Today was perfect for making dolma. It was slightly sunny, but more dreary and windy. Time moves strange at the end of the year, partly due to things winding down and the fact that it’s completely dark by 5 p.m. There’s no equilibrium, no balance, or center.

Sometimes you need the right dish to make you feel whole (and full) again. So when I caught my mom cooking up a storm in the kitchen, I grabbed my camera.

This is the “kharn” or “mixed” version of dolma, which is traditionally made in grape leaves. The art of dolma making should be taken seriously – it’s not for any novice. It takes just the right kind of weathered, but strong hands to roll those grape leaves into perfection, preferably between gossip breaks with other women and copious amounts of “soorj” or Armenian coffee.  For this version you scoop out vegetables, like squash, eggplant, tomatoes and onions and fill them with a herb, spice, vegetable and rice mixture, leaving them to cook for a very, very long time.

This version also has ground meat, but because I don’t eat meat (cue Aunt Toula from My Big Fat Greek Wedding), these are the perfect vegetarian pick-me-up.

Of course, dolma isn’t unique to just Armenian culture. The Greeks, Turks, Azeris, and other groups of Middle Eastern origin include it as a staple in their cuisine. Even with its varied background scattered in the region, it always have the same impact, the comforting feeling that everything is going to be ok, at least until you finish your dish.

I like to eat dolma with barbari, an Iranian bread, a fluffy flat bread that will leave you speechless. Trust. I’m not dealing too well with the 5 p.m. getting dark thing, as well as the fact that my birthday is in 2 weeks, so the dolma did wonders. Of course, now the danger is I’m going to have to keep eating it to sustain euphoria.

Somehow, every Sunday night I tend to gravitate towards browsing (while weeping) Anthropologie’s online store. It comes somewhere before I head to bed and after I’ve had my last cup of tea. Last week, at the same time,  I was hell bent on ordering the most beautiful quilt cover I had ever seen. I put it in my shopping bag, but fell asleep before I pressed order. The next morning it was sold out. I almost cried. It wasn’t all tears though – the cover reappeared a few days later and I snagged the last one.

Last night, I was doing some usual browsing and whining about how I why why why can’t I just live in the Anthro store and have $5,676,231 so I can buy their entire collection of everything when I spotted these “Kremlin” cookie jars and let out a small gasp.

It’s very odd seeing culturally significant details, like food, that you grew up with, being marketed en masse to the world. Piroshki? There wasn’t a week when these fried potato-filled fried doughy treats weren’t in my house. Halvah? We lived off the stuff, as did any other family from the entire greater Middle East region. Halvah is even used in Armenian culture as a ceremonious offering at funerals.

The jars are made in Italy and are being sold at $198 a pop. “The names of exotic treats from around the world are inscribed on uniquely Russian ceramic structures,” the description says, “but feel free to stuff them full of classic oatmeal-raisins.”

I like how they look, because let’s face it, nothing from Anthropologie can ever look bad, but I still feel…odd. Would the person who buys these (and also the person who CAN afford to buy these) really understand the meaning behind these “exotic treats?” That they’re not really exotic for an entire population of people in the East and how much more lies behind their names emblazoned on a ceramic jar sold at a retailer that is selling not just clothes, but a lifestyle?

This is what I mean when I say that food is always so much more than just food. It is joy and pain and familiarity. It is family gatherings, recipes passed down by immigrant families whose cultural heritage means so much to them, comfort at funerals and hot pita sandwiches eaten on cool summer nights next to the grill with the smell of coal in the air.

Maybe I’m thinking too much and going too deep. And who am I kidding, if these were $19 as opposed to $198, I would have probably bought one or two. But, it still feels a little odd.

What do you get when you cross an American fall classic with delicacies from the Middle East? Pumpkin pie with Medjool dates, raisins and walnuts, of course. I was trying to experiment with one of my favorite seasonal treats and came up with this, thanks to my sister who suggested the dates. The crust and pumpkin puree were both made from scratch. It took me hours, but the payoff made it worth it. Read more here:

The Khohanotz: Pumpkin Pie, Middle East Style

There is something so soothing and calming, and yet so manic and nerve wrecking about baking. You can follow a recipe, with the right measurements, a hint of this, a teaspoon of that, but somewhere between the flour and sugar, things can go wrong. Kind of like life. But then, when you achieve greatness and the oven delivers you your magnificent golden brown cake with everything in place, you feel a great sense of accomplishment. Also kind of like life.

