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  • Beeb Beeb

    Vintage-style children’s illustration of a smiling yellow car hatching from a giant egg, with a blue motorcycle on the grass, a red helicopter, a grey aeroplane, a friendly tow truck, a scrapyard and a shining lighthouse.
    July 27, 2026

    Beeb beeb. That is the car. It is also the pram, the toy car, the cardboard box he sits in and steers like a bobsleigh, and my father’s wheelchair.

    Anything that moves is beeb beeb. Anything that has ever moved is beeb beeb. A parked car is beeb beeb because it is only resting.

    The wheelchair is the one that stops the room. He says it with the same delight he gives the toy car. Because to him it is the same thing. This thing goes. My father laughs every time. He has been called worse.

    There is a word for what my son is doing. Linguists call it overextension. A child takes one word and stretches it to cover more of the world than the word was built for. Doggy for every animal with four legs. Daddy for every adult man, which is a moment for the family and a difficult afternoon for the guest. Ball for the balloon, the apple, the egg, the moon.

    It has an opposite. Underextension. The word comes out too small. Car means our car and no other car. Kitty is the cat on our street. The ones two streets over do not count. Shoe is his shoe. Not mine.

    My son does not underextend. Not once. He runs this household on few words and beeb beeb does more work than the other together.

    Maybe he is lazy. I have thought about it seriously. He worked out that two syllables repeated will cover enough of the world to get by. Why learn wheelchair. Why learn pram, trolley, bicycle, bus, when beeb beeb arrives faster and has never once been misunderstood.

    And I envy him. I have spent forty minutes choosing between two words that meant the same thing to everyone but me. He points. He says beeb beeb. Everything arrives.

    But this is the part I actually sat down to write.

    Parents hear this and something tightens. Their child calls the wheelchair a car, calls the neighbour daddy, calls the moon a ball, and they start counting months. They wonder if the words are late. If something is wrong. I have watched that face at family gatherings. I have made that face.

    He is not confused. He is sorting. A child who calls the wheelchair beeb beeb has not mistaken it for a car. He has built a category in his head called things that go. Nobody has given him enough words yet to break that category into smaller pieces. He is not making mistakes. He is drawing a map. And we are watching him draw it.

    And he understands more than he says. Ask him for the ball while he is holding the apple and watch which one he hands over. He knows the difference. His mouth just has not caught up with his brain. That gap is normal. Adults have the same gap. We just stop talking about it.

    My mother watches all of this and says there must be something wrong. She has raised more children than any paper I could read. Yet I’m the expert in this situation both as his dad and from academic perspective.

    So it is Normal. Loudly normal. It happens in every language anyone has studied. And it happens in the same categories every time. Animals. Vehicles. Food. Shapes. Different homes. Different children. Same work.

    He will lose it. That is the part nobody warns you about. Someone will teach him wheelchair. And pram. And bus. And each new word will take a piece of beeb beeb away. The world will get more accurate and much smaller. He will be precise. And precision costs something.

    I have thousands of words. I use them all day. At work. On this blog. In two languages. And I still cannot get one of them to hold everything I mean.

    He has one word that holds everything that moves.

    I know which of us has the bigger vocabulary.

    Write in the logbook
  • The Blueprint: SEMAD

    A lighthouse casts a warm amber beam across luxury Kuwaiti villas, revealing neglected gardens and hidden debris behind immaculate hedges and boundary walls.
    July 26, 2026

    Sustainable Environmental Management of Agricultural Debris. SEMAD. In Kuwaiti Arabic, سماد. Fertiliser. The plan is named after the thing it makes.

    This summer the municipality cleared the hedges. The ones wrapped around every garden wall and streetlight pole. For years they looked like green walls. Neat. Trimmed. A neighbourhood that cares.

    Then the hedges came down. And behind them were the gardens nobody was supposed to see. Cracked tiles. Broken pipes. Dead plants. Plastic bags. Construction rubble that was never removed, just hidden behind a green curtain that grew tall enough to cover the shame.

    Monica’s closet. The spotless apartment with one locked door. Open it and everything she could not deal with falls out.

