Despite never having experienced the Islamic holy month in a lively Muslim community, food has made up for those missed experiences.
It’s Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic calendar year, and city streets all across the Middle East are filled with the smells of fried delicacies; bazaars and homes are lit by the flickering lanterns known as fanous; and the soothing sound of the taraweeh prayer echoes well into the night, every night, to commemorate the month during which the Quran was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad.

Or at least, that’s how my mother describes it. While Ramadan in a Muslim-majority part of the world is a vibrant and lively time of community gatherings, more frequent prayer, and increased self-reflection, for me, growing up in the suburbs of Northern Virginia, it mostly conjures up unpleasant memories of kids in school questioning why I couldn’t drink water during gym class, or wondering why I wasn’t eating during lunch.

East Asian white sesame pastes are fairly similar to tahini, but they tend to be deeply roasted with a more assertive nuttiness. It’s certainly possible to swap one for the other in recipes, although the flavor will be slightly different. White sesame’s butteriness holds up especially well against the spicy and acidic notes in Asian cuisines, and can be used as a dressing for noodles, leafy greens, tofu, and more.

Black sesame paste, made from unhulled black seeds, is kind of like tahini’s intense (but lovable) goth cousin. Although it can be found in a few savory Asian dishes (such as inky kurogoma ramen), its distinct, rich earthiness really excels in desserts. Sweet black sesame porridge and black sesame filled dumplings showcase its straight up flavor, while black sesame custards and ice cream provide the sort of creamy base that allows it to stun and delight.

It’s no secret that tahini has a sweet side, not just as an ingredient in sesame halvah, but also in quite a few regional pastries. There’s the Armenian tahinov hatz, a sort of flat pastry disc rolled with tahini, and tahinopita, a dairy-free Cypriot Lenten cake, to name a couple. Tahini mixed with honey or fruit molasses is popular as a breakfast or dessert item in many parts of the Middle East, in a sort of variation on peanut butter and jelly.

The only essential step in tahini-making is grinding. But in order to get a velvety smooth texture like the stuff that comes in vacuum-sealed tins, manufacturers also soak, hull, and/or roast the seeds. Sesame seeds are encased in a thin but hardy outer bran, which is also where their pigmentation is located. Leave this on,and you’ll get a paste that takes on the color and slightly bitter overtones of the bran, with a coarse and gritty texture.

By giving the seeds a good soak in water, the bran softens up and becomes easy to remove. Afterwards, the remaining kernels can be roasted, adding intensity to the nutty aromatics present in sesame. Most traditional tahini is made with hulled, lightly roasted sesame, although a few regions (such as Gaza), are known for their russet-colored, dark roasted versions.

Feel like giving it a try? Check out our recipes for making tahini and black tahini.

Like its nut and seed butter brethren, tahini can also add a luxuriantly fatty and creamy richness to baked goods and other treats. Try it in smoothies, muffins, or caramel-y, creamy desserts.

If there is a caveat to tahini, it might be that you’re unlikely to use more than a tablespoon or two at a time, thus jars of it are apt to sit in your pantry for months on end. If you’ve tried all of the above uses and still have some left, not to worry. One of the magical things about sesame is that is contains relatively stable oils with a high concentration of antioxidants, meaning that tahini can last for a long time before it goes rancid. Although its shelf life can vary depending on factors related to how it is made, such as roasting, it will generally stay good for months, if not years. Like other nut and seed pastes, expired tahini has a musty, stale smell and tastes noticeably bitter and funky.

Do you have any favorite ways of using up a never-ending batch of tahini? Let us know in the comments.

Tahini is most closely associated with the eastern Mediterranean, particularly the Levant, Egypt, and Turkey. But it has a presence throughout the wider Middle East, the Caucasus, Northern Africa, and the Balkans. It’s actually thought that tahini has its origins in the area around present-day Iran, where it’s known as ardeh. The Ottomans are also credited with spreading sesame throughout their empire and popularizing tahini as an ingredient in sesame halvah.

Tahini is a classic condiment for serving with fish, meats, vegetables, shawarma, salads, and falafel (and wafalafels). You’ll often find it thinned out with a bit of lemon, water, and garlic for drizzling, in which case it’s known as taratour.

Without tahini, dips like hummus and baba ganoush wouldn’t have their sturdy backbone. Tahini also has a place in other savory spreads, such as the Turkish teradot, made with coarsely ground walnuts, and certain variations of skordalia, the garlicky Greek dip.

And in a few cases, tahini is allowed to take center stage, boldly displaying its virtues. Sesame soups, such as the Greek tahinosoupa or West African benne soup, have all the creaminess of a chowder without the dairy.

