Last time, Felfeli and I showed you how to deseed a pomegranate in a simple Persian process of doon kardan that calls for a modicum of technique and a measure (more than a soupçon, smidgen less than too much) ) of patience.

For those souls entirely scornful (or bereft) of patience, or in any manner pressed for time, there’s another Persian technique (a quick and lighthearted one) of enjoying a pomegranate that is known as: āblamboo. 

The āblamboo method is a good way to get the taste, juice and goodness of a pomegranate without any of the hassles of the peeling, cutting, deseeding, and chewing.  I mean, who in the world has time to chew?

How does it work?  Instructions and pictorial guide follows.

You’ll need: a (preferably cold just-out-of-the-fridge) pomegranate, a cutting board, a sharp knife, brute force.

Here’s how it works:

• Wash the pomegranate, dry it, and place it on a cutting board or a counter.
• Proceed to press and squeeze the everlasting life out of the pomegranate – literally crushing the seeds -  but at the same time don’t overdo it or else it will puncture.  (This: is a mindful balancing act. Not as perilous as the Man on Wire, but somewhat proximate.)  Roll the pomegranate and continue pressing it on every side, every inch.  Continue this press-roll-squish business until the pomegranate feels quite malleable in hands.  (Tip: use the cushiony pads of your fingers and avoid digging in your nails.)
• At this point, a sensitive operation is called for.  Rest pomegranate on a cutting board and with the tip of a sharp knife, poke a small (1/2″ approximately) and somewhat deep puncture in the skin.  A good bit of red juice may flow out. Do not be alarmed but proceed IMMEDIATELY to the next step.
•  Pick up the pomegranate, press your mouth to the opening, and while continuing to squeeze the pomegranate between palms, suck/drink the juice.  (Basically you’ve turned the pomegranate into a “bottle” and the puncture you made, is the bottle’s opening.)  Drink until you can’t get anymore juice out by pressing.

And this is how you get an āblamboo pomegranate.  (You may now appreciate why in colloquial Farsi a person might say they are āblamboo when they are exhausted and drained of all life force.)

Felfeli had never seen it done before and he loved the āblamboo pomegranate.  Most kids will probably similarly enjoy doing this – seeing as there is a good bit of fun exertion followed by the instant gratification of enjoying the wholesome, healthy and delicious pomegranate juice.

I personally would not endorse the technique on a regular basis – particularly with nice fresh pomegranates as it would be a bit wasteful – but I do appreciate the āblamboo once in awhile when too lethargic for doon kardan a pomegranate or when left with a pomegranate that is somewhat past its prime. I particularly relish it when needing a fun pick-me-up, as for whatever reason, the juice of an āblamboo anâr gives a super invigorating shot-in-the-arm boost.  (Once upon a time it feels euphoric even.  I’m not kidding – honestly.)

And there you have it.  (The Cliff Notes Pictorial Guide to how deseed a pomegranate, as promised to the TLDR crowd in Part I, will be up on Friday.)

Felfeli takes his leave and waves a very fond goodbye.  We do hope to persuade him to come back again sometime.  Maybe to teach Rice 101?

Until next time, please go eat an anâr (filled with antioxidants) and khoda hafez.

For your viewing pleasure:  Cliff Notes for  “anâr doon kardan” — as promised.

So you probably think that after a week-long pomegranate-palooza here at Fig & Quince that we’d finally be done with it. But I have to gently break it to you … no!  We’re not.  (Didn’t you know, Persians are crazy about pomegranates!  This fruit has left an indelible imprint on not just the cuisine but also the art and poetry of Iran. It is a love affair.)

On that note, expect a post on khoresh ‘eh fesenjoon ( a ridiculously delicious walnut & pomegranate-syrup concoction) coming your way in a week or so; and just prior to that, we’ll have a special post for making your very own homemade pomegranate syrup!  (Recipe courtesy of the talented and imaginative cook, Suzanne of apuginkitchen.  Isn’t that wonderful?)

Until then, go and doon or āblamboo a pomegranate and let it race through your bloodstream with its delicious anti-oxidants.

And oh yes, Dowager Countess Violet Crawley commands me to tell you to have a great week end, whatever that is.

