I was born in Baku, the city of wind and fire, where food has always sat at the centre of life. In Azerbaijan no occasion passes without a table laid with abundance. Weddings, family celebrations, even wakes are marked by dishes prepared with care and generosity. From an early age I learned in the kitchens of my grandmother, mother, and aunties. They taught me to cook by feel and to trust my senses rather than scales. By the time I was a young teen I was the main cook in our household, carrying on their traditions.

Azerbaijani cuisine is shaped by geography. It sits at the meeting point of cultures and trade routes and mirrors the refinement of Persia, the warmth of Turkey, the heartiness of Central Asia, and the rustic soul of Russia, yet it remains entirely its own. A meal often begins with herbs piled high on a platter, alongside cheese, breads warm from the tandyr, tangy pickles, and bowls of fruit. These first offerings say you are welcome, you belong here. From there come the dishes that define us: saffron-scented rice pilafs with their golden crusts, grape-leaf dolma cooked slowly with lamb and herbs, steaming bowls of soup, smoky kebabs from the coals. Spices are used with restraint but always with purpose: saffron for its perfume, sumac for brightness, cinnamon for quiet depth. Fresh herbs are as essential as bread on the table.

No gathering feels complete without tea. In Azerbaijan it is poured into armudu, glasses curved like rosebuds, and served piping hot. Tea always comes with something sweet: fruit preserves made in season, white cherries that glisten like jewels, or the dark, complex flavour of green walnut preserve, my favourite of all. Tea stretches the meal as it carries its warmth into the last moments before guests rise from the table. My cooking class guests know this well. We finish each class with tea in armudu glasses, served with baklava or little sweets. I love bringing these moments into the life I share here in Western Australia.

One of the brightest and loved expressions of our food culture is Novruz, the spring equinox festival. It is a time of renewal, when families sprout wheat grass samani to symbolise rebirth, light candles, and leap over bonfires to leave misfortune behind. As a child I loved papakh atdi, a playful tradition of leaving my beanie at a neighbour’s door to find it returned brimming with festive treats. Our holiday table was always filled with the artistry of the women in my family: delicate shekerbura with hand-pressed patterns, golden, flaky spirals of savoury gogal, and baklava layered with honey and walnuts. To me these flavours are of spring. They carry both the mischief of childhood and the deep symbolism of renewal.

In my early twenties I moved to Australia with Troy, after we had already been together for nearly three years. Troy grew up in Bunbury, but it was his love of surfing that landed me in Margaret River, in a home by the coast. Just before the world turned upside down with the pandemic, we bought our farm in Pemberton, deep in the Southern Forests and Valleys Region. It has become our biggest project to date, a truffle farm that keeps us on our toes and draws us back to the land. It is challenging, but we would not have it other way. The farm is lively and full, shared with our two children, Scarlett and Jasper, a labradoodle named Marley, two cats called Caspian and Pippa, a rooster named Chickpea, and a pair of plump Australorp hens. It is here, among the tall karri forests and misty paddocks, that I spend my time cooking, writing, and photographing food that reflects both my Azerbaijani roots and the seasons of my adopted home.

For years Troy and I also travelled and lived abroad, gathering experiences that continue to shape the way I cook. My food today reflects the flavours of my homeland but also the colours, spices, and ideas of the places I have called home or passed through. It is a palate built from both memory and journey, always growing and evolving.

Creativity has always been a big part of my life. I studied international economic relations at university, but my path has never followed a straight line. For a short time, I explored pop singing, even recording music in Baku before moving to Australia. These days, I take piano lessons, not with any grand goal in mind, but simply for the joy of learning and making music. Whether it’s in the kitchen, behind the lens, or at the keys, I’m always looking for ways to create, to express, and to connect.

In 2018 I placed seventh on MasterChef Australia, an experience that gave me the chance to share Azerbaijani food with a wide audience. Since then I have taught cooking classes, contributed to magazines, and worked with local producers and food festivals. Through it all, the heart of my work remains the same: a love of seasonal cooking and the belief that food is abundance, connection, and story. It nourishes our bodies, but it also nourishes our spirit. For me, cooking is a way to step out of the seriousness of life, to play, to create, to find balance. The kitchen is where joy and generosity meet, and where every season brings the chance to begin again.