Hurricane Sandy huffed and puffed and blew through the East Coast on Monday and in her wake left a trail of heartbreaking woe.  I was among the lucky ones who didn’t experience any hardship save for dealing with the freaky fact of the NY subway shutdown, but many people and businesses were hit hard. We New Yorkers are damn resilient but it does feel like it will take a long time to recover from this – kind of like how it felt in the eerie aftermath of 9/11.  In circumstances like this, one’s mind doesn’t necessarily make a leap to:  “let’s write a blog post about the Persian marzipan mulberry confection!” but promises were made (hi Norma!) and there’s the prompt of a bake sale to help a lovely lady (more on that below,) and so it’s all good in the end.  And with that, let’s talk about:

Toot! What a fun word.  In any language.  Let’s say it again twice:  toot toot!  (This one’s for you Veronica!)  In Farsi, toot is what we call the sweet and juicy and very popular mulberry fruit.   Sundried Mulberries are also popular and available year round as a delicious snack that goes just marvelously with hot tea, and makes a terrific trail mix.

Since leaving Iran, I have not had a single mulberry, but when we lived there, I used to climb up the trees in my family’s fruit garden in the summer and gobble up as many mulberries as I could all while trying to zone out the high-pitched scolding of the woman who took care of us and who considered my behavior distinctly unladylike.  If she only knew that she was thus rudely interfering with what was destined to be my brief window of mulberry-gorging opportunity, perhaps she may have allowed me to enjoy being a greedy tomboy in peace.

Here’s a pretty picture of a bowl of fresh mulberries (picture courtesy of Emily Ho of Sustainable Foodworks) that I found on flickr.  Aren’t they beautiful?

So now, Toot is also what we call the marvelous marzipan confection that is made to resemble this delicious fruit.  It uses dreamy ingredients like rosewater and cardamom and requires no baking:  just some prep work and then some zen hands-on assemblage.  Toot is typically served at weddings and it is also made for the Persian New Year.  In fact, the pictures you see here are from the batch that Maman and I made this past Norouz.

(I won’t forget that batch.  We didn’t have blanched almonds so per this handy dandy guide I blanched and peeled and roasted our almonds.  The process was …. well, to paraphrase David Foster Wallace (RIP), it was a fun thing that I hope I’ll never have to do again. Admittedly though, the sweet smell of roasted almonds was delightful. )

We’re going to make a fresh new batch of toot for whoever makes the highest bid on it at the bake sale organized by Veronica to help Suzie.   So if you’ve been looking at the pictures and thinking to yourself “boy oh boy, I needs me some toot” then head on over to the bake sale and make a bid.  It is for a good cause, y’all!  And need I remind you:  toot is totes delicious!

Of course, we have the recipe as well, as always. And this time, we even have a video! Woot! Toot!

Ingredients

•   1 cup unsalted skinless almonds (you can also use slivered almonds)
•   1 cup powdered sugar or confectioners sugar
•   1 cup granulated white sugar
•   1 teaspoon ground cardamom
•   4 tablespoons rosewater
•   25 slivered pistachios (around 2 to 3 tablespoons)

Direction

1. Using a spice grinder or food processor, grind the almonds into a fine powder.
2. In a big bowl, mix ground almonds, confectioners sugar and the ground cardamom. Gradually blend in rosewater, stirring constantly.  Using your hands, combine until you get soft dough.  It may be sticky.  Set aside for half an hour to set.
3. Set up a work area and have the following at hand: 1) slivered pistachios in a small bowl, 2) granulated sugar in a bowl, 3) bowl of dough.
4. Take a small teaspoonful of dough.  (How small?  Dainty-sized toot is much more charming, so take just enough that if you roll the dough and form a ball you’d get one that would be the size of a hazelnut.  Give or take.)  Flatten the ball between palms (don’t squish the life out of it, just gently flatten it a bit), then while rolling it between your palms, go  pat-pat-pat touching here and there, and mold it into the shape of a mulberry.  Thank goodness you don’t have to rely on my awesome super-clear instructions as we’ve uploaded a how-to video for you here which should shed ample light on the matter.
5. Roll each toot in the bowl of granulated sugar till all sides are lightly covered with sugar.  Pat, pat, pat to re-form into mulberry shape if it lost its form in the process of rolling in the sugar.
6. Once satisfied with the looks of it, insert sliver of pistachio as a stem.  Repeat process until you run out of dough.
7. Arrange on a cookie plate or tray and serve!  Prepare to delight and be delighted.

