram flour (chickpea) fritters, one of the most popular snacks in Pakistan. They are traditionally eaten as an afternoon snack with chai (preferably on a rainy day) or during Ramadan at the breaking of the fast. Inspired by the local courgette flowers, which were in full bloom, and the gram flour used to make the Sicilian panelle, I wanted to stuff the flowers with potatoes and coat them in the savoury pakora batter before frying them. The universe was conspiring to create a perfect atmosphere for this cooking class; it was an unusually misty day of light rain, after a string of sunny, warm days.

Over the course of our time cooking and eating, Laura and I discussed potatoes and potato-themed snacks in her home country, Colombia, and my home country, Pakistan, as well as my childhood home in Ireland. Colonisation of all these lands brought the potatoes, an ingredient indigenous to the Andes in South America, towards South Asia and Ireland. A formidable inclusion to any dish and often the underrated star of many popular meals (i.e. in a biryani in South Asia), the potato has travelled a long way. In Ireland, the potato was used as a tool of colonisation and capitalism to fuel the peasants’ labour in mass production for the British Empire, and later as a weapon of starvation during the Irish Potato Famine, which came about as a consequence of extractive capitalist mono-farming.

My serendipitous meeting in the land of Attlee’s lemons began a conversation that has culminated in my upcoming collaboration with Hoyos in her East London creative studio, Hito, for a Sunday Salon: The Potato.  I will be joining her for an immersive afternoon exploring the migration and evolution of the potato, accompanied by some beloved snacks from all three regions. The potato is a humble tuber, but it’s a great equaliser for many of us worldwide, and I’m looking forward to expanding my knowledge even further with the stories and experiences from the attendees.  This is the beauty of the universe, that a seed sown may take many years to bloom and ripen into fruition. My journey began in 2016, against the backdrop of Brexit and an anti-immigration campaign, with a book on the migration of citrus fruits. It now rests on the migration of the potato, ironically still at the backdrop of anti immigration campaigns, because when it comes to colonialism and empire, scapegoating of immigrants is a mainstay.

When I was much younger, my mum took a big chunk of our minimal household income to give me swimming lessons. She seldom had the opportunity to swim, so she became deathly afraid of water. Still, she had the foresight and selflessness to sit in a leisure centre café for two hours weekly to ensure I could enjoy swimming.

I swam for many years as a child, and later I swam at school too. But on my way into that terrifying wave of adolescence, I fell out of love with it. I was more conscious of my body. I felt fat whenever I wore a swimsuit and didn’t want to dedicate the necessary care, products and time to my hair care. I moved on.

Swimming became something reserved only for holidays, and not really swimming. More bobbing around in the water to escape the heat, whilst keeping my hair wrapped firmly atop my head. I distinctly remember being on a boat in Greece with a big group of girls who, one by one, all jumped gloriously into the sea. This was being filmed, and I was the only one who declined because I was worried about how my body would look on camera. This is now one of my deepest regrets, not because I missed out on the experience itself but because of how much joy I deprived myself of for fear of how my body looked.

As with all losses of this nature, I lost the love of swimming gradually and without knowing it. I had chipped away at it so slowly and for so long that it stopped existing in my life.

This year, I have had a rough time nourishing myself. There are so many things I enjoy that sustain me daily—cooking, reading, and my morning coffee. I had become really good at both creating and observing the magnificent beauties in the world around me. This has often been the source of very necessary small mercies in dark times and infusions of additional joy in happier times. But as we all do, I went through a period where doing these things became an uphill battle, and I mean an actual fight, every day. A couple of weeks ago, my husband pushed me to join him for a swim. It was nothing glamorous, an indoor pool that was mostly quiet. The first few times, I made the usual excuses. “I am too tired”, “I don’t want to wash my hair”, “I don’t have time”. But on one occasion, primarily out of guilt that I had said no every time, I joined him.

