The recipe books were lost. The kitchen wasn't.
Our grandmother left Tripoli in 1948 with a single brass pot and the memory of every dish her mother had ever made. She rebuilt the kitchen from scratch in a small apartment in Jaffa, and three of us grew up eating from it.
Mafrum Kitchen is a quiet attempt to write down what she never bothered to. The stuffed potatoes. The fish in chraime. The long Saturday couscous. The carrot salad nobody could ever quite replicate, until we asked her three times in a row to do it slowly.
We don't sell the recipes. We send one a week to anyone who asks, and we cater family events when the schedule allows.
"You don't need a recipe. You need a slow afternoon and someone you love at the table."