Serving

The downside of toot is that it dries out quickly.  The upside is that since they are highly addictive and truly delectable you won’t really have to deal with the trouble of having any left to store.  But let’s say you live in a household with highly disciplined people and you have a bunch left, then what you do is that you cover the lot tightly with plastic wrap and store it in an airtight container or in a cookie jar.  Don’t leave them out al fresco, is what we’re trying to say here.

(*  We used and sightly revised this recipe from Najmieh Batmangli’s  wonderful Food of Life classic Persian cookbook.)

Make it, and enjoy it, and noosheh jaan!

Quince (called beh in Farsi) is a fruit that is so aloof it may as well be a root vegetable.   Often sporting a bit of mossy fuzz, quince is a homely yellowish thing with a thick skin you are well advised not to attempt to bite into (unless you have a great dental plan) and a flesh that tastes sour, astringent and … dare one say …  somewhat reminiscent of a raw potato!  But make no mistake:  our seemingly ungainly friend has many enchanting graces.

For one thing, quince is good for you, down to its seeds! (Here’s an old-fashioned Persian remedy for coughs and sore throat: rinse, dry and save quince seeds and when a cold strikes, soak a half dozen seeds in hot water, let sit for a minute till somewhat gelatinous, and drink like cough syrup.  Alternatively, put quince seeds directly on tongue and suck to dissolve, much as you would with a lozenge.)  For another, there is the serious matter of just how good it smells -a combo of honey, citrus and spice plus some other mysterious heavenly molecules.  (This scribbler can confirm rumors of turning positively giddy when inhaling the stuff!)  When cooked, the aroma of quince only intensifies even as its flesh grows soft and succulent and turns a rosy hue.  In short, quince makes for a sublime ingredient with the potential to elevate any dish by virtue of its exquisite scent, taste and texture.

Now you’ll probably want to rush out and buy a whole bunch of quinces to put in a decorative bowl to infuse your home with its heady scent, and you probably can’t wait to also cook with it in many amusingly inventive and delicious ways, and who can blame you.  But good luck finding any if you live in the U.S., as quinces have long fallen off the mainstream pedestal here and are hard to come by.  Ah, perverse fate!  Thankfully, there is a growing cult of quince enthusiasts (preach it!) and it is inevitable that at some point in the future, quince will make a leap from esoteric to embraced -just as the pomegranate managed to accomplish a few years ago.

Quince may languish in obscurity here in the U.S., but for centuries it has shined brightly as a favored ingredient in the cuisine of many cultures across the world.  In Persian cooking, in particular, quince has long been a much-loved ingredient used to make a gamut of goodies such as: khoresh, abgoosht (a chunky soup combining quince with lamb shanks and various dried legumes), ash (a thick herb-infused soup), kookoo, moraba (jams & preserves), sharbat (a thick syrup diluted to make charming summer beverages) and last but not least and a dish that is one of my of my all-time favorites:  dolmeh ‘ye beh or stuffed quince.

Many a time while cooking for this blog I have wistfully dreamed of a magical contraption that would allow transmitting the aroma of the food we make into the blogosphere but never so intensely as when savoring the delicious smell of this dolmeh ‘ye beh. I truly wish there was a way I could have shared the pleasure of the experience with you. (Someone hurry up and make an app for this!) Until technology catches up, just stare at this pic and use your imagination.

When it comes to the stuffing for this dolmeh, it typically calls for ground beef but it is also perfectly acceptable (and in fact a classic alternative) to opt for a fruit, herbs and nut mixture.  We hope to make the vegetarian stuffing on another occasion, but this time, we used Maman’s usual formula of ground beef (but no rice or split peas as some other Persian kadbanoo may choose to use) and chopped fresh herbs (scallions, parsley, mint and tarragon) mixed in with a portion of the pulp of the quinces (the rest of the pulp goes for the sauce) seasoned with turmeric, cinnamon, a bit of saffron, and flavored with tomato paste, lemon juice and a bit of sugar.  The taste of the final dish is savory punctuated by tart and sweet – which is one of the signature flavor profiles of Persian cooking and stunningly delicious.  Another particular delight of this dish (aside from its aesthetic and aroma) is that it serves up all of the quince, save for its seed and fuzz.  Which is rather charming.

