Before his health deteriorated, my maternal Ghido (grandfather) Abu Fawaz had this beautiful Eid tradition of making handmade chocolates filled with roasted nuts. He'd wrap them in shiny gift wrapping, the kind you use for birthday presents.
Ghido taught me how to make them once. He insisted on buying the No Frills block of compound milk and dark chocolate from Franklin's at Centro Bankstown in Sydney's west. He'd buy walnuts and peanuts from the Lebanese grocery shop in Bankstown or in Lakemba, depending on where they were on special. As a trained baker myself, I find Ghido’s choice of chocolates, on one hand, very frustrating. On the other hand, I cannot help but be nostalgic because I loved those sweets as a kid. Back then, I didn’t know the difference between the quality of compound and couverture chocolate.
I loved going to see Ghido Abu Fawaz and my maternal grandmother, Tayta Um Fawaz, in their housing commission flat in Bankstown on Eid. I remember how Ghido would start by carefully hand-cutting the nuts so they were consistent in size and then he'd roast them in the oven until they were golden brown in colour. He would then set up a bain-marie, and melt down the milk and dark chocolate pieces broken evenly. Next, Ghido would spoon individual serves of the mixture onto a tray to set in the fridge. Together, we’d then cover the chocolates in gift wrap that was secured with a hand-curled ribbon using Tayta’s craft scissors. Ghido would then serve the chocolates to visitors from a three-tier stainless steel and gold stand on the day of Eid – either on their arrival or just before they'd leave.
During these cooking sessions, I’d also listen to poignant and vivid stories about food from Tayta. She told me about what it was like growing up in Tripoli, feasting on traditional Lebanese treats, like , kaak b knafeh and , all lovingly made by her brother Mahmoud for Eid and other special occasions. Her cousin, Hajj Nouh, was famous for his Haléwet Shmeisseh, a sweet rosewater-flavoured and slightly sticky mastic dessert made from rice, sugar, and filled with ashta. It’s similar to Turkish delight, but even softer.
In Lebanese and Muslim families, food is a love language. What we struggle to communicate, we make up with our capacity to feed each other. Tayta would make rizb bi haleeb and set them in Paul's avocado dip containers or small plastic containers you'd get from Jasmine’s Lebanese restaurant, which had previously been used for or olives. Tayta also taught me how to make , one of Ghido's favourite Lebanese sweets. It was a type of pastry similar to a pancake, or pikelet, filled with sweet cheese that Tayta would cut by hand and then bake in the oven with ghee until they were golden and crunchy. As soon as she took the tray of pastries out of the oven; Tayta would drench the katayef in rosewater and orange blossom attar. We'd eat it fresh out of the oven, so we could experience the stretchy melted cheese effect. The sweets were served with Ghido's strong black tea.
Maamoul are made with care for Eid. Source: One World Kitchen
As I’ve aged, so too have my grandparents. Ghido was born in 1926 and Tayta in 1931. They have become frailer and unable to do all of the cooking that brought them and their grandchildren joy. As an adult, I’ve realised my love for all things sweet is an intergenerational gift from my grandparents and a way for me to express my love for my Lebanese heritage. My inherited love for sweets eventually led to me running a small business from home, .
Although I always loved chocolates, cakes and desserts because of the connection it had to my family and heritage, as a Muslim, I struggled to find products that were halal and still tasted amazing in Sydney. So eventually, I decided to learn how to make my own. In 2015, I enrolled in my first cooking class, an eight-week French pastry course at the Paris International Cooking School in Stanmore. I also joined a six-month course called the program, with food writer This was my first exposure to the science behind baking but it also gave me a taste for food styling and photography. My proudest moment was coming up with my own recipe for a chocolate ganache, raspberry and rosewater jelly tart for our final class. It was a showcase and culmination of my hybrid identity and history.
In 2017, at the at Ryde TAFE, I learnt how to temper chocolate by hand on marble, make choux pastry, entremets and . That same year, I enrolled in a Certificate IV in Patisserie and this led me to my first job in hospitality as a commis pastry chef at working with , founder of . I completed a Food Supervisor Safety course and by November 2018, I sold my first box of hand-tempered chocolates. The sale gave me a sense of accomplishment, which is exactly what I needed in the middle of a divorce.
Although I always loved chocolates, cakes and desserts because of the connection it had to my family and heritage, as a Muslim, I struggled to find products that were halal and still tasted amazing in Sydney.
After separating from my husband, making and selling sweets became a part of the new identity I was constructing for myself during this phase of uncertainty in my life. Being in the kitchen, and working with my hands to create chocolates, cakes and pastries, gave me a sense of comfort. Baking teacher how patisserie production is as much of a science, as it is an artform. There is a measure of control I feel when I am able to work with various ingredients and alchemise them into an edible sculpture that brings my loved ones together.
When my divorce was finalised in January 2019, I entered this new phase in my life where I was living alone for the first time in ten years. I rented a place with a dishwasher, which made it easier for me when preparing orders. I then bought myself a second KitchenAid, in mint green, with a part of my mahr money. A mahr is an Islamic obligation, in the form of money or possessions paid by a husband to his wife, which is drawn up in a marriage contract signed by both parties. When a Muslim man asks his wife for a divorce, he is generally required to pay the wife a deferred mahr. I figured if I was going to take this small business of mine seriously, I needed to invest in more equipment to make the production process more efficient.
Running CocoaDuo from home for the last few years has been a valuable learning experience. I’ve worked hard to emulate the values Ghido and Tayta taught me about love, food and family. Studying patisserie gave me the tools and skills to produce sweets. CocoaDuo has allowed me to express myself creatively while supplementing my income. I have reinvented myself while sharing my love of chocolates, cakes and desserts. Now, every time I visit Ghido and Tayta, I show them pictures of the products I’ve made. I know they’re proud of me and I plan to continue sharing the legacy they gave me of food as a love language.
This piece was originally submitted for , a project dedicated to promoting diverse voices on food.