    But it got worse. The hedges were cut and the debris was thrown. On the street. On the pavement. On the corner. Piled against someone else’s wall. Left for someone else to collect. And of course they did not care where it landed. They never cared about beauty from the start. The hedge was never decoration. It was a door. And now that the door is open, the mess is everyone’s problem.

    That debris is sitting on the streets of Kuwait right now. And this post is about what to do with it.

    The problem.

    Kuwait has an issue with green waste. Green waste means anything that was once a living plant: tree branches, hedge clippings, palm fronds, garden trimmings, grass. Kuwait cuts down more of this than any Gulf neighbour of its size. And then it burns the pile.

    The evidence.

    Every driver has seen it this year. The municipality ran a nationwide campaign to clear unlicensed hedges, fences, and greenery wrapped around streetlight poles. In 2025 the agriculture authority stopped new ornamental palm planting to save water. Both decisions make sense. Both produce mountains of cut vegetation at once. And that vegetation meets the country’s older habit: dumping it in an empty lot and setting it on fire.

    A 2026 report called the burning of palm waste a wasted opportunity. Behind the smoke sit the numbers.

    Kuwait’s agricultural waste reached about 577,000 tonnes in 2022. That is up more than 100,000 tonnes from the year before. To put that in perspective, imagine roughly 57,000 fully loaded trucks.

    Organic material, meaning anything that was once alive and can decompose, makes up 45 percent of everything Kuwaitis throw away.

    And the one number that matters most does not exist. Nobody has ever measured how much of this is specifically green waste. Not a bad figure. No figure at all. Kuwait is trying to manage a waste stream it has never counted.

    Meanwhile, the national waste strategy, five years of work with Germany’s Fraunhofer institute, was presented in 2024. It is still at the study stage. Treatment projects are not expected before 2028.

    The pile is growing. The plan is waiting. And the match keeps getting lit.

    Who else had this problem.

    Saudi Arabia. Same climate. Same palm fronds. Same desert. Abu Dhabi as the supporting example. And California as the warning.

    What Saudi Arabia did.

    Saudi Arabia has over 36 million palm trees. Every year those trees produce millions of tonnes of dead fronds, stems, and trimmings. The same waste Kuwait burns. Saudi decided to turn it into something useful instead.

    They did two things.

    First, mulch. Mulch is simply wood chipped into small pieces and spread on the ground around plants. It does one important job: it covers the soil and stops water from evaporating in the heat. In a desert country where every drop of irrigation water costs money, a layer of mulch on the ground means less watering. It is the simplest, cheapest use of green waste. You chip it. You spread it. The soil stays wet longer.

    Second, biochar. This is where it gets interesting. Biochar is what happens when you burn wood in a sealed container with very little oxygen. Instead of turning into ash and smoke like an open fire, the wood turns into a lightweight, carbon-rich material full of tiny holes, like a sponge made from charcoal. When you mix this into soil, it holds water, holds nutrients, and helps plants grow faster.

    The difference between burning in the open and making biochar is enormous. Open burning of one tonne of palm waste releases about 3.5 tonnes of harmful gases into the air. The same tonne processed into biochar releases only 646 kilograms. Same waste. One method poisons the air. The other feeds the ground.

    In September 2024, Saudi’s National Centre for Palms and Dates, working with the Ministry of Environment, Water and Agriculture, launched the region’s first palm-waste biochar programme. The results they are projecting: 30 percent less water needed for farming. Faster plant growth. Higher crop yields. And they are not stopping at biochar. The centre runs a full circular economy programme that supports anyone who wants to take palm waste and turn it into a product, whether that is biochar, mulch, animal feed, or building material. They are treating 36 million palm trees not as a waste problem but as a raw material supply.

    What Abu Dhabi did.

    Abu Dhabi answered the obvious question: doesn’t composting need water? And the desert does not have water to spare.

    Composting means piling up green waste and letting it decompose naturally into rich soil. In a wet country, you leave the pile outside and nature does the work. In a desert, the pile just dries out and sits there.