Rob’ eh anar, or pomegrante syrup (also referred to as pomegranate molasses or concentrate or paste) is a staple ingredient in Persian cooking.  My mother has never made it herself from scratch and since her mother’s time, she tells me, the custom has been to just buy store-bought. I geeked out therefore when I found out that friend and intrepid cook Suzanne makes her own and got her recipe, which I’m delighted to share with you – as you see above – in her very own words. Thank you Suzanne!

Homemade is best but there’s something to be said about the convenience of store-bought as well.  Caveat emptor:  the flavor and color of roe’beh anâr varies somewhat significantly from brand to brand.

After experimentation with various labels, my mother swears by the Golchin brand which she finds to have just the right balance of sweet and tangy flavor.  She also likes its rich dark color, specially for making fesenjoon.

Myself, I use the Cortas brand, and, whoa Nelly, it is super tangy, but I don’t mind, and I like the fact that it is made without sugar.  I just use it sparingly, and if I lose my head and go overboard, compensate with adding some sugar to balance the flavor.  The color is alright.  No complaints.

Point being:  try a few till you find a brand you can see yourself growing old with.

The famous khoresh ‘eh fessenjoon, made with crushed walnuts and pomegranate syrup, will be posted next and that will (finally!) conclude our all-pomegranates-all-the-time programming around here and instead will switch to barraging you with all-Norooz-all-the-time coverage.

If all goes well, I hope to have some special recipes for you (maybe sholeh zard) and to also share things like “shaking your house”, “fire-jumping”,  growing grass and then callously throwing it out in a fortnight, getting gold and giving respect, and of course,  making a spread of the Seven Persian Seen’s, and the food, oh all the glorious food.  All part and parcel and among the threads that together, since ancient times of ‘yore, have made up the traditions and celebration of the first day of spring and seeing in a new year in Iran.

Until then, zubizubizou

There is a popular khoresh. made with ground walnuts & pomegranate syrup, called Khoresh ‘eh fesenjan — but you can call it fesenjoon when you are on a more khodemooni (that is intimate) footing.   Fesenjoon is just too delicious for its own good: tangy, sweet, yummy; and the texture is heaven, soft but granular and thick.  Not surprisingly, it is among the top tier of special foods coveted and served for Norooz — the Persian New Year, which is just around the corner.

It would be hard to find an Irooni (colloquial for Iranian in Farsi) who does not like Fesenjoon.  Most likely, a typical reaction would be:  “Fesenjoon? Ākh joon!”  (Or:  Woot!  As we say in English.)  And if you are a faranghi (that is, a non-Persian) odds are great that once you are properly introduced to fesenjoon, you’ll start pining for your next quality-time together.

If there’s any justice in the world, your khoresh ‘eh fesenjan should be served over a perfect bed of fluffy rice imbued with the fragrance of saffron.  Should you be so lucky, inhale deeply, and eat a hearty serving, and take care to form just the correct proportion of rice and khoresh in every spoonful.  Since you can’t very well bring measuring devices and rulers with you to the dining table, just eyeball it to gauge the optimum proportions.  Don’t worry. Practice makes perfect.

Now, there exist delicious variations (regional and otherwise) on the classic fesenjoon — with meatballs, or duck, or even quince in lieu of chicken; and pistachio or almonds or hazelnuts in walnuts’ stead; and one can even go certifiably nuts and opt to make a yogurt or carrot or eggplant or fish (yes, fish!) fesenjoon.  The classic version itself, even, is made with distinct touches and techniques depending on the cook.

The recipe given here is how my esteemed mother makes her fesenjoon.  We think it’s the bee’s knees, it moves some of us to do a happy dance, and some of us request it as a special birthday gift.  Should that sway you to study the recipe.

(Note:   Every recipe for this blog is made from scratch and shot from every angle until it begs for mercy.  Logistically, however, it was not possible to make fesenjoon in time for publishing this post.  Please, then, accept these candid action-shots of fesenjoon, captured in its natural habitat – during a family dinner at last Norooz.   Recycling is good for the environment in any event.)

But anyhow. Less words.  More fesenjoon.

