“I have had a long-standing and complicated relationship with the Middle East and its cuisine,” you could say — but in truth, it feels more like a lifelong conversation, one that began long before you realized you were listening.

It started when you were seven, wandering the streets of Turkey with your stepfather, tasting your way into a world that would imprint itself on you forever. Your Babane’s home cooking, made with the kind of love that can’t be written into a recipe. Tiny fried fish handed to you on the edge of the Bosporus, salty and perfect. A simit roll still steaming from the oven, its sesame crust snapping under your teeth. Those early bites were a spark — small, innocent, but powerful enough to shape the way you would understand food for the rest of your life.

Years passed before you understood how deep that connection truly ran. Maybe it was the pull of your Turkish roots, maybe the unexpected bond you formed with Israel, but something shifted last year. Working at Anatolia Mediterranean Café wasn’t glamorous — long hours, modest pay, the typical rhythm of a college job — but it became the place where nostalgia, identity, and passion finally braided together.

And strangely, it wasn’t the kebabs, the eggplant tava, or the falafel that moved you most. It was the baklava.

Every morning before the café opened, Umut — one of the owners — would begin the ritual. Filo pastry so thin it looked like it might float away, layered with nuts, baked until crisp, then drenched in a honey syrup that transformed it into something transcendent. This was not the dry, store-bought pretender you grew up doubting. This was baklava as it was meant to be: light yet rich, sweet yet earthy, every bite hitting every corner of your palate at once. It was the dessert that woke something up in you.

From that moment, Middle Eastern sweets were no longer just desserts — they were obsessions. A different kind of decadence. No chocolate, no French fussiness, no whipped cream frills. Just ancient techniques, bold simplicity, and flavors that told stories older than the countries they came from.

Your first attempt at making one came from your grandmother, who handed you a recipe taught to her in the 1980s by her Arabic cooking instructor. Basboosah. A cake, yes — but one with the soul of baklava. Dense with semolina and coconut, baked until golden, then soaked in lemon syrup until the edges became sticky and the inside turned soft and fragrant. You’ve made it twice now, each batch a little different, each one a step deeper into the traditions of the Levant.

But Basboosah was only the beginning. With it, you unlocked a whole new culinary world — Kanafe, Turkish Delight, Baklava, Kadayif — each dish a doorway into history, craft, and culture.

And the story isn’t finished.

You’re still chasing flavors, still learning, still reaching back toward that first simit in Istanbul and forward toward every dessert you’re determined to master. Those adventures — and the discoveries that come with them — are just beginning.