I was cognizant of the fact that we had left abundance behind, of course; that in our native Iran, we’d had a lot. Not to mention lavishness just felt very Iranian. My father would remind us that we came from a great empire as he’d spread cheap supermarket caviar—a rare indulgence, even though it was the kind of terrible stuff that came in a jumbo jam jar for about the same price as jam—on Wonder Bread. My parents had left Iran at a time when they were two classes above what they became in suburban Los Angeles; the tragedy of supermarket caviar didn’t quite sink in for two kids who dreamed of Doritos and Ranch dressing, Hot Pockets and Pop-Tarts.

The only time of year when I felt the richness of the world they described, the Iran of the ‘70s and before, was during New Year. Ours, that is: Nowruz, the vernal equinox that marks a new year. American New Year was just an afterthought, as my parents were not partiers and we kids were too young to go out anywhere; all of us just huddled by the TV to watch Dick Clark and pray the drunk neighbors wouldn’t shoot guns from their rickety balconies. But Persian New Year included our whole family. Preparation started weeks before, and official celebration went on for two weeks after. It was a major affair and, sadly, one I could not share with school friends. There was zero acknowledgment of anything Iran-related in my school, especially in the ‘80s, when Iran was still freshly a dirty word.

Igrew up without a sense of abundance, in pretty much everything except maybe imagination.

We were lower-class Iranians—a less visible phenomenon in our part of the US in that era. We were refugees on political asylum, from war as much as revolution, and we lived in a part of Los Angeles with few Iranians, many lives away from the very conspicuous Tehrangeleno elite. My brother and I shared a small bedroom in a small apartment in the undesirable part of town—the apartment district of mid-century stuccos, called “dingbat buildings” all over the Sun Belt—and my parents struggled with putting food on our plates. My mother still managed Persian dishes, but they were simple, and always served alongside whatever else was cheapest in America: pasta, salads with dressings made primarily of mayo and ketchup, Hostess snacks, sugary cereal, soda. I remember thinking we didn’t have enough, and that was just my lot in life.

Plus, there were mirrors, goldfish, candles, hyacinths, painted eggs, various candies, a copy of the Persian Book of Kings or the Koran or both. We kids knew we’d get haircuts and new clothes (it was auspicious to be in brand-new things at the moment of the equinox) and maybe some money. And for weeks we’d get to eat great Persian pastries that my mother would either attempt herself or buy from the Persian grocery stores in the heart of Tehrangeles—usually both. Sweet poppy seed–sprinkled rice cookies, clover-shaped chickpea-flour cardamom cookies, thin and crispy raisin cookies, little baklava morsels, marzipan berries with pistachio stems. Sweets were everywhere, and with them the scent of rosewater and saffron. Nowruz had the heaviest perfume, an irresistible and irresistibly abundant sort of aura.

But at home, our sad, musty beige and brown apartment would transform into a green and gold paradise. The haft-sin—the traditional table setting, consisting of seven items that all start with the Farsi s, or sin—was my mother’s pride and joy. All of it was there: sabzeh, or sprouts, symbolizing rebirth; samanu, or sweet wheat germ pudding, for power; senjed, or oleaster fruit, for wisdom; seer, or garlic, for wellness; seeb, or apples, symbolizing beauty; somaq, or sumac fruit, for patience; and serkeh, vinegar, representing longevity.

Hummus

Much more filling than a bowl of cereal, a bowl of hummus is typically eaten for breakfast in Israel. The chickpea caviar starts with dried chickpeas soaked overnight that are then cooked and blended with lemon juice, garlic, and usually tahini. Rip apart pita; dunk.

Baba Ghanoush

Eggplants: they’ve been around for a long time in the Middle East. An old Arab adage goes something like, “if she doesn’t know how to cook eggplant 50 ways, don’t marry her!” The eggplant is revered in this part of the world. Beside the familiar elongated type, there are stubbier eggplants and tiny ones used for pickling.

Grilled, deep-fried, sautéed, roasted, marinated, or pickled—Israelis eat eggplant in many forms. A very common one: baba ghanoush.

And then the meal, New Year’s dinner: the only time in my childhood when my mother cooked fish, usually a delicate white fish, with the traditional herb rice (sabzi polo, basmati with cilantro, parsley, and dill), and often with a side of kuku, a Persian spinach and egg frittata. There was something so shockingly healthy about it, so light, so vibrant—I remember feeling like I was glowing as I ate. It was all so green—as if you were actually eating spring itself.

I asked multiple Israelis for the name of this cheese, and they all responded, “oh just salty white cheese.”

Shakshouka
Shakshouka is one of my favorite foods. Whenever shakshouka is on the menu, I am ordering it. The Israeli workingman’s breakfast is simple: eggs cooked in a stewed tomato sauce with plenty of garlic and spices. And! Served with a side of bread to wipe up that glorious shakshouka swamp. One of the best parts is the serving vessel: the same pan in which it was cooked.

Eggs in Purgatory or Moroccan Ragout—you’ll find the same concept around the world (though shakshouka is the most fun to say).

A Moroccan recipe, but similar idea. Skip the merguez and ras el hanout if you want to keep it a little more Israeli.

Bourekas

These savory pastries made their way to Israel by way of the Balkans. They can be filled with all sorts of cheeses and veggies. Rectangles, helixes, crescents—they come in many shapes. Janna Gur, author of The Book of New Israeli Food, an amazing source on Israeli culinary culture, shared this recipe for These Cheese Bourekas. Store-bought puff pastry dough is fine, then stuff it with a wonderfully salty mix of cheeses.

Fresh Vegetable Salad
The salad is the centerpiece of the Israeli breakfast spread. A huge bowl of freshly diced vegetables: cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, bell peppers. Keep it simple.

Waking up early in Israel was never a problem for me. There was always a bountiful breakfast spread waiting, and it’s the best feast of the day. Fresh vegetable salads, salty white cheese*, hummus, baba ghanoush, pickled fish, olives (in various colors and shades of green to black), shakshouka (served in its cast-iron pan), cottage cheese (definitely not the diet kind—it was like eating cottage cheese for the first time), flakey bourekas, still-warm breads, butter, and preserves.

The big breakfast tradition began with kibbutz workers who’d work in the fields before dawn and were ravenous by the time 7 a.m. rolled around. Gathering around the communal table for a hearty breakfast, they’d eat whatever was grown and produced at the kibbutz. Vegetables, fresh cheeses, juices, and milk. Israelis all over adopted this kibbutz breakfast model, and still start their days with a mezze-style spread of salads, hummus, and other dishes the rest of the world might wait until lunchtime to start eating.

Transfer eggplant to a salad spinner, distributing it evenly around the perimeter. Spin gently until all excess moisture is extracted. Discard all drippings, wipe out large bowl, and return eggplant to bowl.

Cooked eggplant flesh in the bowl of a salad spinner
Add lemon juice and garlic to eggplant and stir vigorously with a fork until eggplant breaks down into a rough paste, about 1 1/2 minutes. Stirring constantly and vigorously, add tahini, followed by the olive oil in a thin, steady stream. The mixture should become pale and creamy. Stir in parsley and season to taste with salt, plus more lemon juice if desired.

Adding olive oil in a thin stream to a metal bowl of mashed eggplant
Transfer to a serving bowl, drizzle with olive oil, and serve with warm pita bread or vegetables for dipping.

Special equipment
Grill, rimmed baking sheet, fine-mesh strainer, paring knife, salad spinner

Make-Ahead and Storage
The baba ganoush can be made ahead of time and stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to four days. Let it come back to room temperature before serving.