To bake, to create something with your two hands from scratch, it’s meaningful. And then to feed it someone who actually likes it is equally as satisfying.

With the Los Angeles sun setting on Friday afternoon, I decided to make meringue cookies.

I like the science of combining sugar and egg whites and watching them transform from a lumpy, clear mass to a bowl of glistening meringue base. But more than that, I like adding flavors and additions to simple recipes that carry memories, experiences and culture.

I was born in Tehran, Iran to Armenian parents. My parents fled to Greece after the 1978 Iranian Revolution and landed in Los Angeles, where I was raised. Their parents come from Tabriz and Moscow and Baku. This summer I found out that a part of my family going back a few generations might have been from the Nagorno-Karabagh region, which remains a phantom state, as the New York Times recently called it. My background is a culturally colorful map that has bred in me  a strong appreciation for diversity and curiosity, and yet, as is usual with immigrant families, a multidimensional identity that isn’t always the easiest thing to deal with when you’re an awkward teenager and young adult trying to navigate your way through the deep black hole known as life.

As I get older, it gets easier and the appreciation grows as the years go by, especially for food. As anyone with a similar Middle Eastern or Caucasus influenced background can tell you, food is truly the cultural essence of life in every sense of the word – in celebration, in pain, in moments of solitude and with more extended family members that rivals the Duggar Clan. It is used as the setting for laughter, arguments and everything in between. A table bubbling over with smells and concoctions holding the pain and joy of a tribe, is the hearth of the Armenian or Middle Eastern household.

Rose water, pistachios, saffron – they evoke memories for me, tied to occasions and people that have always appeared in the narrative of my life.

I used crushed pistachio, always ready to in a mug in our fridge, just in case my mom feels like making the mouthwatering Middle Eastern dessert known as Kadayif, rose water – an ingredient you will see all over the map in recipes from Cyprus to India, and saffron, an expensive but powerful spice cultivated in Iran. This particular one had been brought back from Iran with a relative a few days earlier, so I get an A for authenticity.

These flavors have incredible chemistry together. They compliment each other, without one overpowering the other. Opening an oven door and smelling rose water baking with hints of pistachio and saffron is comforting.

I have been thinking of what to do with this space of mine for a long time. I ignore it for months, out of frustration and when I do post, there’s no uniformity or continuity, no conversation.

I want to change that. For the last two years, a lot of the work I’ve been doing in my professional life as a journalist has revolved around communities and issues facing Armenia, the South Caucasus, greater Middle East and its diasporas. These parts of the world fascinate me. Maybe it’s because my roots are spread out in and around it. Maybe it’s a selfish, silly need to discover or enhance a part of my identity, or maybe it’s because despite my cultural connections, they are some of the most fascinating places facing the most fascinating issues in the world. I want to make this space a conversation about those issues, about the lives of immigrants in foreign countries and the ones in the developing countries I mentioned, about culture, civil issues, politics and human rights abuses, even Los Angeles, but triumphs as well, about what I have a passion for, which is writing about how extraordinary issues impact ordinary people.   The twist however, is to do it mostly around a virtual dinner table – a place that has been the cornerstone of conversation for most of my life, where ideas were exchanged between copious amounts of saffron-infused rice and arguments cooled over hot cups of chai made from the amazingness of the samovar. It’s a tall task, and there’s more thinking to do about how to approach serious subjects while talking about milk and baking soda and what to call it and if it should even be here.

I’m not sure what will unfold, but I’d like to think of it as my little experiment, a way to progress conversation and perhaps progress myself in the process.  Grab a cup of tea and check back soon.

After several published stories, nights out with some of the most amazing people I’ve met in my life, copious amounts of homemade mulberry vodka, a neo-pagan festival near a 4500-year-old archeological site,  traveling miles upon miles of sometimes stomach turning roads on a fold out chair while a toddler threw up on me, rescuing three street dogs, a heartwarming, fabulous wedding, a month long reality show marathon and recuperating from travel, I’ve made my way back to Los Angeles from Armenia and London.