Tahini is one of those ingredients that is better known as a supporting player than as a shining star. All too often, it gets out-dazzled by the chickpea in hummus or relegated to an afterthought when putting together falafel or shawarma. Yet it’s truly indispensable in those dishes and more, rightfully proclaiming its status as a heavyweight ingredient that transcends cultural and continental boundaries. In the interest of giving tahini its proper due, here’s a primer on the versatile, sesame-based staple and its many uses. Tahini is a paste made from ground sesame seeds. That’s it. Sesame seeds come from the dried out pods of the sesamum indicum plant and are available in a spectrum of colors, including black, tan, gold, and brown. White sesame, particularly that from northern Ethiopia, tends to be the variety of choice for tahini. These seeds are generally plumper and have a higher oil content than other types of sesame.

There’s the juicy leg of lamb she marinates in a purée of onions, tomatoes, garlic, cinnamon, thyme, and olive oil, then expertly roasts and carves; the fattoush salad she puts together from pieces of toasted pita bread and the freshest tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, scallions, and whatever else she finds in the fridge; the macarona bil bechamel (a personal favorite), a casserole she builds with spaghetti, beef, and bechamel sauce that’s baked to golden brown perfection; and the buttery, crumbly ma’amoul cookies—prepared just before Eid, the post-Ramadan celebration—made from semolina flour, filled with sweet dates or nuts, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Each of these recipes comes with a story: how my mother used to go to the local market with her brother as a child, picking up as many ingredients as they could carry; how she used to enjoy certain dishes at friends’ houses; or how she spent much of her time in the kitchen with her own mother, preparing meals for her dad and her nine other siblings.

To my mother, these foods are familiar and comforting, reminders of many iftars and Ramadans come and gone. To me, they represent connections to a community I don’t quite have access to at the moment, but I’m nevertheless a part of. Each of these foods have, in essence, been passed down to me by my larger Muslim family through the stories I hear, giving me a taste of life in the Middle East and keeping me connected to my relatives during Ramadan, despite the distance.

I hope to someday have the privilege of spending Ramadan in the Middle East with my extended family. For now, the food is enough. Until that happens—if it ever happens—the food will have to stand in for all the parts of Ramadan that I’ve never had the fortune to experience: the community celebration, a city-wide sense of excitement, the sense of belonging. For now, the food is enough.

The older I’ve become, the more I’ve learned to appreciate both my religion and my culture, and to take pride in it, as my parents have always pushed me to do; I don’t find being “different” all that bad. But there’s a part of me that longs to be more connected to my roots, and that longing grows stronger during this time of year. I listen to my Muslim friends talk about their big families getting together for weekly iftars, and I crave the same. I know that no matter how much I immerse myself in my religion and its culture, part of me will never feel complete without experiencing the same kind of celebration with my extended family.

But I’ve learned to try to make up for that absence in my life by spending time in the kitchen, and I often help my mom as she prepares meals for iftar from scratch each day.

There were a handful of Muslim kids in school with me, but there wasn’t much of a community to speak of; “my people,” as I thought of them, could be found at the local mosque, a short drive away that felt just long enough to underline the distance. And although I’ve never chosen to cover my hair with a hijab, observing a strict fast from dawn until dusk during Ramadan—one of the five pillars of Islam, and therefore central to my faith—seemed to signal I was different from the mostly Christian kids I was surrounded by. No matter how much I explained myself, my peers never seemed to understand why I was fasting, and their incredulity about the practice always made me feel small, othered, and isolated. I have vivid memories of resenting my religion, of thinking to myself, I wish I was anything but Muslim.

Part of the emphasis of Ramadan is on community: participating in regular congregational prayers at the mosque; preparing food for family, friends, and those in need; and breaking fast with other Muslims. I suppose it might have helped if some of my cousins, aunts, and uncles lived nearby so we could celebrate together, especially for iftar, the meal that breaks the fast, when evenings typically turn into late nights and both good food and conversation flow endlessly. Unfortunately, I don’t, and I never have.

What family I do have in the United States lives on the other side of the country, in California, and I only occasionally speak to my family spread across the Middle East—in Saudia Arabia, Egypt, Libya, Jordan, and Palestine—and rarely visit them. Iftars for me were spent with my parents and siblings at the dinner table, the sound of Arabic soap operas blaring from the TV making us feel like we were in familiar company.

And yet even without a robust community, Ramadan was and is a joyous time for my family, and part of my frustration with my non-Muslim peers was that they didn’t understand that. What they seemed to focus on was the hardship of fasting, but they never appreciated the joy and reward of breaking the fast each night with delicious food.

Where we’d all sit and eat together; and of the sound of vivacious aunts who spoke in exactly the same way the soap opera actors recited their lines on the TV we’d leave on to make our iftars less lonely. (What can I say? Arabs are dramatic.)

