Mangoes at Sundown
Recipes for Iftar, infused with the sweetness of Egypt
A few years ago, I took a sweet and unforgettable journey through Egypt—riding camels beneath the shadow of the great pyramids, sailing the Nile on a traditional dahabiya, and wandering through ancient temples etched with hieroglyphics and whispers of the past. I explored the rich history of Egyptian food and culture, and witnessed how years of political and economic crisis have chipped away at that legacy. I was floored not just by the depth of history and the spiritual energy of the land, but by the resilience of the Egyptian people—struggling to make ends meet in a country overflowing with heritage and richness. I was grateful for the chance to briefly exist within its ancient rhythm—and deeply moved by the strength it takes to hold on to any beauty in the midst of hardship.
What I hadn’t expected was to stumble upon the story of mangoes—woven into the everyday lives of Egyptians. Egypt’s deep and enduring love for mangoes both surprised and delighted me.
Though it wasn’t mango season when I visited, mangoes seemed to find me everywhere—from the north near the Mediterranean to the deep south near the Sudanese border, and along the Red Sea coast. I saw the vast orchards—some generations old—growing dozens of varietals. I walked through villages where mango crates were still crafted by hand from date palm reeds, just as they’ve been for centuries. I saw the deeply rooted infrastructure of one of the most impressive domestic mango markets I’ve ever encountered—full of passion, pride, and ingenuity. From farmers tending a few trees to those managing expansive hectares, the love for mangoes in Egypt was as palpable as the ancient energy pulsing through the stones of its temples.
And while the trees were bare of fruit, the sweetness of mangoes was ever-present—in juices, jams, curds, chutneys, and confections that filled shops and homes. As the final days of Ramadan approach, I find myself returning to those memories, to that sweetness, and to the Egyptians’ enduring love of mangoes, despite the daily hardships they’ve faced for so many years.
Ramadan is the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar and one of the holiest times of the year for Muslims around the world. It’s a deeply spiritual period marked by fasting from sunrise to sunset, prayer, reflection, and community. Each day, the fast is broken at sundown with a meal called iftar, often beginning with dates and water, followed by a spread of nourishing foods shared with family and friends. In the early morning, before the fast begins again, many also eat suhoor, a pre-dawn meal meant to sustain them through the day. Ramadan is not just about abstaining from food, but also about cultivating compassion, generosity, and gratitude. The month concludes with the joyous celebration of Eid al-Fitr, a holiday centered on food, family, and giving. This year Eid al-Fitr begins on the evening of March 29th.
In a world that feels increasingly chaotic—much like Egypt did to me—there’s something deeply grounding in the rituals of Ramadan. Amid the noise and uncertainty, this sacred month offers a steady rhythm of restraint, reflection, and renewal. From sunrise to sunset, food and drink are set aside as an act of spiritual devotion, a daily practice in patience and presence. But Ramadan is also about community, generosity, and joy—values that I noticed with Egyptians even in the face of hardship. These sweet rituals become anchors—offering connection, meaning, and a sense of peace through the simple act of gathering and sharing food at day’s end.
What struck me most of my time in Egypt, was the contrast between the sweetness of mangoes and the hardship so many Egyptians endure. Years of political instability, economic collapse, the pandemic, and now global conflicts like the war in Ukraine have left everyday Egyptians with fewer and fewer resources—especially when it comes to quality food and ingredients. The result has been devastating for a country once known for its rich culinary history, deep flavors, and inventive use of spices, grains, and fresh produce. That legacy hasn’t disappeared, but it’s been challenged by the political and economic chaos. Everyday Egyptians are overwhelmed with a lack of fresh foods, empty shelves, cheap imported goods, and the daily struggle to simply eat.
And yet, even in that struggle, mangoes remain a symbol of abundance and joy. They’re celebrated, shared, and loved deeply—woven into culture, memory, and resilience. That unwavering love for mangoes, despite so much hardship, moved me. It reminded me that sweetness isn’t just a flavor—it’s an act of resistance, of hope, and of holding on to something beautiful. (It’s the same sweet resilience I first learned as a little girl in Nicaragua, amidst similar hardships for similar reasons—again, under mango trees.)
