If you had told my 21-year-old self – freshly discharged from the Israeli army, with a backpack bigger than my torso – that I’d one day be living on a farm in Portugal, baking bread in the mornings and hosting picnics between orange trees and vines, I probably would have laughed. Back then, I thought I was leaving “for six months.” Classic Israeli post-army trip. A little freedom, a little world exploration, and then I’d come back and figure out “real life.”

Six months turned into a year in Australia, and a year into farm jobs, seasonal gigs, and more flights than I could count. I could never quite commit to anything back in Israel –  and then COVID hit. I was locked down in Melbourne for seven long months. The only silver lining was meeting Harry (yes, the same Harry who has popped up in some of our Citizen Café workshops). In a city that suddenly felt like a cage, I understood how fragile our systems are – how easily a city can stop, while the countryside quietly carries on.

After leaving the city, I worked in large-scale agriculture – the kind that makes you question where our food really comes from and what “efficiency” costs. Somewhere between the fields and long conversations with Harry, a quiet idea began to grow: maybe one day we’d grow our own food. I didn’t yet understand that I wasn’t running away – I was walking toward something.

Three months after we moved to Portugal, October 7th happened. A week later, the skies opened, and it rained nonstop until April. War back home, far away from my family, and a long, wet winter made it one of the hardest seasons of my life. Relocation always comes with bureaucracy and language barriers, but that season tested me in deeper ways.

And yet – here we are. Almost three years in.

Life in the Douro is wildly beautiful – clean air, no traffic, landscapes that still take my breath away. It naturally became a place for gathering. It feels impossible to keep that beauty to ourselves. Today, on our farm, we host pick-your-own days, picnics, and tours paired with local wines. I cook mostly from what we grow, forage, and preserve. Watching adults and children climb trees and taste fruit straight from the branches is pure magic.

And what about Israel? Israel is still deeply part of who I am. Israeli food is what brought me into cooking in the first place. I remember ordering falafel in the middle of nowhere in Australia because it was the only vegetarian option on the menu – and what they did to that poor pita was enough to change my life. I realized that if I wanted to eat the food I grew up on, I’d have to learn to make it myself. That realization pushed me toward a journey that would eventually bring me here – to a life we chose to build from the ground up, one that now lives, quite comfortably, outside the box.

But before the guests arrive, before the picnics and the tours and the wine glasses clinking under the vines – there’s the quiet rhythm of our own mornings.

Our mornings are quiet. Harry makes a strong moka pot coffee, and I have it in bed (yes, I’m a farmer and also a princess). Then I turn the oven all the way up for the bread. While it heats and we slowly become human, I move slowly through the first tasks of the day. By the time the bread goes in, I’m ready to participate in life.

While the bread bakes, I walk through the garden to see what changed overnight, looking at the new leaves and flowers and searching for little bugs that love the veggies a little too much. Harry often comes back from his first round outside – these days, he’s busy building next year’s firewood stack, sometimes carrying a heavy bucket of oranges.

At that point, lunch becomes obvious: green shakshuka, fresh bread, and fresh orange juice. When you cook from what’s right in front of you, there’s not much overthinking involved. The garden decides. The season leads. My job is mostly to pay attention.

Which brings me to shakshuka. Shakshuka is one of the most classic Israeli dishes, usually red, tomato-based, and comforting. But winter gives us something else, leafy greens are at their best right now: chard, kale, spinach, fresh herbs, even cauliflower leaves or wild nettles if you’re into foraging. So instead of returning to red over and over again, I let winter take over: out of the box and into the green.

Winter Green Shakshuka (Garden Version)

This recipe is flexible by design. Use what you find — in your garden, at the market, or at the supermarket.

You’ll need:
– 1 large leek / 2 medium onions
– A very large bunch of leafy greens (Swiss chard, kale, spinach, cauliflower or broccoli leaves — mix and match)
– A small bunch of fresh herbs: parsley, cilantro, thyme, basil, whatever you have
– 5–6 cloves garlic
– 1 generous tablespoon cream cheese, yogurt, or crème fraîche
– Eggs (2 per person)
– Salt and pepper
Optional: a small handful of any kind of hard cheese you have, grated or cut into small cubes (mozzarella, cheddar, feta, Parmesan, everything works)

How to make it:

Start by chopping the leek or onions into thin slices. Slice the garlic and separate the stems from the leaves, chopping the stems into small pieces. In a wide pan, heat olive oil and sauté the leek and all the stems first, until slightly caramelized. Add the garlic. Add all the leafy greens and a splash of water. Cook until softened completely.

Stir in the herbs and a spoonful of cream cheese, yogurt, or crème fraîche until creamy. Add the eggs and a handful (or two) of mixed cheeses on top. Cover and cook until the whites are set, but the yolks are still soft, about 2 minutes. Finish with more chopped fresh herbs or a bit of grated Parmesan. Serve with good bread and a few toppings on the side.

It’s Israeli, it’s seasonal and familiar, but completely different. Maybe that’s what living “out of the box” really looks like.