Pomegranate Molasses

We’re sharing this recipe with you so that, as we cook together in the future, you already have it on hand. Pomegranate molasses is one of those foundational ingredients that quietly shapes so many dishes, and having it ready allows you to move easily through recipes as they come.Versions of pomegranate molasses exist in many kitchens across West Asia, the Caucasus, and parts of the Mediterranean. Armenian, Iranian, Kurdish, Turkish, Greek, and Arab communities have long used reduced pomegranate juice in both savory and sweet cooking, each with their own techniques, textures, and names. These parallel traditions speak to shared landscapes, trade routes, and agricultural knowledge carried across generations.Over time, we’ll continue sharing more of these basic preparations—things that are often assumed, rarely written down, and essential to everyday Palestinian cooking. The idea is to build a shared pantry, so that when we create new recipes, you can cook alongside us, using the same elements, in your own kitchen.Pomegranate molasses is a natural place to begin.

Pomegranate molasses is one of those ingredients that carries far more than flavor. In Palestinian kitchens, dibs al-rumman is tied to season, to labor, and to gathering. It’s not something traditionally made alone or in a hurry. When pomegranates ripen in late summer and early fall, their abundance calls for collective work, hands gathered around bowls, conversations unfolding alongside the slow work of pressing, stirring, and waiting.

This recipe is about togetherness. Women would come together, sisters, neighbors, relatives, often in a courtyard or shared kitchen space, each taking on part of the process. Some peeled and separated seeds, others pressed juice, others stirred the pot for hours as it thickened. Making dibs al-rumman was never just about producing a condiment; it was about sharing effort, passing knowledge, and marking the season together. We hope you make this with your loved ones. 

Pomegranates are deeply tied to Palestinian agricultural cycles. When they appear, they do so generously, and they don’t last long. Turning fresh juice into molasses was a way to preserve that moment, concentrating brightness and acidity into something that could last through the year.

The process itself reflects a way of cooking that values patience. The juice reduces slowly, watched carefully, stirred often. The addition of sumac and wild za’atar or oregano adds balance and depth, grounding the sweetness with tartness and herbaceous notes.

This kind of cooking asks for presence. Someone must always be near the pot, adjusting heat, stirring, watching texture. That’s why it was often done together.

Recipes like dibs al-rumman were rarely written down. They were learned by watching, by tasting, by standing beside someone older and being told, “Not yet,” or “Now it’s ready.” The signs of doneness, how the syrup coats a spoon, how it moves when stirred, were understood through repetition.

Women carried this knowledge across generations, adjusting quantities based on experience rather than measurements. Making pomegranate molasses together was a way of teaching without formal instruction, of transmitting skill through doing.

Even today, many people remember the smell of boiling pomegranate juice drifting through a shared space, the deep red color slowly darkening, the long hours broken by conversation and laughter.

Dibs al-rumman is used sparingly but intentionally. A spoon added to lentils, okra, eggplant, or salads brings sharpness and depth. It balances olive oil, cuts through richness, and adds brightness to slow-cooked dishes.