I came back last Friday to traffic, never ending sunshine (it’s a curse, not a blessing), jetlag, a little dog and my family who had missed me quite a lot. On Saturday, I was the keynote speaker at a journalism event organized by my alma mater. On Sunday, I fell asleep at 6 p.m. Throughout the week, I tried to nurse myself back to life with tea and  music. On Friday I had a nice workout playing Just Dance on Wii that I didn’t feel in every muscle in my body until the next day. On Saturday, I learned how to knit a hat. Fast forward to today where my head has  finally joined me in L.A. after being away for almost six months.

In between pitching editors and making lists of story ideas, it started to rain. London immediately came to mind. The city gets a bad wrap for weather, but really, it’s beautiful. It rains for half an hour, stops, and when you look out the window the sun breaks through and hits the red rooftops surrounded by the greenest trees and plants you’ve ever seen. Nostalgia flooded the room, so I decided to try my hand at replicating a soup I frequently had while there.

Made with red lentils and a sprinkling of pepper, I’m not entirely clear about its origins, but it is most probably Turkish or Cypriot. I mixed red and yellow lentils in vegetable stock with chopped onions, paprika, salt, pepper and garlic.

The spices bubbled and lingered through the kitchen. I cut and toasted a baguette. I tried to process what it felt like to be back to all my things, my clothes, car, my life that stood still while I was away. It’s nice to be here, but do you know how much I miss standing on the balcony on Pushkin street in Yerevan, watching thunderstorms cool the city after an entire day of heat, or eating honey straight from the comb in the backyard of a family from Nagorno-Kharabagh who happened to pick me up and invite me in their home just because, or browsing a flea market in Tbilisi for two whole days because I couldn’t get enough the history and memories sprawled out on the streets for sale? I miss being able to walk, and not drive. I miss milk in my tea and football games on the weekend and Soho roaring with laughter, conversations and music on a Friday night.

I made some soup to savor the memories, once again.

I had to call 911 this week.
It was horrible, feeling helpless when someone you love needs you the most.

While everything is ok now, and will be ok from here on out, it was an experience no one will forget.

And in an effort to regain some soul, some peace and calm after our tumbles down the dark, deep rabbit hole, I did the only thing I thought could make everyone whole again.

I made some pie.

A ginger peach and nectarine pie, with hints of cinnamon, nutmeg and homemade crust.

At 8 a.m., with most of L.A. still tucked into their beds, my hands were covered in flour and butter.

The sinking feeling in my stomach was replaced with all the fruit I poured into the crust.

Then I cut out some hearts.

It was beautiful.

And everything seemed ok.

On a sunny Saturday afternoon,  fellow journalist Darleen and I decided to partake in a past time we both adore: discovering new tea rooms in the vast city of L.A. and beyond.

And since we hadn’t seen each other for so long that I can’t even remember, we decided to go all out and indulge in some tea and treats at the Scarlet Tea Room.

I first met Darleen in a mutual class we both had.  I was really intrigued because I think she was carrying some knitting she was working on and I was completely impressed because it was something I would do.

Not only do we share a mutual love of knitting, writing, music, art and identifying annoying people almost immediately, but we also love tea. and tea rooms.

Located on charming Green Street in Pasadena, the Scarlet Tea Room has a set up I haven’t seen before. While most tea rooms typically fall into the “Old English Rosey” category, this one blends old Hollywood charm with sophistication.

The set up consists of big wooden chairs with glass blown light fixtures and mirrors all around.

But never mind how the place looks, lets get to the good stuff.

The tea, while very delicious, wasn’t hot enough for my taste. The China however, was beautiful. I think I got black peach tea, but we were so wrapped up in conversation about the ups and downs of our lives post-college, where we all sat in a room and poured our heart and souls into journalism, that I’m not completely sure.

The tea sandwiches however, were nothing short of amazing. I ordered “Fig and Goat Cheese Spread” and “Mascarpone with Citrus Marmalade.”

Heaven in two bites.

The Scarlet Tea Room is very vegetarian friendly as well – with hearts printed next to sandwich options without any meat.