Dishes like sambusa, crispy fried parcels of dough filled with a juicy mixture of ground beef seasoned with aromatic dill and cinnamon; sfeeha—little pizza-like rounds topped with yogurt-marinated beef, tomatoes, and pine nuts; gooey kanafeh made with stretchy Nabulsi cheese, topped with shredded filo dough and drowned in a orange blossom-flavored syrup; qatayef, thin, golden pancakes filled with cheese or nuts and soaked in simple syrup; and the dates—you can’t forget the plump, juicy dates—that are always, always on hand to break the fast. Most of these foods were special treats, rarely made by my mother outside of Ramadan, mainly due to the effort they involve, and every bite brought to mind the faint memories I have of visiting Saudia Arabia as a child: of the athan, or call to prayer, bellowing through the streets; of the kitchens, always busy, always filled with the warm scent of spices; of a long spread of fresh food laid out on the floor of a big room,

‘Ramadan kahkesi’, a kind of bagel made only in the month of Ramadan, has become the indispensable flavor of sahur and iftar tables in Gaziante. Sahur has become the indispensable flavor of tables. People living in the city prefer Ramadan coffee, also known as Aleppo coffee, due to its special aroma, increasing the feeling of satiety and the flavor it leaves on the palate. The coffee is sold for 20 lira per kilo; It is made with flour, molasses, mahaleb, milk and oil. Ahmet Çınarlı, who has been running a pastry shop for many years, said that Ramadan coffee is special to Gaziantep and said, “Ramadan coffee is our special product. It comes out only in Ramadan. “Ramadan coffee is what Ramadan pita is for Istanbul. We are very pleased with our sales. Gaziantep is a city of taste and our people cannot give up this coffee because it attaches importance to taste”.

Citizens also stated that coffee produced only in the month of Ramadan is a tradition and that they always have it at their tables during iftar and sahur times.

This concept started out as a Thanksgiving stuffing recipe. It took a few twists and turns through the development process.
Wild rice, tossed in a gingery dressing, plus some kale for extra green stuff and health bonus points
Roasted butternut squash
Red pomegranate, green onion, and crumbled goat cheese, which yield a festive color combination
Pepitas (green pumpkin seeds), toasted with a little cinnamon for warming spice
I’m not sure what to call this situation. Can we call it a stuffing? Or is it a dressing? As a vegetarian, the distinctions are lost on me. Maybe it’s just a salad?

Here’s what I know for certain. This dish is a…

Christmas-worthy, wildly colored main dish for vegetarians
Healthy holiday side dish for all
Special diet-friendly option, since it’s gluten free, nut free and easily dairy free/vegan
Before You Get Started
This dish is not quick or particularly easy. It requires a good amount of prep work and cook time. The components will take up space in the oven and on the stove. The holidays are a busy time, and I have some time-saving tips for you below.

This dish is, however, a gorgeous option that tastes wonderful. It will convince your friends that meatless mains can indeed be filling and delicious.

If you’ll be a guest at a holiday feast, this would be a beautiful option to bring with you in fully assembled form.

You can make this recipe a day in advance. Carefully cover it before refrigerating, and let it warm to room temperature before serving.

This concept started out as a Thanksgiving stuffing recipe. It took a few twists and turns through the development process.
Wild rice, tossed in a gingery dressing, plus some kale for extra green stuff and health bonus points
Roasted butternut squash
Red pomegranate, green onion, and crumbled goat cheese, which yield a festive color combination
Pepitas (green pumpkin seeds), toasted with a little cinnamon for warming spice
I’m not sure what to call this situation. Can we call it a stuffing? Or is it a dressing? As a vegetarian, the distinctions are lost on me. Maybe it’s just a salad?

Here’s what I know for certain. This dish is a…

Christmas-worthy, wildly colored main dish for vegetarians
Healthy holiday side dish for all
Special diet-friendly option, since it’s gluten free, nut free and easily dairy free/vegan
Before You Get Started
This dish is not quick or particularly easy. It requires a good amount of prep work and cook time. The components will take up space in the oven and on the stove. The holidays are a busy time, and I have some time-saving tips for you below.

This dish is, however, a gorgeous option that tastes wonderful. It will convince your friends that meatless mains can indeed be filling and delicious.

If you’ll be a guest at a holiday feast, this would be a beautiful option to bring with you in fully assembled form.

You can make this recipe a day in advance. Carefully cover it before refrigerating, and let it warm to room temperature before serving.

‘Ramadan kahkesi’, a kind of bagel made only in the month of Ramadan, has become the indispensable flavor of sahur and iftar tables in Gaziante. Sahur has become the indispensable flavor of tables. People living in the city prefer Ramadan coffee, also known as Aleppo coffee, due to its special aroma, increasing the feeling of satiety and the flavor it leaves on the palate. The coffee is sold for 20 lira per kilo; It is made with flour, molasses, mahaleb, milk and oil. Ahmet Çınarlı, who has been running a pastry shop for many years, said that Ramadan coffee is special to Gaziantep and said, “Ramadan coffee is our special product. It comes out only in Ramadan. “Ramadan coffee is what Ramadan pita is for Istanbul. We are very pleased with our sales. Gaziantep is a city of taste and our people cannot give up this coffee because it attaches importance to taste”.

Citizens also stated that coffee produced only in the month of Ramadan is a tradition and that they always have it at their tables during iftar and sahur times.