You really need to do yourself the favor of experiencing this dish. If you can’t find quince in the market, I hope you know someone with quince trees growing in their yard, and if so, make nice with them and get you some … quinces.  And then indulge.

Ingredients

• 6 quinces – preferably unblemished ones
• 1/4 pound ground lean meat (lamb, veal, or beef)
• 3 stems scallion
• 3 sprigs parsley
• 3 sprigs mint (or substitute 1 teaspoon dried mint)
• 3 sprigs tarragon (or substitute 1 teaspoon dried tarragon)
• 2 onions (finely chopped)
• 1 teaspoon turmeric
• 1 teaspoon cinnamon
• a pinch of saffron (optional)
• 2 tablespoons sugar
• 2 big lemons
• 1 tablespoon tomato paste

Direction

1. Prep quinces:
   • Scrub the fuzz off and wash quinces very well to clean.  Pat dry.
   • Cut the top off each quince, about 1/2 inch down -set aside to use as a lid.  Using a melon baller, hollow and scoop out the core and the seeds.  (Either discard seeds or else rinse, dry and save seeds for use as sore throat and cough remedy as described earlier.)  Short video demo here.
   • Scoop out the flesh, leaving a 1/2 inch thick pulp on all sides.  Save the pulp:  you’ll use 1/3 of the pulp for the stuffing and the remainder for the sauce.   (If you accidentally puncture the bottom of the quince, fret not, you can use a bit of the pulp to patch up the hole.  Quince pulp:  delicious and multi-functional!)  Quince flesh browns rapidly once exposed to air.  To prevent this, have a bowl with the juice of one lemon at hand.  After de-pulping each quince, dip a pastry/basting brush in the lemon juice and lightly coat inside of each scooped out quince.  You can also dab the quince lids with lemon.  (If you don’t have a brush, use your fingers, or a spoon, or even a clean cotton ball.) Optional step:  Sprinkle a tiny pinch of sugar inside the quince as well.  Short video demo here.
2. Prepare the stuffing:
   • Wash, dry and finely chop the scallion, parsley, mint and tarragon.  Set aside for now.
   • In a bowl, season ground meat with 1/4 teaspoon salt, 1/4 teaspoon pepper, 1/2 teaspoon turmeric.  Gently knead to evenly mix.
   • Sautee onions with 1-2 tablespoons of oil until golden and translucent (approximately 5-10 minutes) then add the ground meat mixture to the onions and sautee for an additional 5 minutes or until the ground meat is lightly browned.
   • Add:  chopped herbs, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/3 of the scooped-out quince pulps, 1/2 tablespoon of tomato paste, and 1 cup of tepid water.  Stir very gently to mix and bring mixture to a gentle boil.  Once gently boiling, cover lid and simmer for 20 minutes or until almost all the liquid is absorbed but be careful not dry out the meat mixture.  (Optional:  at the end of the 20 minutes, add a pinch of saffron to the mix.)
   • Make a lemon juice and sugar sauce combining:  1 cup of water, juice of one lemon, 2 tablespoons of sugar, a pinch of salt, and 1/2 tablespoon of tomato paste.  (Taste and adjust to your liking, adding either more lemon juice or more sugar.)  Bring to a boil.  Divide mixture, reserving half.  Add the other to the ground beef and stir to mix.  Congratulations – you’re now done with the stuffing!
3. Fill each quince with stuffing and top with its lid.  Line a big pot with a cup of water and 1 tablespoon of oil.  Layer the bottom of the pot with the remaining scooped-out quince pulps.  Arrange quinces in the pot. Bring pot to a boil.  Once boiling, reduce heat to medium and pour the remaining lemon juice and sugar sauce over the quinces.  Cover and cook for approximately 45 minutes.  (Instead of cooking this on the stovetop, you can cook the quinces in a glass casserole dish in a 350 degree oven for on hour, basting quinces a few times with its sauce and juices to avoid drying out.)

Serving

Serve hot or at room temperature with bread, yogurt, and sabzi khordan.

Make it, enjoy it, and noosheh jaan!

(Before we delve into āsh, let’s take care of the tricky matter of its pronunciation.  Āsh should be pronounced as if you’re going to say Osh Kosh Magosh and not as if you’re Scarlette O’Hara foolishly pining for Ashley, oh Ashley.  So:  Osh not Ash-ley.  Ok?  OK! Moving on.)

