Julia is a first-generation American, born in New York and raised in Zimbabwe. She is the daughter of Jewish emigrants from Morocco. Julia is a facilitator of systemic change who works with founding teams to design and develop their organizations for meaningful impact. She is the co-founder of the nonprofit Common Field and founder of Adapt to Complexity. Julia is also a writer and mystic under nomadic synapse. 

When I think of my Mémé, Mercedes Ouanounou Elfassy, I remember her home in Queens, New York. Growing up, we spent almost every Shabbat at her apartment — Friday nights in summertime and Saturday mornings in the winter. The hallway to her apartment always smelled of her Moroccan cooking. My sister and I would race to her open door where Mémé would greet us with big kisses in her djellaba (a North African robe) and beaded slippers, leaving stains on our cheeks from her lipstick.

The dining room table was set with a colorful floral tablecloth draped under plastic with plates of slow-cooked salade cuite (Moroccan matbucha), peppers in harissa oil, and bottles of soda next to kosher wine. The adults drank arak, which amazed me because the liquid turned white with just an ice cube. We sat on the floor in the living room snacking on pickled carrots and olives, greeting each family member as they arrived. What I didn't know at the time was that apartment in Queens was a slice of Morocco, and a door to my culture.

My mother, Lydia Hassiba, was born in Casablanca, Morocco in the 1950s and from a young age was in the kitchen rolling couscous and shopping at the souk with her grandfather for Shabbat meals. When my mother speaks about her home in Morocco, it is with great warmth — stories of a neighborhood bound together by the generous spirit that turns neighbors into community.

My father's family came from Lithuania and Poland, traveling to distant Africa in the early 1900s, rooting in Zimbabwe in the grasslands of Africa. I spent nine years of my childhood living in the country’s capital, Harare.  

Like Mémé before her, my mother became the gravitational center that pulled our community together. She exchanged her Moroccan cooking secrets with friends from many backgrounds and cultures. And we celebrated holidays — Jewish and others — in community, honoring friends and neighbors' traditions with them, with food as the centerpiece of our gatherings.

My mother’s Moroccan lemon chicken is legendary — tender pieces marinated with preserved lemons, green olives, and an abundance of fresh herbs. When I ask for her recipes, she always begins with "first, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, lots and lots of parsley."

My mom taught me that cooking is about trusting yourself. When I ask, for example, "how long do I cook the peppers?" she replies, "I'll tell you when I see it." This intuitive approach to cooking became second nature to me. Learning to measure with our senses means adjusting based on what the dish calls for at that moment. Maybe more heat, spices, or lemon — adding remedies to seasonal ailments that a mother knows how to account for.

My mother also taught me that, like cooking, hospitality is an act of service. The ability to read a room, to anticipate needs, to make every guest feel welcomed. Good hospitality isn't about perfect service; it's about making people feel like they belong.

When my father passed away in 2021, the warmth of our home became still for a moment. In life's most painful moments we can forget the warmth of hospitality, which is why the community participation in shiva is so important. We sat shiva during the pandemic and hosted a Zoom memorial with over 200 friends and family from around the globe sharing stories and memories of my father — a #1 mensch whose final act was one of service. I learned that tending to the grief in our hearts is an act of love. 

In the spring of the next year I encouraged my mother to find her joy in cooking again. Always attuned to her community, my mom approached a local shop in our now-hometown of Hastings-on-Hudson. She noticed they had Moroccan fabrics for sale, and a small kitchen in the back. Striking up a conversation, as she does, she introduced herself and offered to teach a cooking class featuring a few simple dishes that are staples in a Moroccan home – like cured olives with oranges.

She asked for my help in writing out the recipes before the class — including her legendary Shabbat chicken and a refreshing fennel and orange salad. We prepared by first cooking the dishes together — after heartbreaking loss, we started with something simple: placing three sprigs of saffron in warm water to bloom.

Welcoming people into our home is a powerful value passed from Mémé to my mother to me — from Morocco to Queens to Zimbabwe and back to New York. As I pattern my own rituals, it is with the same sentiment of an open home. In the summertime, my friends gather for an annual ritual of communal sharing. We each present the dish that’s meaningful to us. I bring my own version of lemon olive chicken, which includes the addition of a handful of dried apricots.  

Through years of cooking and hosting, I’ve learned that the kitchen is an alchemy of steadiness and transformation. Recipes change, traditions evolve, we share and learn each other’s ways of doing things. My mom's Moroccan chicken tastes different every time, because she cooks with feeling — the food changes, the people change, but the door stays open.