Dear friends, we had the pleasure of sharing our Yalda celebration in the December issue of Sunset Magazine. Thank you to everyone involved for making it such a bright and joyous evening.
This Yalda I leave you with some of the images from our Sunset shoot and a bright, refreshing Cranberry Orange Rose Sharbat.
MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO
Honey, the color of a California sunset.
Fierce and unrelenting.
Music We’re Cooking To
She leans over the edge of the world. Bold, beautiful and brave. The first light of day gently lays its lips on her saffron-hued cloak. A hushed whisper of a kiss, casting its golden reflection over Oceanus. Rippling triumphantly over seas, rivers and lakes. Lighting up the world. From East to West.
Eos, the goddess of the dawn, rosy fingered and perpetually in love with the first taste of a new day, rises.
♪ Music husband is brewing to ♪
Please join me and fellow Persian food bloggers as we celebrate the Iranian midsummer festival Tirgan with a virtual picnic. I am also thrilled to have Drew, aka Mr. Husband take the reins on this post. Because a summer picnic is never complete without a bottle of Husband’s Kombucha.
Kombucha – Fun With Bacteria
Three years ago a good friend of mine pulled me aside with a proposition.
Happy Summer!
Join me over at Team Yogurt today to celebrate with these simple, luscious, and elegant Harissa Stuffed Dates.
For a few years now, some time around April we anxiously look forward to a very special package to land (hopefully very gently) on our doorstep. My father-in-law Steve’s home-tapped maple syrup. Directly from his farm in New Hampshire – Tuckerman’s Farm. I am so happy to have Steve share this beautiful story with us. Story and photos by Steve Bjerklie.
♪Music we’re cooking to♪
Propel. That’s a good word, Mama. – Luna
Turn up the music. The music we’re cooking to.
Turn it up loud.
I mean feel the rhythm surge through your entire being and bounce off your heart kind of loud.
Louder. Louder. Louder.
Push aside the curtains, throw open the doors and windows.
♪ Music We’re Cooking To ♪
I expected food, culture, and a unique culinary guide to the city – my adopted city.
I didn’t expect the tears.
I was invited to a screening of the documentary film City of Gold about Pulitzer Prize-winning Los Angeles Times food writer Jonathan Gold, directed by Laura Gabbert. It was a mid-week event right around dinner time.
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.
♪ 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.
Yeky bood, yeky nabood…
‘Twas the longest night of the year.
‘Twas the darkest night of the year.
‘Twas the most magical night of the year.
Soak the rice as the split peas simmer away. Immerse your hands in the cold water and gently break up the rice into bits and pieces. Feel the familiar beat of nostalgia course through your body. Memory knocking at your door. It always begins with a gentle knock.
♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
You give the wobbly wheel a swift kick right where it counts and knock it back into place. You may or may not utter a few unsavory words. You and your traveling companion – an old laundry basket on wheels – hurdle your way down the blocked off street.
♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
Casually he lifts up his shirt. Revealing cuts and bruises. A skateboarding injury. Meant to impress I think. He keeps the shirt up for a beat longer than necessary. Awkwardly lingering in the moment. Electrifying and innocent all at the same time. As a young man in his early twenties – really, still a boy – is apt to do.
Casually I ask him if he needs an icepack.
♪ Music we’re cooking to ♪
Mama, can you squeeze the clouds to make it rain? – Soleil
Step outside.
Plant your bare feet firmly in the grass.
Let your toes wander. Let them search and settle amongst the rough and dying blades.
What was once lush and green. What was once childhood. What was once a vibrant summer respectfully fading away and making room for a crisp and most welcome autumn breeze.
Lost.
♪ Music we’re cooking to ♪
It’s deliciously liberating to not have any attachments.
Soak dried chickpeas in plenty of water over night.
To not feel the glare, pressure and judgment of those wiser than you, those that have come before you, searing your back. Those mothers, grandmothers and great-grandmothers, that make a habit of pulling up a stool and comfortably perching themselves on your shoulders, watching your every move.
I am that woman.
You know the one.
You’ve seen her around town.
On the 405 – the 101 – and the 10 sometimes going East – on market days going West.
You’ve waited patiently and sometimes not so patiently for her to pull out of “your” Whole Foods parking spot.
You’ve caught a glimpse of her in your rear view mirror at school drop offs and pick ups.
You’ve pulled up beside her at the stop light.
♪ Music we’re cooking to ♪
Much has been written, said, rumored, about Iran – about Persians. By Persians and non-Persians alike. Some true – some pure fiction – some thoughtful – some ignorant – some just plain uninformed. But the one Persian quality that can be wholeheartedly agreed upon by everyone across time and borders is the generosity and excellence of Persian Hospitality.
“Which of the cities visited did Your Highness enjoy the most?” – Reporter
“Each, in its own way, was unforgettable. It would be difficult to…Rome! By all means, Rome. I will cherish my visit here in memory as long as I live.” – Princess Ann – Roman Holiday
The television set is perched precariously on a make-shift table.