In Iran, a cook is an āshpaz, which literally translates to maker-of-āsh.  And cooking is āshpazi or making-āsh. Coming back to our āshpazi blog after an unofficial hiatus, an āsh recipe then does seem a pertinent place to pick up from where we left off.  Now, if you’re thinking to yourself:  what in tarnation is āsh?  Picture this: thick hearty soups with a mixture of herbs and veggies and legumes and sundry whatnots -somewhat akin to French potage -that’s what.  Perfect whenever it is chilly outside.

So.  Not too long ago I was invited to a potluck hosted by the talented cook and blogger friend Apuginthekitchen who was going to make her Flank Steak on Texas Toast with Chimichurri for the party — a winning recipe published in the Food 52 cookbook.  (Let me tell you:  it was crazy-delicious!  Yum!)  Others were going to bring, oh, let’s see, things like: biryani with raita, pistachio cardamom pound cake, sausage and kale tart, jalapeno slaw, homemade jam, thyme and apple puffs, …, just to name some of the goodies.

I wanted to make something non-fussy, potluck-friendly, and Persian of course.  But:  what?  With discerning and accomplished cooks in attendance, and trying to represent the cuisine of Iran, the pressure was on! I pondered, I consulted, I wrung my hands and wore out my worry beads (not really) and finally figured I should make some type of cozy and nourishing āsh.  Duh!  Next question was:  what type of āsh to make? There are so very many different types of āsh, you know – variations only limited by imagination and taste.  Then the lightbulb moment:  pomegranates!  Not only are they in season, beautiful, naturally festive, and delicious, there’s also the convenient fact that Iranians have cultivated an encompassing and enduring love affair with pomegranates (a fruit native to the country) since ancient times, so a pomegranate āsh seemed just and fitting — and that is what I made.

Pomegranate āsh, like most other types of āsh, is a forgiving recipe (you do not have to be Swiss-watch-precise re the cooking time and you can putz around with the measurement of ingredients to some extent and substitute this for that within reason) and you’ll still be rewarded with a delicious and flavorful fare.  Also in its favor:  it is a one-pot construction with a list of ingredients that is short and simple, the most exotic must-have-ingredient being the pomegranate syrup, but you can substitute pomegranate juice in its lieu.   (Pomegranate syrup should be readily available in most international and middle-eastern grocery stores.  In NY try Kalustyans and Sahadi’s.)  Mini meatballs are optional.  I made my potluck offering with meatballs but when push comes to shove, I think I’ll prefer to do without next time, as the meatballs didn’t give enough oomph to the dish to merit the labor.  The traditional garnish of sauteed garlic (sir ‘eh dagh) and dried mint (na’nah dagh), however, should not be dispensed with under any circumstances, as it adds a vital je ne sais quoi depth of flavor and aroma to the dish.

In conclusion:  pomegranate āsh is a hearty, healthy and pleasurable fare (a mixture of tangy and earthy flavors) that is suitable either as a stand-alone meal or as a first course, and while I can’t claim that it behooves you to sample it, it is certainly worth a try!

Edited to add:

• Since you can’t get enough of āsh (you know you can’t, admit it), head on over to Fae’s blog for another āsh recipe.  It looks positively yummilicious.
• In lieu of the texture provided by the meatballs, quarter (or chop into cubes) a couple of beets and throw them in the āsh.  You can finely chop up the leaves and throw them in as well for good measure (to cook alongside with the rest of the chopped herbs.) I love beets, leaves and all, so this option makes my heart sing. This bright idea courtesy of my clever friend Banafsheh.  Thank you B!
• If you can’t find pomegranate syrup in stores or if you simply prefer to make your own, here’s a simple formula of making your own, straight from apuginthekitchen:   reduce  pomegranate juice, for 15 or 20 minutes on medium high heat, boiling it until it’s reduced to a syrup.  Suzanne doesn’t use lemon, “tart enough without lemon,” and she doesn’t use sugar either, as that would defy the whole point of ending up with a tangy syrup, now wouldn’t it?  If the pomegrante itself is so sweet that the syrup ends up on the sweet than tangy side, Suzanne recommends adding a bit of lemon juice, or lemon zest if you don’t want to add any liquid to the syrup.  Guess what?  She also said that she makes a glaze for baked ham from the syrup. Wow. That sounds amazing!  Anyway, there you go all you purists at heart.  Have at it and make your own pomegrante syrup. 

