Then I started Chinese brush painting.

This is only my second session, and I can say without exaggeration that this is one of the most humbling things I have ever attempted. It looks free. It looks expressive. It looks like you just flick your wrist and magic happens.

It does not.

There are rules. Very precise rules. You have to manage the water in the brush, the amount of ink, the balance between the two, and sometimes even load the brush with a gradient so that a single stroke carries light and dark at once. You have to think before the brush touches the paper because once it lands, that is it. There is no correcting. No layering. No going back in to fix a wing that suddenly looks like a potato.

The second you hesitate or do not fully know what you are doing, the painting reveals you immediately.

It demands full presence. You cannot multitask. You cannot be distracted. It is deliberate and focused in a way that feels almost meditative. That intensity is exactly why I love it.

My Laoshi is extraordinary. When he demonstrates, I honestly do not understand how one person can know so much about how plants grow, how leaves curl, how fruit hangs from a branch, or how birds balance in the air. His understanding of nature is phenomenal. Watching him paint is an absolute pleasure.

As for me, my birds are a problem. They refuse to cooperate. They do not look like they can fly. They barely look like they want to. The flowers are not too bad, and my latest pomegranate is my favourite so far. At least the pomegranate looks confident.

The class is every Saturday, and it has quietly become my favourite day of the week. It is a challenge, and I am not naturally good at it. But I love that. It reminds me that even when you have painted your entire life, there is always something new that can humble you and make you start again from the beginning.

Before Jerusalem, I cooked quite normally. After Jerusalem, vegetables became the main character in my kitchen.

Ottolenghi has this magical ability to turn vegetables into something so rich, so comforting, and so satisfying that you genuinely forget about meat. Not in a preachy way. Not in a “this is healthier” way. More in a “why would I even want anything else” way.

When I opened my first restaurant, DR.Inc (which is now called Lisette’s, run by The Social), the entire foundation of my buffet came straight out of Ottolenghi cookbooks. Dish after dish after dish was inspired by him. And of course, I never made any money, because I also followed his ingredient lists religiously.

If he said macadamia nuts, I bought macadamia nuts.
If he said maple syrup, I bought maple syrup.
If he said the best olive oil, I bought the best olive oil.

No shortcuts. No compromises. Zero business sense. Lots of flavour.

But the colours, the textures, the abundance, the richness. It was completely intoxicating. Big trays of roasted vegetables, herbs everywhere, yoghurt, tahini, citrus, crunch, softness, sweetness, heat. Everything layered. Everything generous.

I honestly don’t think I have ever cooked an Ottolenghi dish that wasn’t delicious, and more importantly, one that I didn’t immediately want to eat again.