The absolute best part of the afternoon, sans the conversation, came in the form of a dessert I couldn’t believe I had never tried: Strawberries Romanoff.

Made with strawberries, sugar, liqueur, ice cream and heavy cream, Strawberries Romanoff is like a party for your taste buds, who go wild with excitement when you take a spoonful to your mouth. It’s hard to pin point what’s better – the strawberries or the cream, but together they make an explosive combination.

For a few hours, the tea flowed, the dainty sandwiches came and we even got to gawk at a bachelorette party taking place across the room, neon thongs and all.

The world stood still.

Our problems melted into the leaves in our cups and just for a bit, we were free of responsibility, of what ifs, of haves and have nots, of wondering what we’re doing with our lives, or where we’ll be 10 years from now, or the cruel world of journalism.

For two hours, we were more than ok, drenched in the sweetness of strawberries and cream.

Is this turning into a baking blog? I really don’t know.

At some point during the years I’ve been blogging, I’ve fantasized about having a baking or food blog, and then having said blog land me a book deal a la Julie & Julia, but there’s just too many things I love in life to narrow it down. Maybe someday when I grow up.

Back to food. You are looking at a white chocolate raspberry cheesecake with chocolate graham cracker crust made for two dear friends on their coinciding birthday.

Cheesecakes aren’t my favorite thing to eat (blasphemy) but people seem to love them. They’re just too rich for me – one bite and I feel full, but I have no qualms about baking them. You see that raspberry sauce on top? Made from scratch.

Nothing gave me greater pleasure than being able to swirl those raspberry blobs into hearts, especially after a long and tiring day.

And because I am going to have some long and tiring days ahead of me in the next few weeks, I wont be baking or writing here – but when it’s over, I’ll have a lot to share. Perhaps in the meantime I can finally nail down a niche for this lovely space of mine. Until then, au revoir.

Here’s to new beginnings.

I like to bake. I guess that’s obvious if you’ve been reading for a while now, but it’s not necessarily because I love sweets (and don’t get me wrong, I do).

It is truly the best form of therapy, especially if you do late in the evening, watching The Nanny while trying to mix your batter and then subsequently fill the house with intoxicating baking smells at 2 a.m.

It’s glorious and I will tell you why.

Because you can go through the worst day in the world, a day that doesn’t make sense, a day that makes you cry, makes you wish you could dig your head in a hole because nothing is going right and people are annoying and you wish you could transport them all to a barren island so they can just revel in their annoying-ness and then hopefully die off and then you can come home, get together a few ingredients, mix them together and know at the end of the day, that if you follow the directions and put some love into it, you will have made something good, and that’s enough to make everything in the world seem better.

Honest.

That’s the same reason why I love to write, although I would compare journalism more to making macarons or boston cream pie than to your regular muffin.  It’s grueling, you’ll want to give up, but if you keep pushing on you realize that when it’s finished, you are beaming from ear to ear. And that’s the type of fire you need to have, whether you’re reporting or baking, or just even living really.

Creating new things to eat or read is all I need to melt away all the stress in my life. At least until it appears again, anyway.

“I get satisfaction of three kinds. One is creating something, one is being paid for it and one is the feeling that I haven’t just been sitting on my ass all afternoon.” – William F. Buckley, Jr.

I don’t mean to go on about lemons two posts in a row, but something miraculous took place between my last post and today – that is, I found some gigantic lemons in the nether regions of my tree.

No, really.

GIGANTIC.

The lemon on your left is from the same tree and is normal size. The one(s) on your right? Let’s just say I had to catch my breath after carrying them inside.

As soon as I cut them off, the branch they were weighing down snapped upright back to normal position again. That was the easy part. After washing and taking them apart from each other, I couldn’t contain myself and had to cut them to see if they were OK inside.

Well, they were.

Look at them. LOOK AT THEM. They are huge. The best part is that there’s nothing wrong with them. They smell and taste divine.

Then I grew really impatient, and after cutting them all I decided it was best to squeeze them, except they were so big that they wouldn’t fit on the juicer so I had to hand squeeze them. The lemon juice filled up an entire water bottle’s worth.

Now I can’t decide between lemonade, salad dressing or lemon bars.