    So Abu Dhabi built enclosed machines. A sealed unit that controls the temperature, the moisture, and the airflow inside. The green waste goes in. Twenty-four hours later, finished compost comes out. The volume shrinks by 80 to 90 percent. No water wasted. No smell. No waiting months for a pile to decompose. Technology solving the desert problem.

    What California got wrong.

    California is the warning. The state passed a law banning organic waste from landfills. A good idea. But they passed the law before building the facilities to process the waste. The composting plants did not exist. They take twelve to thirteen years to permit and build. And even when built, nobody had confirmed that anyone wanted to buy the compost.

    The result: organic waste going to landfill actually rose 23 percent after the ban.

    The lesson is exact. Build the processing first. Confirm the buyers first. Then ban the burning. Never the other way around.

    How long it took.

    Saudi Arabia and Abu Dhabi moved from decision to working pilots in two to four years. The American programmes that actually succeeded, the ones from the 1990s, worked because towns built the composting capacity in the same year as the ban. Not a decade behind it.

    The result.

    Saudi Arabia projects a third less irrigation water on treated ground. Abu Dhabi diverts most of its waste from the desert pits. California proved, expensively, what happens when the order is reversed.

    What Kuwait needs to do.

    Five things. Same pattern as every Blueprint before this one.

    One boss. The 2040 waste strategy already exists. Adopt it with legal force and name one person responsible for green waste. Right now the municipality, the agriculture authority, and the environment authority each touch the pile. None of them own it. One boss. One signature. The pile does not care which ministry is responsible. It just keeps growing.

    Count it first. Kuwait is proposing to manage a waste stream it has never measured. Nobody knows how many tonnes of green waste the country produces. Commission a study. Publish the first tonnage within eighteen months. You cannot manage what you have not counted.

    Mulch before compost. Start where the climate is kindest and the cost is lowest. Buy a shredder. Chip the palm fronds and hedge cuttings into mulch. Spread it on the state’s own parks, roadsides, and farms. This saves irrigation water from day one. It is the cheapest first step in the entire blueprint. A waste problem turned into a water answer. One machine.

    The market before the mandate. California’s lesson written into the plan itself. Before any ban on dumping or burning, go to the farms of Wafra, Abdali, and Sulaibiya and ask: do you want this mulch? Will you buy this compost? Will you use this biochar? Size the processing plants to the actual demand. No compost nobody buys. Add the sealed Abu Dhabi composter and the Saudi biochar unit only once the mulch pilot proves the tonnage and the buyers are real.

    The public number. Tonnes of green waste diverted from burning each year. Published annually. Next to the litres of irrigation water the mulch saved. Two numbers the country can watch climb.

    The point.

    Saudi Arabia’s lesson in one line. The waste stopped being smoke when the plan got an owner, the right method for the climate, and a buyer before a ban. In that order.

    Kuwait’s first step, chipping the pile it currently burns, costs a shredder and a signature.

    The hedges are down. The debris is on the streets. Monica’s closet is open and everyone can see what was inside. The question is whether Kuwait sweeps it under someone else’s wall or turns it into something the land actually wants back.

    The plan is named after the answer.

    سماد

    Write in the logbook
  • 48 East

    Contemporary living room with a colourful patchwork modular sofa beneath a wooden world map decorated with coffee bags and a wooden lighthouse.
    July 25, 2026

    It is not about where it is done. It is about who does it.

    I am not new to specialty coffee. I have been in it since 2011. Following brewer and barista championships. Searching for 90-plus scored beans. Ordering from every roastery that made the top ten in world competitions. Gardelli from Italy. Koppi from Sweden. Hasbean from the UK before it became Ozone. Paying more in Aramex and DHL shipping than the coffee itself cost. Two subscription boxes arriving every month, each with three 250-gram bags from roasters I had never heard of in countries I had never visited. My kitchen counter looked like a customs office.

    And like every cliché specialty coffee person, I saved the bags. Every single one. I had a wall where I pinned the labels to a world map showing where each coffee bag was roasted. Finland. Sweden. Germany. Norway. Australia. Even Belarus. I am not proud of it. I am not ashamed of it either. It is who I was and still am, a cliché lover. And the map is still there.