During Ramadan, that sweetness takes on even deeper meaning. My time in Egypt echoed something I’ve seen again and again around the world: the power of food when it’s shared with grace—not just as sustenance, but as ritual, comfort, and a symbol of care. Each morning begins in quiet before the sun rises, and each evening ends in togetherness as the fast is broken with iftar, often starting with a date and a glass of water. What follows is a shared meal, made more meaningful by the hunger and intention that preceded it. It’s a time when food becomes more than nourishment—it becomes a gesture of love. In Egypt, I saw this spirit everywhere: in the joy of small sweets, the pride in a home-cooked dish, and the comfort of familiar flavors passed from one generation to the next, despite the medley of substantial obstacles.
It’s in that same spirit that I create and offer these mango recipes—small acts of sweetness to mark the end of the day, and perhaps, a quiet reminder of the beauty that lives in simplicity, resilience, and the sacred rhythm of renewal.
قمر المانجو الدهبي (Golden Mango Qamar)
The original Qamar al-Din is a drink rooted in Syrian tradition—particularly the apricot orchards of Ghouta near Damascus—it’s been a beloved Ramadan staple for centuries, traveling through the Levant and North Africa and onto iftar tables across the world. The drink is traditionally made from glossy sheets of sun-dried apricot purée, rolled thin like leather, rehydrated in water until they dissolve into a rich, golden nectar. A touch of sugar, a hint of rose or orange blossom, and sometimes pine nuts or almonds floating on top complete the ritual. More than just a drink, Qamar al-Din is a sensory marker of Ramadan itself—cool, sweet, and deeply restorative after a day of fasting. It revives the body, soothes the spirit, and carries generations of tradition in every sip.
The name Qamar al-Din (قمر الدين) translates poetically to “Moon of the Religion.” The word قمر (Qamar, or Amar in Egyptian pronunciation) means moon, evoking the luminous crescent that begins and ends Ramadan. الدين (al-Din) means of the religion, making the full phrase not only literal but beautifully symbolic. Some stories claim the name honors a man with apricot-colored skin; others say it was chosen for the drink’s resemblance to the golden Ramadan moon. Either way, the name is as evocative as the drink itself.
In my version, I’ve created a mango-forward tribute—one that stays true to the heart of the original by mostly just swapping out dried apricots for dried mangoes. I call it قمر المانجو الدهبي — Golden Mango Qamar. In Egyptian Arabic, it’s pronounced Amar el-Mango el-Dahabi. The “Qaf” in Qamar softens to an “A,” rolling gently off the tongue, just like the drink itself. This name is a gentle play on words—paying homage to the iconic apricot drink while swapping in golden Ataulfo mangoes, whose color, richness, and silky sweetness echo the original in a new, sun-drenched way. It’s something familiar reborn with a little mango magic (#MangoJoy).
Golden Mango Qamar – قمر المانجو الدهبي
My mango version of a traditional Ramadan drink. This beautiful, floral, sunset-hued refresher is made with dried Ataulfo mangoes in place of the classic dried apricot paste. It’s a gentle nod to Egypt—its enduring love of mangoes, its resourcefulness, and its resilience. A perfect way to break the fast with sweetness, tradition and #MangoJoy.
Serves 4-6
Ingredients
1 cup chopped small, dried Ataulfo mango slices
2 cups boiling water
1 tablespoon orange blossom water
1/2 tablespoon rose water
2 tablespoons honey
1 teaspoon finely grated blood orange zest
1/4 cup fresh blood orange juice
About 3 cups cold water (for blending and consistency)
Mint leaves for garnish
Dried rose petals for garnish (optional)
Directions
Place the chopped dried mango slices in a large heatproof bowl and pour the boiling water over them. Cover and let them soak for about two hours, until they’re soft and fully rehydrated. Once soaked, and water cool, transfer the mangoes and their soaking liquid to a blender. Add the orange blossom water, rose water, honey, blood orange zest, and blood orange juice. Begin blending, slowly adding the cold water as needed to reach a smooth, pourable consistency—thicker than juice, but thinner than a smoothie. Depending on your blender size, you may need to do this in batches. Blend until the mixture is completely silky. Taste and adjust the floral notes or sweetness as desired. Chill until ready to serve, and pour into small glasses to break the fast with something beautiful, fragrant, and mango sweet. Garnish with fresh mint and rose petals.
