George Michael and Andrew Ridgely. They dreamily look deep into my soul – unearthing every little secret and thought as I flop on my bed – chin resting on hands looking even deeper into their souls – the intensity of my stare almost burning a hole in the album cover – held inches from my nose. I fancy myself Andrew’s best bud and the next Mrs. George Michael.
Well – we all know how that all turned out.
It’s not a graceful entrance.
We crash/bang/sing/stumble/dance/pontificate/drag/whine/laugh our way into the house. Backpacks hit the the floor with a thunderous clatter. Jackets are tossed in one direction – even though the coat hooks are at arms length – and at kid height. Two sets of shoes fly up and come crashing back down – briefly electrifying the room with a shower of sparkly lights.
He bursts through the front door – unwittingly inviting in the crisp November breeze. Out of breath and on a mission, he spreads out a world map on the kitchen table. An explorer out at sea – years in search of a long-lost exotic land. And now so close to setting his eyes upon it. Almost within reach.
♪ Music we’re cooking to ♪Mama, today at school – at lunch time – I dipped my carrots in the hummus. When my carrots finished I dipped the apples. When the apples finished – it was…(dramatic pause) FINGERS TIME! – SoleilHave you heard? The motorcycle jacket is back. A fashion magazine told me so. So it must be true.
Continued from Part 1Before continuing my conversation with Teresa about her family’s annual tomato jarring tradition, I’d like to thank all the families involved in this years pomodori event and for sharing the ins and outs of this amazing tradition. Thank you to the families Tiano, Marelli, Mercuriano, Novia, Cipollone, Corbo, Ferrara and Deravian. And to my brother Ramin for the great photos (stills!).
Some cultural traditions (habits?) are very hard to break. Food as a souvenir is one that stands out in my family. Whenever my parents come to visit from Vancouver they pack their suitcases with barbari bread (it came out of the oven this morning – I told the baker I was visiting my daughter and grandchildren so he threw in a few extra…) pistachios, toot (fresh mulberries), feta cheese, the saffron Mrs.
♪ Music we’re cooking to ♪
My water broke at 7:30am. By 8:00am we were busy putting away all the food Drew had planned to prepare that night for Book Club – The Life of Pi.
It was a bright, clear and sunny Sunday morning in 2006. Los Angeles never looked more beautiful. Massive, in-your-face billboards, boulevards vast and desolate, cracked sidewalks and all. The freeways were clear. For once.
♪ Music we’re cooking to ♪
Soleil, you take a little bite of the radish and at the same time take a bite of your rice and stew. Then chew it all up together. The radish won’t taste very spicy and will make everything else in your mouth taste awesome. Got it? – Luna
Persian food. It’s all about creating the perfect bite – loghmeh.
♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
Mama, how about Dada and Soleil go to Spain or somewhere.
How come, Luna?
Then you and I can go to Paris. You know, Soleil will be all tired and grumpy and whiny and everything else a 3 and a 1/2 year old is like.
It’s supposed to rain the first time you visit Paris.
I read that somewhere – or someone said that – at some point – somewhere.
We had a deep, cushy, cream–colored loveseat in our living room. Back in Iran. That’s how I remember it. I was six years old. Luna’s age. And I was notorious for giving my parents a hard time with going to bed.
Copyright 2018 Naz Deravian. All Rights Reserved.