• 2 lbs of skinless, boneless chicken breasts and thighs (minimum of 6-8 pieces depending on the number served)
• 1 pound (or 4 cups) walnut (ground very fine, VERY, as in a powdery texture)
• 2-4 cups pomegranate syrup*
• 1-2 cups chicken broth (optiona)
• 1 medium onion (finely grated)
• 1/2 cup finely grated butternut squash
• 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon ground saffron (dissolved in 2 tablespoon hot water)
• sugar (amount depends on personal taste to balance the tangy flavor)

• Sauté chicken pieces in olive oil until lightly golden.
• Make saffron water by dissolving ground saffron in 2 tablespoon of hot water.
• Finely grate the butternut squash.  Sprinkle with cinnamon.
• Finely grate the onion. (Till it is almost the texture of onion water.)
• Roast walnuts in a 350 degree oven for 5 minutes.  Once cool to touch, rub walnut pieces between palms to shed excess skin.  (This step also removes the raw taste of walnuts, rendering them appreciably more tasty.)
• Grind roasted walnuts to a very fine, powdery texture in a food processor.

1. Transfer walnuts to a Dutch oven.  Add the grated onion, plus 2 cups of cold water.  (You can always add more water is texture is too thick.) Very gradually (yavash yavash) bring to a very gentle boil.  Once gently boiling, adjust heat to low and cook on low heat for 20 minutes – lid ajar.  During this time, stir frequently with a wooden spoon, scraping the bottom, to prevent walnuts from burning and sticking to the bottom of the pot.  (As my mother puts it:  “This is a critical stage, so don’t goof.”  You have been warned.)  This dish is essentially one that should be cooked slowly.
2. Add pomegranate syrup, sautéed chicken, grated butternut squash (which according to my mom “seals the ingredients, bringing it all together and just really helps the texture”) and the saffron water.  If you feel the khoresh needs more water, add some cold water or some chicken broth.  At this point, also taste and adjust flavor to your liking with sugar, salt and more pomegranate syrup if you like.  (The ideal flavor is a perfectly balanced one that is tangy but also a bit sweet and definitely not too tart.) Bring it to a gentle boil - lid ajar – and continue to boil very gently for 35 minutes.  ideally, a 1/2″ or thicker layer of oil will gather on the surface.  Don’t worry, that is as it should be, that is walnut oil, and sign of a successful khoresh.
3. Make a final taste test and adjust flavors to your liking.  When it’s time to serve, stir with a wooden spoon so that the delectable walnut oil is evenly absorbed in the khoresh.  Serve hot.

*  For a homemade pomegranate-syrup recipe & recommendations re store-bought brands, please refer to this post.

• If the khoresh is too thick, add water, bring to a gentle boil, and gently boil away, uncovered, till reduced to the desirable consistency.
• If the khoresh is too thin in texture, bring to a rapid boil without a lid, then continue to cook on very low heat (bubbling gently – yavash yavash) till you get the layer pf walnut-oil form on the surface.

Pour into a big serving bowl and serve hot.  A ladle or two of khoresh – ideally served over a bed of perfect fluffy rice.  Make sure you savor every single bite.  For truly, blessed you are!

Noosheh jaan!

Sabzeh, symbolizing birth and growth, is an integral part of the Persian New Year’s Haft Seen spread. 

It’s such an optimistic gesture: coddling a seed and coaxing sprouts out of it! Don’t you think?

Growing sabzeh is a cheap thrill and the effort involved is minimal.  Seeds really want to sprout.  You’d have to try quite hard to disappoint them.

You don’t have to observe Easter or Norooz to grow sprouts either – it does a soul good to grow some green just for the plain pleasure of it.   It makes for an engaging kid-friendly activity as well.

How does it work?  Easy.  First, grab a rake and shovel.

Just kidding!  No shovels required!  A little Persian humor here.

For real now, here’s Fig & Quince’s fool-proof DIY sabzeh-growing directions.