King Tut’s Spiced Mango & Date Chutney- مربى المانجو والبلح
Dates are a cornerstone of Ramadan across the Middle East, North Africa, and the greater Islamic world. Their sweetness carries more than just flavor—it carries meaning. Breaking the fast with a date is a tradition rooted in both the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad and the body’s natural need to ease gently into nourishment. But dates do more than open the meal. In kitchens from Egypt and throughout the Middle East, they are transformed—into syrups, pastes, and relishes that add both richness and grounding to the table.
While chutney isn’t a traditional Arabic word, the concept of a sweet-savory condiment is deeply rooted in the region. Preserved lemon pastes, spiced fig sauces, tomato jams, and date relishes have long held a place on the table, especially during Ramadan. These preserves are often made from what’s abundant—stretching ingredients, preserving seasonality, and adding depth to otherwise simple meals. In this way, they mirror the spirit of the month itself: resourceful, reflective, nourishing.
The idea for this chutney came from My Egypt by Michael Mina, a new cookbook I’ve been cooking from while revisiting my Egyptian memories. His recipes and his love of mangoes—sparked something in me. My version of an Egyptian date chutney folds in the spirit of Indian-style tamarind chutney (imli), which shares culinary space in Egypt and throughout the Middle East. The flavor profile—sweet, sour, and warmly spiced—has long traveled across regions, carried by trade and tradition, showing up in many forms on Ramadan tables.
But part of my inspiration came from even deeper history. When I visited the tomb of King Tutankhamun, I was struck by what was buried alongside him. Among the gold and finery, archaeologists found food for the afterlife: baskets of dried fruits, pressed cakes of dates and figs, honey, and even mummified ducks. These were foods of comfort and sustenance, meant to travel with him into eternity. It reminded me how deeply Egyptians have always revered food—not just as nourishment, but as ritual, memory, and continuity.
This Middle Eastern chutney is my offering to that legacy. It blends both fresh and dried Ataulfo mangoes with dates and a deeply aromatic custom dukkah spice blend I developed as part of an herb salt for my Herbal Roots work—an earthy, toasty mix of nuts, seeds, herbs, and spices that brings texture and a whisper of Egypt’s kitchen soul. A soul, it seems, I carried home with me after my travels there. My chutney isn’t necessarily traditional, but it’s deeply inspired—by the ingredients I saw celebrated across Egypt, by the kind of pantry wisdom I believe we all need, and by the quiet creativity that I see so often emerges during Ramadan.
I call it مربى المانجو والبلح بالبهارات — King Tut’s Spiced Mango & Date Chutney. In Egyptian Arabic, it’s pronounced marabat el-mango wel-balah bil-baharat. It’s sweet and savory, soft and complex, meant to be folded into rice or grain bowls, tucked into bread with cheese or roasted meats, or spooned onto an iftar plate. I first made it to accompany a dish I loved from Mina’s book—Turkey Hawawshi—but it’s since found its way into everything. It holds, in every spoonful, something ancient and something new—flavors carried forward with intention, memory, and sweetness.
King Tut’s Spiced Mango & Date Chutney
مربى المانجو والبلح بالبهارات (marabat el-mango wel-balah bil-baharat)
A sweet and savory chutney inspired by dates on the Ramadan table, the pantry wisdom of ancient kitchens, this chutney is made with both fresh and dried Ataulfo mangoes, Medjool dates, warming spices, and white balsamic vinegar. It’s thick, fruity, spiced, and richly textured—delicious alongside roasted meats, grain bowls, or bread and cheese. It can be left chunky or blended smooth, depending on your mood.