Ingredients

• 1/2 cup rice (rinse until water runs clear)
• 1/4 cup split peas (rinse a couple of times and drain)
• 1 bunch each of these herbs: 1) parsley, 2) leek chives, 3) coriander leaves  (you can sub spinach for any)
• 2 to 4 cups pomegranate juice, OR, 1/2 cup pomegranate syrup
• 1 teaspoon turmeric
• 2 small-to-medium-sized onions (chopped)
• 1/3 cup of sugar (optional)

Optional Meatballs:

• 1/2 lb ground beef
• 1 onion, grated
• 1 teaspoon turmeric

Garnish:

• 1 tablespoon dried mint
• 3-4 cloves of garlic, sliced
• handful of pomegranate arils

Direction

1. Discard the stems of parsley and coriander leaves, and trim the scraggly bulb end of leek chives.  Wash, gently dry, and chop herbs.
2. Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a big pot and saute chopped onions till caramelized.
3. Add split peas, 6-8 cups water, salt, pepper, and turmeric.  Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer (for around 15-20 minutes) until the split peas somewhat soften.
4. Add the rice and continue to cook for another 15 minutes.  Stir a couple of times to prevent sticking.
5. Add the chopped herbs and continue to cook for 10-15 minutes longer.  Stir as needed.
6. Add the pomegranate juice (or syrup) and simmer, covered,  for 30 minutes.
7. Optional:  Should you choose to make koofteh yeh sar gonjeshky (which is to say mini meatballs) to go with the soup, do this: mix 1/2 pound of ground meat with one grated onion; season with salt, pepper and 1/2 to 1 teaspoon of turmeric; knead well to mix.  Make hazelnut-sized meatballs, roll meatballs in a thin layer of flour and saute briefly in hot oil in a pan. Add to the soup same time with the pomegranate juice in step 6.
8. Once soup is set to your liking, taste and adjust flavor.   Add sugar (anywhere from a couple of tablespoons up to 1/3 cup per your taste) or conversely add more pomegranate syrup/juice to amp up the tart flavor. Your call.
9. Just before serving, prepare garnish.

Garnish:

1. Dried mint:  Heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a pan.   When oil is quite hot, turn heat off, add the dried mint and stir in the pan for a minute.  Remove dried mint and allow to cool.  (Dried mint is prone to burning quickly, so take care to avoid.)
2. Sauteed garlic:  Heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a pan till quite hot.  Add sliced garlic, stir and saute for around a minute. (Don’t overdo it as garlic will lose its aroma.)  Drain on a paper towel and allow to cool.

If the āsh is too thick at any time throughout the process add water to dilute.  Don’t forget to stir occasionally to prevent sticking.

Servi

Serve hot.  Pour soup into serving bowl.  Top with dried mint, garlic garnish and a handful of pomegranate arils.

Left-overs may be refrigerated for up to 2 days. (Good news is that āsh actually tastes better the next day – when it’s had a chance to really settle in!)  Just heat before serving

Make it, and enjoy it, and noosheh jaan!

Ah, turnip! Or shalgham joon, as I call you in Farsi,

I can’t say I have fond childhood memories of you.  Probably because I didn’t like you not even one bit but Maman forced you down my throat (figuratively speaking) at the first sign of sniffles or onset of cold.  There you were:  boiled, colorless, wobbly, and devoid of any taste save for an ungodly one.  Dare I say, I found you to be grotesque.  I had to hold my nose to eat you!  I’m not saying you stank … but wouldn’t you agree that you didn’t necessarily smell the sweetest?

At some point though, I realized that the root of our strained relationship may have been Maman, who tends to overcook her veggies.  Now mind you, she is a most glorious cook so I’m in no way dissing her, but the lady doth cooketh her veggies far too long, thus draining them of all vitality and joie de vivre, which may also explain why I did not discover that I am a lover of all things vegetable until I grew up and experienced the many wonders of this, our amazing world.

Now that I know better,  I see that you just needed better public relations.  I appreciate that you may be plain but that you shine virtuously with inner goodness.  I maybe do not love you, still, but I really dig you.  No pun intended, you being a root vegetable and all.  No, seriously, you are cool. We are cool.

And when you are not overcooked, your texture is alright, resembling a cooked potato; and seasoned properly, why, you taste pretty darn good even; and of course you are super-packed with mighty nutrients and vitamins, so maybe those Iranians touting you as a common household remedy for colds and sniffles and chest pain and such since the days of ancient Persia, know a thing or two after all.