It shook something in me, feeling the water gliding against my skin, and the weightlessness of my body was freeing. It wasn’t quite the same as swimming in the summer sea in Greece or as magnificent as swimming in Anfeh, Lebanon, earlier this year. But the act of being in the water and pushing myself from one end to the other with the skills my mother gave me brought me back to myself. I felt so grateful in that moment for my mother’s gift and the full use of my young working body. I can’t say I don’t care about how my body looks anymore (and this is a story for another day), but I promised to swim every week for as long as I can from now on. The joy of swimming has finally outweighed the fear of the perceived shortcomings of my body.

Of course, the bonus nourishment comes afterwards, in the particular type of satisfying exhaustion you feel in your body. And as we all know, anything you eat in that post-swim window has ten times its original glory. I like a plate of homemade, crispy, salty fries to nourish myself, particularly in the summer or after swimming or in the perfect storm of scenarios, after a summertime swim.

If you’d like to be a contributor to the nourishment feature, please get in touch.

Finding poetry in everyday life through catching the afternoon light on my daily walk.

Nourishing the body with daal chawal which is the most perfect meal.

Nourishing the soul with solo dates to different unexplored parts of London which feel like undiscovered cities to walk through, sit and sip coffee in the cafes, and exploring bookshops. Completely loved a trip to south London for bagel breakfast at my fave banook bagel, and a coffee at paper stories followed my a little spot of window home shopping and staying hours in independent book and vintage stores.

Nourishing the mind by taking time offline for extended periods of time to go on cinema dates and take a long walk home to digest, and coming home to rewatch scenes from Wong Kar-Wai’s ‘In the Mood for Love’ in solitude.

Next week’s nourishment will feature a contributor who will share their ways. If you’d like to be featured, please get in touch.

What happens to the playfulness of our childhood when we embark on adulthood?

Somewhere along the way, we lose our sense of being silly. Silly, playful, foolish, goofy or frivolous are all different ways to say one doesn't take things so seriously. But when the world around you is dark and failing, isn't silliness an act of rebellious defiance?

Rules, regulations and standards of clinical procedures dictate my professional life. It's a very contained life, which is necessary for safe practice, but it's a life that leaves your soul in a constant state of tension. I spend considerable time at work holding my breath, as if letting it out will unravel me and the systems within which I practice dentistry.

What happens when this playfulness is lost?

Isn't a hallmark of human development a playfulness in childhood to explore our emotions, learn new things, and create art? Whether it is the stories children make up (with their toys and imaginary friends) or drawings that they scribble (every surface is their canvas) or the friendships they forge? It's all silly, and it's all part of the human cognitive development—pure and from the heart.

What happens when one starts to take back this playfulness in adulthood?

It feels counterintuitive, a venturing off the train tracks because we have been conditioned to believe so. Being silly in adulthood is underrated, and it can be a source of shame for women, especially non-white women. Our existence is to serve the patriarchy, and for those of us who live away from our wataan, our homelands, our purpose is to serve the white society around us. If we take a step out of line, our white counterparts view us as girls, not women- seeing us as some underdeveloped beings (a very colonial viewpoint). We are considered unserious and therefore of no use or worse not worthy of their precious time and company. Yet, women of colour get some serious things done- we work to contribute to the economy, we have bills, we manage homes, we cook, we clean, we do the bulk of emotional labour of love, support our partners, we birth and we raise children, we care for ill parents, and are the main drivers of society’s social progress. So, being silly is a power move, especially in the company of other women who are our kin, companions and allies.

A few years ago, somewhere between the two lockdowns of the COVID-19 pandemic, I began to do the same. My soul decided to rebel, and slowly, I became sillier, embracing the lost wonder of childhood. Something magical happened; I attracted openness from those around me because I became curious like a child. As someone who had terrible social anxiety throughout my teenage and university years, this did wonders. People who walked into my life were the manifestation of my dreams to work with, be friends with, and fall in love with.

A big yes to silliness.

Every family has their weekend breakfast rituals. Ours was no different. It was my dad who made the weekend breakfast and it was aloo anda (some may call it aloo aur anday ki buhrji), a spicy egg scramble with potatoes. Eaten with a paratha or crispy buttered toast and washed down with a cup of chai. A perfect weekend breakfast brunch situation.

