Deravian Naz - Bottom of the pot: Persian recipes and stories

BOTTOM

of the

POT

PERSIAN RECIPES AND STORIES

NAZ DERAVIAN

Photography by ERIC WOLFINGER

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For Luna and Soleil,
who light up my nights and my days

Our fellow diners stopped to watch. They were displaced people, just like us, and they understood all too well these kinds of reunions, these moments when a piece of your old house comes floating by in the river.

ABRAHAM VERGHESE, CUTTING FOR STONE

LOS ANGELES, 2016

It begins with rice. As it always has.

The unmistakable aroma of cheloPersian steamed ricegreets me at the end of the long hallway in our Los Angeles apartment building. Its a nondescript labyrinth of a passageway, unable to will itself out of the 1970s. Walls coated in an unfortunate shade of pink merge into the worn industrial carpet. Every stain, crack in the wall, and fault in the ceiling is a constant reminder that the Big Onethis is California, after allis right around the corner. My entire family is visiting, and I know Maman, my mother, will have dinner prepared.

The path that leads to our apartment is divided every twenty feet by heavy metal doors intended to seal off smoke and flames, in case of an emergency. As I pause outside the very first door, I cant help noticing that these firewalls have done a pretty lousy job of containing the most important smell in my life.

Iranians have breached the system.

With rice.

The intoxicating scent carries a promise for all who encounter it. The very same promise that has traveled with me over three continents and three decades. The vibrant smells and flavors have shifted, changed, and adapted as they continually seek a home, a place to land. Longing to claim their rightful place over time, borders, cultures, and spice cupboards, much like my own journey. But they are always following the same promisethe promise of family and friends gathered around a table.

The stealthy trespasser encircles me, beckoning me forward, enticing and taunting me with the welcoming scene that I know lies ahead. A cramped kitchen table set with mismatched platters, big and small. There will be sabzi khordana platter of fresh green herbs whose curious presence tends to take the uninitiated by surpriseto balance out the meal and aid digestion. (Persians are forever obsessed with digestion.) There might be a small bowl of aasha hearty Persian soupto open up the appetite. A jar of torshisour pickleswill be passed around to liven up both meal and conversation with a tangy burst of flavor. A glorious bowl of maast-o-khiaryogurt and cucumberthe ambassador of each and every meal, proudly embracing its role of cutting through the richness of any dish and, on occasion, cooling those impassioned Persian constitutions. Someone will ask for a piece of bread to make a loghmeh (the perfect bite) with a slice of briny paneer (cheese) and a couple of soaked walnuts. The fresh herbs will sneak their way in as well.

There will be congratulatory clapping, intricate finger-snapping, and Baba, my father, and my brother, Ramin, might even break out into song and dance as the khoresh is brought to the table. If there is rice, there is bound to be khoresha vibrant, flavorful stew. Maman will most certainly tarof by deflecting all compliments and wondering out loud if the khoresh simmered long enough, if the rice cooked too long, and if there is enough food to go around.

Between the folds of these warm promises, however, there hides a hint of bittersweeta sense of longing and melancholy. Once again, the beat of nostalgia courses through my body. Memory tapping lightly at my door. Sometimes I grant it permission; sometimes I dont. Its a slippery slopethe unpaved road of memory.

But tonight, I am in a generous mood. So I welcome it in, both the bitter and the sweet, and I follow the scent of rice as I walk down the hallway.

As I fumble around my purse in search of keys, I can hear my stepmother, Kumi, sister-in-law, Teresa, and nephew, Jordan, usher everyone to take their places at the kitchen table. Mismatched chairs join the mismatched plates. Its not a quiet affair. After all, we dont hail from a quiet corner of the world. There will be lively discussion and passionate debate. To the unaccustomed ear it will sound much more serious than it really is. Joke-telling, philosophizing, poetry reciting, and politicizing. And at some point, everyone will attempt to make some grand proclamation about che bayad kardwhats to be done.

Whats to be done about the state of the world, the state of the Middle East, the price of yogurt, the price of oil. Whats to be done with the leftovers and tomorrow nights dinner. Talk of tomorrows meals will dominate before tonights dinner is even served. All the while, Maman will be fretting about one thing or another as she carefully adds a couple of tablespoons of water to sunset-hued saffron, magically releasing its scent, color, and thousands of years of history. No matter where the meal or how times have changed, there is always saffron, steeped in water. Though tastes, recipes, and preparations evolve, as they should, some traditions are set in stone.

The stealthy invader has lost its patience and snuck back through the crack under the door, as only it can. Time is of the essence when it comes to serving Iranian rice. Through the door and over the jangle of my keys, I hear my children, Luna and Soleil, gather around with bated breath and fingers crossed. And that can only mean one thing: its time to flip the rice. The serving dish goes over the pot. The air turns thick with anticipation and hope.

Theres always hope.

Hope for a successful and crunchy tahdigthe coveted crispy rice at the bottom of the pot. Hope for the price of yogurt to go down. Hope for fresh and new ideas to emerge for tomorrow nights dinner. Hope for the day when the embers that continually ignite and set ablaze the Middle Eastthat region that gave birth to civilization, yet has struggled so immensely to gently cradle it in its armsfinally crackle and burn off.