Most of the time, when I sit down to write an introduction for a recipe, it takes me maybe fifteen minutes to put all my feelings into words. To tell you about the aromas and flavors, about the journey that led to the recipe, about the memories behind it.
For this zucchini pie it took me more than a month.
Not because it’s long or complicated, but because the memories behind it aren’t mine. And if there’s one thing that’s difficult about writing—beyond how exposed and vulnerable it can feel—it’s touching someone else’s memories. Someone else’s emotions.
About six weeks ago, I received an email with two recipes attached. Zucchini Pie and Tutti Frutti—those were the original titles, written neatly by hand in a notebook that had clearly spent many years in a busy kitchen.
Shay, who photographed the pages, sent them to me after a conversation we had about food and the flavors that become memories.
When Shay’s mother passed away, she left behind countless handwritten recipes. It’s not only the handwriting that remains. It’s also the smell that once filled the kitchen—the familiar smell of home that slowly disappears. It’s a taste that reminds us of people we love, people who spent time in the kitchen making food simply to make the people they loved happy.
As someone who entered the world of food from exactly that place, I find it difficult to step into someone else’s memories.
I think our connection to food is so much more than ingredients.
Food reminds us of moments in our lives. The corn casserole Mom made for birthdays. The schnitzel waiting for us after school. The Israeli couscous with sauce that Grandma made each Friday.
Try giving someone a different schnitzel. No matter how delicious it is, it will never taste quite like home. It will never carry that same comfort, the quiet feeling that everything will be okay.
I made this zucchini pie nine times over the last month and a half.
The original recipe was mostly written as notes and reminders, with very little instruction and almost no measurements. I understood how it should be made, but every time I baked it, I felt like something was missing.
On one hand, I didn’t want to change the recipe. I certainly didn’t want to start adding ingredients. I knew my job wasn’t to reinvent it—it was to understand it.
After making it three times with Israeli white cheese, I asked Shay if anyone in the family remembered which cheese his mother had used. The recipe simply said “cheese,” but what kind?
The next day he came back with the answer: Farmer’s cheese. The truth is, I should have guessed. A firmer cheese made much more sense in a recipe like this.
So I tried again. And again I felt that something wasn’t quite right. I honestly can’t explain what it was. I just knew it wasn’t there yet.
I took a week-long break from testing and even considered giving up on the recipe entirely. Then, one Friday afternoon, after realizing I hadn’t managed to cook lunch, I decided to try one last time. I only had two zucchini’s in the refrigerator, but I grated them anyway, made a half batch, and tried a slightly different method.
Five minutes after the pan went into the oven, I knew it would work. There are some aromas you simply don’t question.
I waited impatiently as the pie rose in the oven, then settled as it cooled. And with the very first bite—when the flavors reminded me of my own mother’s zucchini pie and brought back so many moments from my own life—I knew I had finally found the right recipe.
There’s nothing revolutionary here. No surprising technique. No culinary breakthrough. Just a great deal of love and a flavor that brings back the small moments we never forget.
Thank you, Shay. And a special thank you to your mother.
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