I’m fighting a cold, so I’m reaching out for you.  I’m going to scrub you clean, boil you, peel you, and eat you with salt.  Once I’m better (correction:  once you make me better and thank you, shalgham joon, in advance) I hope to make a yummy āsh with you.  Maman, possibly in penance for her days of overcooking you into oblivion, now slices you thinly, sautes you in oil with some finely chopped garlic seasoned wth salt, and let me tell you:  there you are, a smashing side dish.  Baby:  you are a star!  I want to give you a try that way as well once I’m no longer on my sick bed.  And some day, I’ll attempt to use you in a few of the zillion enticing non-Persian recipes for you on the Internet.  Like this roasted turnips with parmesan.  Drooling.  (See?  You did just need better PR.)

So here we are, dear turnip, shalgham joon, years and continents away from when we first met, and isn’t it nice that we are letting bygones be bygones, making such good new memories together?  Sigh.

In conclusion, turnip:  you move me.

Love.

Azita

Ingredients

• Turnips!  (As many as your heart desires.)

Direction

1. Trim roots and cut the greens.  (You can save the greens which are edible and use it in a soup or ash.)  For the most nutritional benefit (to seal in all the nutrients) do not cut the lid or tail off.  Scrub turnips with a vegetable brush under running water.
2. Bring water (enough to cover all the turnips by at least 1/2 inch) to a rapid boil in a pot.  Add turnips, reduce flame immediately, and simmer on low heat for for 15-20 minutes or until turnips are tender enough that you can easily puncture with a fork.  Do not overcook as it will be its kiss of death! (Hot tip from Maman:  to reduce that particular eau-de-turnip, put a slice of bread in the pot.  She says it works!)
3. Drain.  Allow turnips to cool off a bit so you won’t burn your hand, then peel back the skins with your finger – it should come off quite easily, and trim the coarse ends of the tail and lid.  Quarter each turnip and serve.

Serving

Serve hot.  (Cold boiled turnip is a thing of horror and must be avoided at all costs, so make sure to serve immediately. while it is still steaming and nice.)  Sprinkle with salt as you partake.

Make it, enjoy it in good health, and noosheh jaan!

Khorma is the Persian word for “date” and aloo is the word for “plum.” Put them together (khorma + aloo) and clap your hands and you get: khormaloo!  (Who knew that the Brangelina, Bennifer modern craze of mushing names together has a precedent in ancient Persia?)

Khormaloo is pretty popular in Iran.  My parents certainly relished it, I recall vividly, but I counted this fruit as foe.  The first time I tried one it did truly awful things to my tongue and I was done – it was over between us.  (My thought process went something like:  “It’s not me, it’s YOU, khormaloo!  And we’re never ever ever getting back together. Like ever!” Why, yes, I had a thought process set to a hit soundtrack in the future.  Didn’t you?)

I now trace this childhood chagrin to eating an unripe persimmon, which as everyone-in-the-know knows, is a surefire way to go off persimmons for good.

I certainly anticipated a lifelong grudge.  And I was on guard.

But for the past few months, I couldn’t help but take note of the heaps of persimmons abundantly evident in my Brooklyn neighborhood’s markets.  There they were:  cute, round, orange — and they winked at me in greeting.  “Charmed, I’m sure” I would nod back in greeting, but only to be polite mind you, without breaking my stride to heed their beckoning. I  had not forgotten our hate-affair.

But the thought of writing about them crossed my mind and eventually became an irresistible nuisance.  So I went and bought a handful.  3 for a dollar?  Sold!

And there we were.  Me and my fruitenemy.  We met again.  At long last.

Before continuing, I’ll have to get technical here.  There are two types of persimmon commonly sold in the U.S.:  Fuyu and Hachiya.  The persimmons pictured here are of the Fuyu variety that are round and in a hurried glance pass off as tomato dopplegangers.   Hachiya persimmons, not pictured, have a pointy acorn shape.  Both types of persimmons benefit from being ripe, but with a Hachiya you really, really have to allow it to get ripe before you partake, otherwise you are in for a world of hurt.  A world. Of hurt.

Are you confused?  Join the club!  Here’s a simpler way to straighten this whole thing out.  A Fuyu persimmon can sit on its butt because its butt is flat, but a Hachiya can’t because its butt is pointy.  If a persimmon can’t sit on its butt, it is a Hachiya and therefore you MUST allow it to fully ripen.  (You are very welcome for this logical and refined clarification.  Bringing elegance to blogging — that’s our motto here at Fig & Quince.)