And it’s not lost on me—as a cook and recipe developer—that this kind of fruit-forward, spice-laced preserve isn’t all that different from the jammy moles that emerged from ancient Mexico. Across cultures, across centuries, cooks have always known how to coax sweetness and spice into something that nourishes far more than hunger. This chutney is my own expression of that lineage, connecting my work in food with my agricultural work in Mexico with mangoes to mangoes and my special history with the Middle East.
Makes about 2 cups
Ingredients
For the dukkah:
1 tablespoon fennel seeds
1 tablespoon coriander seeds
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon sesame seeds
1/4 cup almonds
For the chutney:
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 small shallot, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 teaspoons fresh grated ginger
1–2 dried red chilies (Kashmiri or Egyptian), crumbled
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Zest of 1 orange
½ teaspoon salt
4-6 Medjool dates, pitted and chopped fnely
1/2 cup finely chopped dried Ataulfo mangoes
1 cup chopped Ataulfo mangoes (fresh)
½ cup white balsamic vinegar
1/2 cup water (plus more if needed)
2 tablespoons honey
2 tablespoon sesame paste
½ teaspoon salt
Directions
Start by preparing the spice blend. In a thin bottomed skillet over medium heat, toast the fennel seeds, coriander seeds, cumin seeds, and sesame seeds until fragrant and just beginning to pop—about 2 to 3 minutes. Add the almonds and toast for another minute or two, just until golden. Transfer everything to a mortar and pestle and grind into a coarse, textured mix. Set aside.
In a medium saucepan, heat the olive oil over medium-low. Add the chopped shallot and cook for 2–3 minutes until soft and translucent. Stir in the garlic and ginger, followed by the red chilies, cinnamon, and orange zest. Let the aromatics cook gently for another minute, stirring constantly. Stir in the salt.
Add the chopped dates and dried mangoes, stir to coat, then pour in the fresh mangoes, white balsamic vinegar, water, and honey. Bring the mixture to a gentle simmer and cook, uncovered, for 20-25 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add more water if needed to prevent sticking or burning. Once the fruit is soft and the liquid has thickened into a glossy glaze, stir in the toasted spice blend and sesame seeds.
At this point, you can leave the chutney as-is—thick and chunky—or let it cool slightly and blend it for a smoother, more jammy texture. Taste and adjust the seasoning if needed, adding a touch more honey for sweetness or vinegar for brightness.
Let cool completely, then store in a jar in the refrigerator. It will keep for several weeks.
Mango Kunafa – كنافة بالمانجو
Kunafa—also spelled kanafeh, konafa, or in Greek and Turkish traditions as kadaifi or kadayıf—is one of the Middle East’s most iconic and enduring desserts. Built from delicate threads of shredded phyllo dough, known as kataifi, this dish has woven its way across centuries and cultures, adapting and evolving with every stop. It’s often called the crown jewel of Ramadan desserts throughout the Middle East, filling streets and homes each night after sunset with its rich aroma and golden crispness. I’ve witnessed its power on many days and nights in my favorite city in the world—Istanbul.
Though often associated with the elegant sweets of the Ottoman Empire, which rose in the 14th century, kunafa’s roots stretch back even earlier—to the Arab world in the 10th century, where early versions of thin pastry desserts were said to have first appeared. The Ottomans later embraced and refined kunafa, spreading it across their vast empire. Over time, it took on local character: crisp and cheesy in Nablus, syrup-soaked in Damascus, nut-filled in Istanbul, cream-layered in Cairo. Yet everywhere, kunafa remained a dessert of celebration and sweetness—crafted by hand.
It was in Queens, New York, where I first tasted it. Since then, I’ve eaten it with immense joy all over the world. I was 28, freshly relocated to New York City for a job with an Israeli herb company based near JFK Airport. A coworker took me to a Greek restaurant, just down the road from an active runway of planes lifting and landing. He ordered me a dessert I didn’t recognize—kadaifi. What arrived was golden and warm, crisp and sticky, layered with subtle cheese and fragrant syrup. I was stunned by its texture and delicacy. I had never eaten anything like it. That first bite was a quiet revelation. I didn’t yet know the dessert had a name that would follow me for decades.
