Who doesn’t love spreading a generous layer of homemade jam on warm, buttered, crusty bread? Some might find the idea of jam without fruit unusual, but I encourage everyone to try this vibrant orange and flavorful carrot jam, known as Moraba Havij in Persian.

Making jam is an age-old tradition in Iran and around the world, dating back to 12th century Persia. It was an important way to preserve food long after the growing and harvest seasons. Over time, this tradition spread to many cultures, each adding its own unique touch, particularly in West Asia and the Mediterranean regions.

While we all love fruit preserves, Iranians also transform many vegetables into jam. Beyond carrot jam, a Persian pantry might feature jams made from rhubarb, butternut squash, eggplant, and even the tender skins and shells of young pistachios.

I love that jams are sweet, and I enjoy sweets, but I find that too much sugar can overpower the natural flavor of the fruit or vegetable. For that reason, I often reduce the sugar in my jams to better suit my palate. The joy of cooking for yourself is that you have the freedom to adjust and improvise based on what tastes best to you.

I made my carrot jam with a touch of lemon, rosewater, cardamom, and saffron. Thinking back, my mother would probably have kept it simple, using just carrots, sugar, and water. As you explore your own jam-making journey, don’t be afraid to add or skip ingredients to match your taste and creativity.

We often think of jam as a breakfast treat, spread with butter on bread. Personally, I love exploring the harmony of sweet and savory flavors. These days, I enjoy using jam more flexibly, letting it add depth and character to all kinds of dishes. Beyond toast, I use it as a cupcake topping, a cake filling, or even a vibrant, sweet-and-tangy layer on roasted chicken, grilled steak, or baked fish. Since I eat more soy protein than animal protein, I also add jam to roasted tofu and tempeh, creating playful and diverse flavor combinations.

The spoon

The beautiful bronze spoon in the photo was handmade by my great-grandfather a century ago in Babol, a city in northern Iran. For decades, it lived in our home in Tehran, resting in a red sugar canister from which we sweetened our morning tea.

Now, holding this spoon so many years later and far from the place it was made, I feel a profound connection to a man I never had the chance to meet. I am filled with admiration and gratitude for the gift he left behind.

It is a quiet reminder of who I am and where I come from.

Coincidentally, this was the only item I brought with me to the photoshoot for my book, Bitter & Sweet. It was featured in two of the recipes.