Zereshk – barberries – like memories – first need to be sorted through. Scatter them on a plate as you would dried legumes, and with a discerning eye pick out the older, shriveled and darker looking ones. Hang on to the bright crimson ones. Occasionally you might come across a small stone, pebble, or something of the sort. Give those the boot as well. While you’re at it remove the little stems too.
Year : 2015
♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
Luna, pretend, pretend the princess is on her way to the ball but she got lost.
Ok, but Soleil first pretend she is in her room practicing for the gymnastics competition and forgets she has to go to the ball.
But Luna pretend when she remembers she gets lost. Ok?
Set the pumpkin and orange on the cutting board. Slice the tops and ends off each. For stability, for support.
Music we’re cooking to
The hunt for organic, grass-fed lamb testicles – donbalan – is complicated.
It takes time, patience, perseverance, and courage.
The quest for negotiating sensitive global issues, with potentially disastrous consequences, by means of diplomacy is complicated.
It takes time, patience, perseverance, and courage.
I’m not a big lamb eater. On occasion, I do enjoy a sizzling, juicy grilled chop.
Carbonara.
He sends you flying.
It’s controversial.
High up in the air.
The same way hummus is controversial.
You spread your wings, catch your breath, and squeal with delight.
Or guacamole.
It’s innate. The dream of flight. And in an instant he has given you wings.
To soar. Beyond your dreams.
Or fesenjan.
He claps once. Maybe twice. Depending on how much air you catch.
A recipe can only take you so far.
She wrote this song about John Mayer. You whisper conspiratorially into his ear.
There was a time when this easy lean into his shoulder, followed by hushed murmurs, carried with it information of a different nature.
But today it’s all about Taylor Swift.
Such is the evolution of a marriage.
He – your husband – looks back at you slightly intrigued but mostly bewildered.
Grab your gardening shears. Grab a basket, a bag, a sack, anything with handles. Feel the weight and the cool metal of the shears rest against the warm embrace of your palm. Make the most of this auspicious occasion. You don’t garden. You’d like to. But you don’t.
Call out to your shadows. Announce you are off to forage. You don’t forage either.
I wish we could all be together this Nowruz.
I wish we weren’t all scattered across the country.
Scattered across the continent.
Scattered across the globe.
She sits in her dedicated spot at our kitchen table. Her words echo through the kitchen, twisting and turning, bouncing off you, looking and yearning for a spot to land, eventually finding their way out – seduced by the wide open door and a gentle late winter breeze.
Dear friends, I am truly humbled to be included as a finalist in the 2015 IACP Digital Media Awards for Best Narrative Culinary Blog. What a great privilege and honor to be recognized amongst such amazing, talented individuals. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart (and pot!) for all your kind words, support and encouragement. It means the world to me. Go Tahdig!
♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
We have a globe.
♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
Raw honey.
Like the jar from Trader Joe’s.
Dripping in gold, warmth, and sweetness.
My daughter’s eyes, Soleil’s eyes, the sun’s eyes, shimmer like raw honey.
Dripping in gold.
Showering us with warmth, sweetness, and unyielding love.
And occasionally stubbornness, and intense, deeply felt, unyielding five-year-old emotions.
Pure and raw.