And it did. Jordan, Palestine, Turkey, Tunisia, Egypt—in each place, kunafa greeted me in a new form, yet always with the same soul. I tasted it in humble kitchens with my agricultural work and glittering bakeries in busy cities. I saw it sliced from street carts, stuffed with fruit, nuts, or cheese.. It’s tightly tucked into my memory in many forms. Kunafa became, in its way, part of my own story in the Middle East—one important piece of a long journey through food and agriculture, that has a way of constantly weaving its way back into my head, and now my own kitchen.
This recipe bridges my love of travel to my work with mangoes, grounded in a culinary style shaped by both. Golden, crisp kunafa cups hold silky mango cream and fresh tropical mangoes. The idea nods to tradition but speaks in my modern voice—rooted in the places I’ve cooked, the cultures that shaped me, and the sweet intersections of food, agriculture, and memory.
I call it كنافة بالمانجو—Mango Kunafa. In Egyptian Arabic, it’s pronounced kunafa bel-mango. It’s simple, bright, and textural—just right for spring, for Ramadan, or for anyone following flavor across continents and time. A sweet reminder that discovery becomes memory, and memory becomes something new.
Mango Kunafa – كنافة بالمانجو
A layered Middle Eastern dessert that fuses tradition with tropical brightness. Crisp, buttery kunafa meets a mango-infused mahalabia (or muhallebi)—a milk-based pudding beloved throughout the Middle East. Floral syrup, fresh fruit, and soft cream bring texture and contrast, making this perfect for spring, Ramadan, or any sweet-toothed traveler longing for sweet Arabic memories. Make the cream pudding and the syrup a day ahead.
Serves 6
Ingredients
For the cream filling:
2 large eggs
¼ cup granulated sugar
3 tablespoons mango puree
2 tablespoons cornstarch
2 cups whole milk
2 teaspoons orange blossom water
pinch of salt
For the mango- rose syrup:
2 mango pits with flesh stuck on
½ cup sugar
1 teaspoon orange zest
1 cup water
½ teaspoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon rose water
For the kunafa (kanafa or knafeh):
3 cups kataifi (shredded phyllo dough, boxed shelf-stable kind)
½ cup unsalted butter, melted
¼ teaspoon ground cardamom
2 tablespoon sugar
For the assembly:
1 -2 fresh ripe mango, cubed
½ cup chopped pistachios
a few teaspoons dried edible rose petals (optional)
Directions
For the cream filling:
Whisk together the eggs, sugar, mango purée, and cornstarch in a medium saucepan until smooth. Slowly whisk in the milk, then place the pan over medium heat and cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture thickens and comes to a gentle boil—about 8 to 10 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in the orange blossom water. Pour the cream into a bowl and let it cool for about 10 minutes. Press a piece of plastic wrap directly onto the surface to prevent a skin from forming, then refrigerate for at least 12 hours, until fully set into a silky, scoopable pudding.
For the mango-rose syrup:
Combine the mango pits, sugar, zest, water, and lemon juice in a small saucepan. Bring to a simmer over medium heat and cook for about 10 to 12 minutes, allowing the mango flavor to infuse and the syrup to reduce slightly. Remove from heat, strain out the mango pits, and stir in the rose water. Let the syrup cool to room temperature.
For the kunafa (kanafa or knafeh):
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Gently pull apart the kunafe strands, cutting them into 1- to 2-inch lengths. In a large bowl, toss them with the melted butter, cardamom, and sugar until evenly coated. Spread the mixture in a thin, even layer on a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake for 15 to 20 minutes, stirring once or twice, until golden brown and crisp. Let cool completely.
To assemble:
Once the cream/pudding has been refrigerated for at least 12 hours and is set, you can assemble the desserts.
Layer a spoonful of baked kunafa in the bottom of individual serving glasses or ramekins. Add a layer of mango cream, followed by fresh mango pieces. Drizzle with mango rose water syrup and sprinkle with chopped pistachios and rose petals if using. Repeat the layers once more.
Serve chilled or at room temperature. The dessert can be assembled a few hours ahead and kept in the refrigerator until ready to serve.
