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a year gone by, really difficult moments, and loss have a way of making anyone more reflective about their situation i think. i know that, for me, i'm brought closer to my roots, to the food that has shaped me, and to the people i come from that way. these things that come to mind are so much more than just recipes, family, and cooking though. they're stories of resistance, resilience, and the enduring spirit of my people. i want to talk to you all about qidreh spice, which is something very close to my heart, and tell you why it is.
my grandparents hail from yaffa in palestine and were forcibly displaced in 1948 when my teta was 20 years old. they ended up in amman, jordan where both my dad and i were raised, so our family has a deep connection to both places. by the time they built a home in amman, qidreh had already become one of those dishes that traveled with them. like any displaced people with a rich culinary culture, qidreh was a way to remember what was left behind.
it wasn’t made every week because it's traditionally made with meat and we couldn't afford it, so it was saved for when the whole family could come together for events like eid, or when there was a special reason to celebrate. in any case, we all knew what my grandmother put into it, more importantly than the meat, was a reminder we all needed about where we came from.
the occasion of it is what makes qidreh special. don't get me wrong, it's delicious too, but it's food that requires the presence of others. there's no single-serving version and no cutting corners. even when my teta got older, she’d insist on layering it herself, spoon by spoon. i'm sure that her cooking was a part of her worship too. she started with so much intention, and finished it with so much gratitude that she could feed her family. after she passed, making qidreh and other dishes she loved making (like alayet bandora) was like recreating moments with her, and i'm sure it was a similar experience she had when she would cook and reminisce about her beloved palestine.
every time i open a jar of our qidreh spice now, with the rushing warmth of turmeric, the brightness of dried lime, and that earthy mix of black pepper and allspice, i feel her kitchen again. and eventually, me cooking qidreh became more than just tapping into a visceral memory of her; it has become about keeping her presence and teachings in the kitchen alive.
there’s a kind of honesty in food like that. it forces you to pause, to let time do what it needs to do, and to slow down long enough for you to see the beauty in what’s in front of you. qidreh is history. it's culture. it's a connection to the land, to our families, and to our people who have passed down these traditions for generations. it gets its name from the iconic 'qidreh rice' dish that's beloved in gaza, with aromatics that'll warm your soul. it’s the spice blend that has traveled across the world with countless displaced families, but still brings us together for special occasions, celebrations, gatherings, and moments where feeding and serving is at the heart of who we are.
as i write this, i can't ignore the reality that my people are under siege, that our communities are being torn apart yet again, and that gaza is still facing unspeakable pain.
when i think about our food, i'm always reminded that it serves as more than nourishment; it's a way to remember, a way to resist, and a way to tell the world that we will not be erased. food tells a story, and we're still here to share ours. qidreh spice carries that story. it's the sound of generations cooking together, the warmth of a family gathering around a table, and a house filling with the warm, earthy scents of cinnamon, cumin, and allspice, each playing its part in the story. qidreh rice is traditionally cooked over an open fire in a clay pot until today, and every time i make a dish with this spice, i think about the generations of people before me who cooked like i am now, but endured great hardship. all of this isn't only rooted in tradition; it’s rooted in survival.
food in resistance
in light of the violence that has taken so many lives in gaza, we have to hold on tighter to what’s sacred. and that's human life. palestinian life. and for me, preserving our food and sharing it honors that. because when everything else is stripped away, the food we cook, the spices we use, and the way we share it with the world is one of the few things that are left.
qidreh spice is one of those things that reminds us of the importance of preserving what makes us who we are, and it's now a part of our teta spice box — a collection of essential middle eastern flavor profiles that remind us of the roots that bind us, and the tetas that survived to raise us to never forget them. it’s a way to share a piece of our culture, a taste of gaza, and a key component of our resistance.
a lesson in slowness and rhythm
sometimes, when i’m cooking qidreh, i think about how much of my life has been spent trying to catch up with time. rushing between prep lists, service, deliveries, and the thousand tiny things that come with running a kitchen and a small business.
qidreh doesn’t work that way though. it refuses to be rushed and requires patience that you might not have, which is exactly why you should be making it in my opinion. trusting the slow simmer, the even layering of rice and meat, and that the flavor builds only when you give it the time it needs sounds easy, but definitely requires faith in this generations-old process.
i learned that from my teta. she never had a timer, never measured, but she always knew. when i was young, i thought she was just guessing. now i understand that what looked like guessing was years of rhythm. the kind of rhythm that's acquired through repeating something until it becomes part of who you are.
recipe: qidreh-spiced chickpea salad
qidreh spice isn’t just for rice. its versatility extends beyond traditional dishes, making it perfect for all kinds of creative culinary endeavors. one of my favorite ways to use it right now is in a simple, but delicious, recipe for qidreh-spiced chickpeas. these chickpeas are roasted until they’re perfectly crispy, and then tossed in a fresh salad with a dressing that features qidreh spice as its star. it’s an easy, satisfying dish that brings the heart of gaza to your table, no matter where you are.
ingredients
for the chickpeas:
1 can of chickpeas, drained and rinsed
3 tbsp shawarmaji qidreh spice
3 tbsp olive oil
salt and pepper to taste
for the salad:
big bunch of arugula
handful of cherry tomatoes (5-7), sliced in halves
2 persian cucumbers, sliced
1/2 red onion, thinly sliced
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
2 tbsp apple cider vinegar
for the dressing:
1/2 cup labna (kefir cheese)
4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
juice of 1 lemon
3 tbsp shawarmaji qidreh spice
salt and pepper to taste
prep
1. roast the chickpeas: preheat your oven to 400°F. pat the chickpeas dry with a towel, and then toss them in olive oil, qidreh spice, salt, and pepper. spread them out on a baking sheet and roast for about 25-30 minutes, or until they are crispy and golden brown, shaking the pan halfway through. make sure theres enough space around them on the pan.
2. quick pickle your onion: put your sliced red onion into a bowl and toss with apple cider vinegar and olive oil, and let sit while you prepare the rest of your ingredients.
3. make the dressing: in a small bowl, whisk together labna, olive oil, lemon juice, qidreh spice, salt, and pepper.
4. toss and serve: once the chickpeas are done, toss them with the salad, and drizzle with the dressing. serve immediately while the chickpeas are still crispy.
whether you’re making traditional qidreh rice or getting creative with qidreh-spiced chickpeas, this spice is one that carries the essence of our culture, our resilience, and our love for food. it’s a unique way to share our story, one that I hope will be passed along with love and care to your own families.
thank you to every one of you who continually support our small family business, allow me to share my musings, and give me the opportunity to live my dream by serving our community the food that i love (and live) to eat.
peace, love, and toum,
chef mohammad abutaha