Going back to our story, here’s what happened with the Fuyu persimmons I bought:

I waited for them to ripen – to grow soft to the touch.  It took a few days for one and longer than that for the others.  (During that time, they made a fetching still-life tableau — alone and with others.  In particular, I enjoyed persimmons and primrose.  A tongue twister!)

Once ripened – I ate one Persian style.  (It tasted delicately sweet, with a texture that is syrupy and also reminiscent of a dense, pulpy banana. It was not the stuff of horror I recalled.  It was:  nice.)

Here’s how you eat a persimmon Persian style:   cut the top with a sharp paring knife, admire the gorgeous hue, dig in with a little spoon, and scoop and scrape until you are done.

I made smoothies with the rest of the persimmons.  That:  was delicious!  Highly recommend it.

Personal conclusion: I’m still not a passionate fan but no longer a foe, and ultimately appreciate the delicate enchantment of a good ripe persimmon. There are many amazing recipes for these orange sirens -everything from a beautiful persimmon salad with pistachios to a persimmon margarita (want!) to a pear and persimmon crumble (YUM!) – and now as I continue down the path of this illusory life, I resolve to sprinkle future autumn and winter fares with some inventive and novel uses of persimmon.

I also have to add that after reading up on persimmon in the course of writing this post, it really does seem like persimmon is a fruit (technically a berry, ahem) just about to burst out on the scene and make it big time.  Big!

Question is: do you like persimmons?  Do you have a favorite persimmon recipe?

While you ponder this, I’ll leave you with a link to an atmospheric picture (conducive to a contemplative reverie) I found online of a persimmon tree growing in someone’s actual backyard in Tehran. (This backyard has a lot of goodies growing there. So charming.  I imagine the occupants to be quiet book-loving sorts of people who enjoy the simple pleasures of life.  Including a good cup of tea every afternoon.)

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Once you’ve awakened from your reverie, here are some fun extracurricular readings on the subject of persimmons for your amusement – if you are so inclined:

The NY Times praises the persimmon (Praiseworthy article.)

Smithsonia magazine:  5 ways to eat persimmon (A persimmon salad with pomegranates! A persimmon margarita? I’m so there!)

10 amazing ways to bake with persimmon (Some of these are truly amazing. Worth a browse for sure.)

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Khoda hafez till next time.

For many years my mother preserved the flowers that crossed her path or whose paths she crossed.  It was not unusual for her to return from a neighborhood walk with a few dainty tokens in her hands, delicate little twigs and leaves and wildflowers she had picked from the shrubbery along the way; and trips to destinations exotic or not, almost always meant that some floral or leafy souvenirs of the voyage could be found somewhere inside a purse or pocket or guidebook.   Her collection grew.  She filled many small boxes with this pretty bounty.

Most of my mother’s books and myriad notebooks lodged little flowers and leaves as well … hosting them happily, I venture. Paper and prose and flowers make for a companionable camaraderie, I suppose.   It was a common occurrence (nevertheless one that remained startling each time) to leaf open a book at random from the bookshelves at my parents, only to be greeted with the surprise of a shower of dried violets or maple leaves or buttercups or mysterious petals tumbling down.  A thing I found alternately endearing or vexing depending on my mood.

My folks recently moved and in the process purged many of their things — big things but also the kind of things one collects over the  years and keeps in forgotten drawers or dusty boxes or wooden chests in basements and attics and garages and staircase closets — useless but sentimental, worthless and priceless, forgotten until the moment of being in sight and yet an essential thread of the fabric of the memory of a family and a lifetime.  Worthy of being clutched to the breast in a last-gasp-farewell embrace but deservedly destined for the bin.  Precious, ridiculous, sentimental, cumbersome – all at once.

Most of those things had to go.  Some of those things were hard to let go of for each of my parents.  My mother, the collector of things, had the worst of it, letting go of an ocean of sea shells, a king’s ransom in quilting fabrics, and a dizzying amount of arts and crafts supplies and goodies among other things.  She fought some of these partings and others she found cathartic.  In any event, she mastered the game.

Taking purging too far, however, came when my mother voluntarily decided to toss out her entire collection of dried flowers.  I was in shock!   Cheh fayedeh-ye darand allon?  “What’s their use now?” Ja ham nadraim barashon.  “Plus we won’t have space for them.”  She shrugged.  But … these flowers were family heirlooms!

