In every Eastern Mediterranean home I’ve ever stepped into—be it in the hills of Lebanon or my or my kitchen—there is always dried mint. Not in a fancy jar, not in powdered form, but in whole, crisp leaves, tucked into cloth pouches or reused glass jars, waiting to be crushed gently between fingertips right before gracing yogurt soups, lentil stews, or vibrant salads with their cooling aroma.

Anyone who has mint growing in their backyard knows its generosity. It takes over. It spreads. It thrives on neglect and sunlight and becomes this wild, aromatic bush that begs to be used. As a child, I remember it in our family garden, picking handfuls just because I could. We never bought mint—we harvested it, shared it, dried it, honored it.

But living in Manhattan, abundance takes new shapes. I don’t have gardens sprawling with herbs. When I buy fresh mint for tabbouleh or tea, I never waste the extras. I lay them out on a clean dish towel.  In a few days, they crisp up into brittle green leaves, curling inward holding the aroma inside it. I store them whole. I never crush them ahead of time. That’s part of the ritual—releasing their oils only when a dish calls for them, never a moment before.

It’s these little things that bring my ancestors close. Crumbling dried mint into a steaming pot of yogurt soup is like bringing my mother into the kitchen with me, or my grandmother’s apron swishing past as she stirred lentils with care. I remember her pressing the leaves between her palms.

Historically, mint has always been a plant of purpose and poetry. Native to the Mediterranean and Western Asia, Mentha—its Latin name—is tied to ancient myth. The Greeks believed mint was born from the nymph Minthe, transformed by Persephone into a fragrant herb. Romans used it to scent their baths and wines. In medieval times, mint was used to polish tables and freshen breath. And for centuries, it’s been used in Middle Eastern kitchens to balance richness, soothe digestion, and uplift the spirit.

Today, whether I’m making a chilled yogurt cucumber soup in summer or stirring mint into a warming stew on a gray Manhattan day, the aroma in my kitchen transfers me to my childhood. 

So if you ever find yourself with extra sprigs, don’t toss them. Lay them out. Let them dry in their own time. And when the moment is right, crush them between your palms, close your eyes, and breathe in the legacy of it’s simplicity. 

—SylvaAlexia