    I watched the specialty coffee boom arrive in Kuwait. Everyone opened a roastery. Everyone had a logo and a story and a single-origin Ethiopian on the shelf. I tried them. I was never impressed. And although I believe in supporting local, when it came to my coffee, Gardelli and Koppi and Hasbean were always there. Local was not earning the cup.

    Until 48 East.

    I followed Mohammed Dashti from the start. His early coffee was not good. I will say that plainly. But I saw something the others did not have. Ambition that was not for show. While other roasters in his era travelled to coffee farms for the photos, he travelled to learn and to work. He came back and roasted again. And again. And each time the cup was closer to something I recognised from the international bags sitting on my counter.

    But I was still hesitant. The gap between a good local roaster and a world championship roaster is wide. And my palate had been trained on the wide side.

    Then Camel Step arrived from Saudi. They were the ones who opened the door. A regional roaster, not European, not Scandinavian, producing coffee that stood next to my international subscriptions without embarrassment. If Camel Step could do it from Riyadh, then the distance between here and there was not geography. It was commitment.

    Because of Camel Step, I gave 48 East another chance. And this time, it caught me.

    Is 48 East as good as Gardelli? No. I will not pretend. Gardelli is a World Coffee Roasting Champion and his beans are on another level. But there is one thing Mohammed Dashti shares with Rubens Gardelli that most roasters in the world do not share with either of them.

    Consistency.

    When it comes to coffee, consistency is the word. I want today’s cup to taste like tomorrow’s. I want to revisit the same bag in two weeks and find the same flavour waiting for me. I do not want surprises in my morning brew. I want reliability. And 48 East delivers that. Every bag. Every time.

    So because of 48 East, I started giving other local roasters a chance. I still order from abroad from time to time. But most of my coffee now, whether it is Kuwaiti, Saudi, or international, comes through local suppliers.

    This month’s Brew has been updated with a new collection. They are omni-roast, which means they work for both espresso and filter. Try them. I am still working out how to add the Xbloom recipes as downloadable links. I have plenty in my journal. They are coming. For now, the beans are on the page.

    It was never about where the coffee is roasted. It was always about who roasts it. And sometimes the person who roasts it is closer than you think. You just have to give them the second chance they earned.

    Write in the logbook
  • The Power of No

    A medieval knight in weathered armour stands in a golden field at sunset, carrying a four-part heraldic shield and looking toward a distant lighthouse.
    July 24, 2026

    The opposite of a weapon depends on how you use the word. Usually a weapon means a tool for attack. In that case the opposite is a shield. A tool for defence. But there is another meaning. The man is armed. He has a weapon. He is dangerous. The opposite: the man is unarmed. He is bare.

    But a weapon does not have to point at someone else. Some weapons point inward. Tools exist to arm us against our own weaknesses. They help us walk when we cannot. See when we cannot. Hear when we cannot. They turn what we lack into something we carry.

    In my case, I used a Snoopy agenda to keep track of my life when it had no structure. I used a dumb phone to stop distractions when the smart one was winning. I used this blog to stay in a constant state of production, though that has paused while I am down in the workshop.

    These tools armed me. They worked.

    But there is one weakness where I am still bare. Unarmed. No weapon. No shield. Nothing in my hands.

    Saying no.

    The power of no. I have mentioned it before. I still have not found it. But I have carried it before. During the keto years, and after, it was there. It was not a struggle. It was a force. Like the Force in Star Wars. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind. You do not swing. You do not fight. You just stand still. And the world moves around you.

    Have this. No. Just a small piece. No. But I made it. No. But it is Thursday and it is zwara. No. But it is 10am and a second coffee would be lovely. No. There are even treats that go along with them. No.

    The power of no during the keto years was not limited to food. It went beyond the plate. It entered everything.

    2:30 in the morning. A university library. A weekend. One of the best nights of the year outside. Everyone out. Everyone living the life how it is supposed to live. A text lights up the phone. Come out. No. I have a few pages left.

    A classmate sends a number of someone that will do your stats. Just call him. Save yourself days. No. I would rather spend these days reading and working.

    A friend after seeing my work. You know nobody is asking for this much detail. No. But I am.