Sometimes you have to intervene and stop people from making poor irrevocable decisions.  I intervened.  I kept them.  I love them.

And this is the story of how I happen to have this treasure-trove of beautiful dried flowers that came in super-useful for a florid Valentine’s Day blog post.

Let’s finish off our Saint Valentine’s Day homage with a contemplation of love by Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī  (popularly known simply as Rumi in the West) — a Sufi, a poet, a sage, who observed:

“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”

Have a warm and fuzzy Velentine’s Day, filled with love!

Khoda hafez till next time.

[* The title of this post "Go through this worlds giving love giving love" is a line from a translated poem of Hafiz - the great poet of Shiraz.]

When starting this blog, a little fellow (let’s call him Felfeli) graciously agreed to lend his charming presence to Fig & Quince on select occasions.  In fact, he inaugurated our place-holder post.  A good luck charm if there ever was one.

Despite being on the wan & sluggish side after a bout with a bad cold, Felfeli accepted the mission of demonstrating how to eat a pomegranate, 2 ways — Persian Style!!  Jazz hands! — with aplomb.  We sat about our task with measured vigor and somber panache.  A boy, his dinosaurs, his aunt, a pair of pomegranates, and a couple of green tomatillos for good measure (because, why not, tomatillos are pretty, and they taste, oh my God, delicious, a revelation!)

In this, Part I of our anâr odyssey, Felfeli and I will cover the “doon kardan” deseeding technique; and will follow up with the irreverent fun-for-the-whole-family āblamboo style in Part II.  [Note: There will be a goodly amount of words and an ungodly number of pix in these posts, so if you are one of those "just-the-facts-ma'am" folks or part of the TLDR crowd, wait for the Cliff Notes Pictorial Guide, coming your way on Friday.]

And now – let the Persian Style Pomegranate Magical Mystery World Tour commence in earnest.

• You will need:  a fresh pomegranate, a cutting board, a sharp paring knife, a big bowl, and you’ll probably want to wear an apron.  (Dinosaurs: optional.)
• Wash the pomegranate quite well.  Wipe dry.

• Place the pomegranate on a cutting board.  Using a sharp paring knife, cut off the top and bottom of the pomegranate.

During this time you may:

• With your paring knife, delicately yet with force (it’s a poetic balance) score 1/2 inch crisscross indents into the top and bottom of the pomegranate.

• Place a big bowl in a sink.  Don your apron if you haven’t done so already.
• Holding your pomegranate low inside the bowl, gently tug it apart in half by pulling at the indented scored seams.  Take each half and (once again pulling at the scored seams) pull apart to halve again. Finally, take each quartered piece and pull back with your hands to persuade it to snap in half pieces.  (You should now be left with about 8 pieces, plus some adventurous arils that may have jumped out of the membrane pockets. Also, don’t worry about staining your fingers, a cold rinse and it all comes off.)

• Take a quartered piece, peel back the membranes, then start using your fingers to persuade the arils to dislodge. Pop them out! (Felfeli demos his mad aril-popping skills in this short vimeo.)

Gather yer anâr arils (picking out any stray bits and pieces of membrane or pulpy skin and discard) and put them in a nice fresh serving bowl.

Eat with either abandon or restraint but with relish for certain.  Traditionally, in old-timey Iran, people would sprinkle golpar (ground angelica powder) over anâr seeds.  I’m a fan of many culinary Persian traditions and rituals, but I have to admit, I am not terribly fond of the smell nor flavor of this spice, so I pass. Felfeli wasn’t a fan either. But give it a try and judge for yourself as most of these old-timey traditions usually have their roots in genius nutritional or digestive secrets.

So this is how you seed a pomegranate Persian style – a process called anâr doon kardan.  It may look complicated but it’s quite simple really once you get the hang of it.

It does take a fair bit of patience but a pomegranate is such a gorgeous fruit and it tastes so good that surely to treat yourself to its goodness you can get in a zen frame of mind and enjoy the deseeding proess — right?

If not, good news, there is a lazy and fun way to enjoy a pomegranate – a patented Persian method enjoyed by young and old and one that is safe to say every kid will want to try – called anâr ‘eh āblamboo.  Felfeli was delighted!

How does āblamboo-style pomegranate work, you ask?  You’ll have to stay tuned for the juicy Part II coming you way a on Wednesday to find out.

Felfeli and I bid you a fond Khoda hafez till then.