My dad takes pride in cooking. He takes pride in all his work. He is not a religious man and the closest thing to a spiritual experience for him is going into a meditative state carrying out certain daily rituals like cooking. I think cooking a meal was a mental escape for him. He only did it on the weekends so it felt special.

Lately, I’ve been seeing aloo anda everywhere on London’s breakfast menus. It’s not in the South Asian restaurants, instead it’s usually on the menu of contemporary cafes where the food is seasonal and the menu is short (and the dishes are usually lifted from other cultures). There are certain South Asian dishes which end up in these places and then become appropriated to a point where you’ll find white British chefs selling it back to us. Amongst South Asian foods which have been appropriated in such way, it’s definitely daal (and in the last decade it’s probably chickpeas) which comes up on top, and the bastardisation of chaat over the last five years needs its own essay. However, the way we make scrambled eggs is trending because some white person probably went on a cultural journey to India and had it in a life changing way so now we are seeing it increasingly on menus and in reels and in an eggs themed cookbook by an Instagram famous white male home cook.

I once went to a trendy London cafe for breakfast and a variation of aloo anda was on the menu. When the friend I was dinning with innocently asked what this item was, the white server muddled through describing the dish. I was left wincing at the scene. While it’s a source of great joy (is this the correct emotion? possibly relief is a better way to describe it) that foods my parents longed for when they left Pakistan can be found so readily on British menus and our dishes are becoming more than just a curry house fare, it’s also a source of pain that they are done without care and without properly honouring the source of the dish. If you didn’t know the dish or where it came from, you’d think the chef had invented it. And then there is the inappropriate naming along with the balance of ingredients. So, my feelings on seeing these beloved dishes from home in western eateries remain conflicted. Despite this I’m an optimist and also a scientist so I am of the belief that this is a process and we will eventually get it right. And just because something originated in South Asia it doesn’t automatically denote tipping all the spices into the dish. That spices in a dish are a delicate balance of alchemy and art. That our dishes taste bitter when they are made by non south Asians bc there is a way to add the layers of flavour when it comes to spice.

In the meantime here is how my dad makes his Sunday morning aloo anda- some instructions because Asian parents don’t do recipes. And this is very left field because my dad lived in Ireland after university for 20 years and lots of traditional ingredients were scarce during the early days.

Two eggs per person and one decent sized potato per person. These are instructions to cook for one person.

Finely chop an onion and sautee in oil with a few cumin seeds until the onion is soft and translucent. Add a tablespoon of tomato puree and a teaspoon of chilli flakes and cook it’s down till the oil splits in a red colour. Add the potatoes and season with salt and pepper with a pinch of ground cumin (we are a cumin heavy family and potato heavy). Let the potatoes crisp in the chilli oil and add a splash of water then cover to cook them till soft.

Meanwhile, crack two eggs in a bowl and season with salt and beat till they are just beginning to foam. Once the potatoes are softened, add the egg to them and then cook for one minute before breaking them into a scramble. It’s important to take the eggs off the heat before they are fully cooked as the final cooking will happen in their own heat. Garnish with fresh herbs if desired. Serve immediately because they are a thing of velvety beauty when fresh. They make a great dinner too (I often have them for dinner).

Finding poetry in everyday life by taking slower mornings to sit out in the sun and enjoying a a coffee and pastry before work, listening to the sounds of summer time all around me.

Nourishing the body with a chicken and rice dinner which is my ultimate comfort meal and taking the bait on buying British cherries which are at their peak juiciest at the moment.

Nourishing the soul with a dinner date night as my friend Saliha’s plus one to Marie Mitcehell’s residency at Hometipple in Walthamstow. It was an evening of fiery Caribbean flavours and an uplifting conversation which melted late into the night. Felt like we were on a getaway which leaves you inspired and refreshed, ready to take on the next life challenge.

Nourishing the mind by taking lots of naps to reset my nervous system which has been on high anxiety mode the last few weeks.

I want to take contributions from other people on how they look after their body, mind and soul to nourish themselves and how they find poetry in everyday life. So, if you’d like to be featured, please get in touch.