• 1/4-1/2 cup red wheat or lentils (Unsure which to pick?  Wheat grows straight-haired, while lentils will sport a poetic curlicue do.)
• Some type of container: i.e. a jar, plate, shallow bowl. (The plate-with-a-ribbon-around-it is kind of boring.  Don’t you think?  Get creative and have fun!  Just keep in mind that your container-of-choice does have to allow the seedlings to receive light and it has to withstand frequent watering, i.e. don’t use a cardboard box.  Any and all types of shallow ramekin would work wonderfully.)
• Several paper towel sheets
• Strainer (helpful tool but not essential)
• Scissors (may come in handy)
• Water and sunlight!

Important note:  Over-watering is a kiss of death for sabzeh and a rookie mistake.  Whenever following directions re watering, keep in mind that the operative verb here is “to sprinkle” not “to drench.”  Moral of the story:  you want the seeds to be moist and well-hydrated but never soggy. If you accidentally over-water, tip container over to drain excess water.

Soak seeds in water for 24 to 48 hours.  Change the water 1-3 times a day.

(Sweet-talking to the seeds is optional but scientifically proven to brighten their outlook on life.  It’s up to you.  You do want to give them a good head-start.  Don’t you?)

Drain seeds, then spread them on a paper towel.  (You may detect that the seeds are now sporting the barest hints of white sprouts.  Rejoice!)

Once you tire of fondly gazing at the seeds, bundle them up in that same paper towel.

The bundle should be moist to the touch.  If not, sprinkle with water.

Place bundle in a plate (or bowl, or whatever) and let it sit (in an area exposed to direct sunlight to expedite growth of sprouts) for another 24-48 hours and sprinkle it a few times a day – as necessary- to maintain it well-hydrated.  (A good technique is to douse it liberally with water, then holding hand against the bundle, tip the container to drain the excess water.)

On day 5 it’s time to unwrap the bundle.  By this time, you will notice that your seeds are sprouting in earnest.  (Oh joy!)  The lentils in particular will most certainly be growing long white tendrils.  It’s now time to coddle the seeds, which is done in 3 steps:

1) Line the bottom of your jar (or whatever is your container of choice) with a paper towel cut to fit it. (The paper towel provides a surface for the roots to grab a hold of and acts as a soil of sorts.)

2) Layer the sprouting seeds inside the jar (or bowl, or plate, or whatever is your container of choice) on top of the paper towel. Spread seeds evenly, so as to avoid bald spots! Thickness of the layer depends on the depth of your container. You don’t want a thin bed of seeds but also avoid piling it on too thick as it will suffocate the seeds. A 1/2 -3/4 inch spread is a good bet in general.

3) Cover seeds with a moist paper towel.

Coddle seeds in this condition for two days, during which time you should water them at least 3 times a day to keep them well-hydrated.

By day 7 your seeds should have officially sprouted.  Totally adorable!  It’s time for the seedlings to come out from their cover and face the brave new world.  Discard the paper towel cover and place your jar to bask openly in the sun.  Water as needed.  (A good watering in the morning and at night should suffice.)

You did it!  Now just sit back and watch it grow. And grow.  And grow!  Where it stops … nobody knows.

Well actually, in the Iranian culture, on Sizdah Beh’dar (the 13th day of Norooz)  sabzeh will meet its eventual even-if-untimely demise in a ceremonial manner. But ssshhh, let’s not upset the seedlings and mention that yet.

And that’s all folks.  Go forth and sprout.

(And yes, I borrowed a good bit of copy from last year’s post.  Don’t judge!  I am just being green.  Recycling is good for the environment and it is also good for the preservation of blogger sanity.  What remains of it.  The pictures are all spanking brand new though. So there.)

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming (on Persian food and Norooz and spring and all that is blossoming and sprouting and delicious) to bring you this spontaneous rant about the travails of creating content — tenderly with joy and care — and releasing it into this cyberspace of ours.   Here it goes.

I don’t watermark content for aesthetic reasons and I do not put up neon signs all over this blog announcing that “all the work here is created by Me Myself and Moi and protected by copyright law” because it is not my cup of tea. But the fact is that the photos and illustrations and all these little words strung together with various degrees of coherence and grammatical soundness are done by the hands of truly, yours.  Not magically sprung into existence.  I don’t expect to be showered in gold and Japanese quince blossoms in return (although I will gladly succumb to both) but I do harbor delicate hopes that the copyright ownership of the work is respected.  Partially to keep that illusion, I refuse to Google search my copy and images (as I know some bloggers vigilantly do to find people who lift their works.)  I would rather not know as I’d rather spend the time I would use up kvetching over every such instance on either writing a line, or drawing one, or doing one.  (Just.  Kidding!  I do not do any lines except for laundry and I don’t smoke anything except for fish.)