    That is what the power of no does. It starts at the plate and spreads to the desk and the library and the phone and the conversation and the life. Because three times a day, every day, someone offered me something I had already decided to refuse. And three times a day I said no. And each no made the next one easier. Until after a month, the word stopped being a refusal and started being an identity.

    That is what keto gave me that no scale ever measured. Not weight loss. The muscle of refusal. The ability to sit in a room full of yes and be the only no and not flinch.

    I lost it. The way I lost the weight. Slowly. One yes at a time. One “just this once” at a time. One “it is rude to refuse” at a time. Until the nos were gone and the yeses had taken the whole room.

    So as I re-enter this era, before I have my final dozen of happiness in the form of wobbling Japanese pancakes, I remind myself that keto is not a diet. It is a training ground for the word no. The weight loss is the side effect. The real benefit is what happens to every other decision in your life when you spend three months saying the same word, three times a day, without flinching.

    The سحر is not in the diet. It is in the two letters.

    لا.

    Write in the logbook
  • The Farewell Tour

    Three tall Japanese soufflé pancakes with maple syrup, whipped cream, berries, a miniature red-and-white lighthouse, and a small “Bye Bye” flag on a blue plate.
    July 23, 2026

    I have to confess something. I have dabbled in magic.

    Yes. You heard it here. سحر. The forbidden kind. The kind people whisper about. The kind where the results are so obvious and so fast that everyone around you arrives at the same conclusion: this is definitely not natural. Something dark is happening. Someone did something.

    They were right. Someone did do something.

    I changed what I ate.

    The magic is called keto. And I have performed it three times.

    Keto, for those who have not heard of it, is a way of eating where you remove almost all carbohydrates. No bread. No rice. No pasta. No sugar. No potatoes. Your body, deprived of its usual fuel, switches to burning fat instead. The switch is called ketosis. It sounds scientific because it is. But the results look like سحر because they are fast, visible, and impossible to explain to anyone who watches you eat butter and cheese and lose weight.

    The first time I did it, I lost more than twenty kilograms. Without exercise. Without a gym. I just stopped eating bread and switched to cheese. People stared. People asked. People accused. Some quietly checked if I was ill. Others quietly checked if someone had done something to me. The whispers were real. يمكن أحد سوّاله شي.

    Nobody did anything to me. I just stopped eating bread and switched to cheese.

    The second time, I lost ten kilograms. Then gained them back. The third time, the same. Lost ten. Gained ten. The magic worked every time. The problem was never the spell. It was what came after. Both times I went back. Not because the diet failed. Because the people around me pulled me back. The relatives. The colleagues. The social meals. The pressure of sitting at a table where everyone is eating rice and you are eating cheese. The looks. The comments. The quiet suggestion that you are being difficult. The diet did not break. The environment broke it.

    Once is learning. Twice is forgetting. Three times is choosing. This is the fourth time. And this time I am choosing differently.

    Today there is a newer magic. Mounjaro. A needle once a week and the weight falls. I have seen it work around me. I will not resort to it. Not because I judge anyone who does. Because I know my body responds to keto and I would rather earn the loss than inject it. That is a personal preference, not medical advice. Everyone fights their own battle with the tools that suit them.

    So I am going back. This time with two spells instead of one. Keto and intermittent fasting. Keto changes what I eat. Fasting changes when I eat. Together they should accelerate what each one does alone.

    This changes The Bite. Bye Bye carbs. Bye Bye sandwiches. The five sandwiches are leaving the page. In their place will be my keto dishes and my weekly plan. Same page. Different menu. Same keeper. Lighter keeper. Hopefully.

    I will not tell you my weight. Not today. But in three weeks I will post what I lost. The number will be honest. Whether it is impressive or embarrassing, you will see it.

    For now, I have a few final days before I start. The last days of bread. The farewell tour. And there is one stop I must make before the gate closes.

    Japanese pancakes. Lots of them. The fluffy ones. The ones that wobble. The ones that have no business being as tall as they are. I need several. Maybe a dozen. They deserve a proper Bye Bye.

    After that, the سحر begins.

    Write in the logbook
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