But back to our story, I happened by sheer happenstance to find out that an entity, a commercial entity, was using one of my images on one of their social media channels.  It wasn’t a major use but it wasn’t entirely minor either.  It is somewhat flattering that they liked my work.  It is mucho less flattering that they felt it was permissible to co-opt said work without so much as a God bless.  I went back and forth on this but ultimately realized that I was bothered.  I was surprised by how much I was bothered.  The bother was aggravated by the realization that they were using yet another image of mine in a perhaps not illegal but certainly irritatingly usurping way to get traffic to their social media page.

While trying to nurture the possibility of a future working relationship with them (us freelancers have to always hustle, don’t you know!) I asked that they either pay for this usage or remove the image.  After some time I received word that “out of respect” they had removed the image.  It suspiciously sounded like they were doing me a favor.  I want to understand where they are coming from but to be clear:  I am supposed to be grateful for their favor of ceasing to infringe my copyright protected work.  A work that I literally spent days working to create.  It’s rather … demoralizing!

Lincoln advocated the protection of  intellectual property law, specifically patents, as adding the “fuel of interest to the fire of genius.”  Thomas Jefferson championed a balanced protection to encourage creativity but not discourage the creative use of ideas. A view I admire.  In a way, intellectual property protection is the Goldilocks of law – too robust and it stifles, too little and it is meaningless, but just the right amount and it is perfect — rewarding creativity yet also allowing for the free exchange of ideas.

As they say, there is nothing new under the sun and we are all inspired by and influenced by all that we see.   A truism … because it’s true!  Fair use is fine with me.  It is more than fine, it is dandy and I herald it. FAIR use.  Not being used.  Thomas Jefferson wrote: “He who receives an idea from me, receives instruction himself without lessening mine; as he who lights his taper at mine, receives light without darkening me.”  Beautifully put.  No one could say it better.

I wrote this last night when I felt considerably hotter under the collar but with Scarlett O’Hara’s sage advice in mind I waited till today to post because after all, tomorrow is another day, and fiddle dee dee, I do feel much less bothered today.  Edits:  they were made! I strongly recommend sleeping on angry posts.

But I’m curious:  I know many of you who read this blog have your own blogs (and Tumblrs and other online-what-nots) with personal work that you painstakingly make and compose and share. I wonder:  how do you deal with this?  This balancing act of wanting to openly create content and put it out there without any expectations and/or putting up barbwires — and yet not wanting to be taken advantage of?  Do you search out perpetrators or do you let karma take its course?  Do you feel petty (as I do to my own astonishment) when feeling upset by unauthorized use?  Let’s not even discuss (or should we) the nefarious marketers who imagine that they can demand flouting FTC rules with blatant disregard of the value of our time, reputation, and work.   (It is amazing how so many people feel they are doing writers and photographers and other content-providers a bloody favor by “exposing” their work.)

I would really like to know what you think about this and how you handle your IP rights.  If you don’t like to publicly comment, please email me, I really want to hear your thoughts.

ps.  An illustrated guide to Norooz (the Persian New Year) coming your way before you know it.

An iconic Norooz custom is creating a still-life tableau called HaftSeen — literally meaning:  “Seven S’s” –  a display of at least seven traditional and symbolic-laden items, all bearing names that begin with the letter “S” in Farsi.  Hence: Seven S.

Here’s a handy-dandy guide to what you would find in a haftseen display and the idealized wishes it symbolizes for the new year:

Candles, a mirror, a bowl of gold fish, fresh flowers, rose water, a holy book of one’s faith or the poetry books of revered Persian poets Hafiz or Rumi or Khayam, decorated eggs, and a mixed plate of traditional Iranian shirini (pastry) are “non-S” items that have carved an indelible niche at the haftseen table for themselves.  Some also float an orange in a crystal bowl of water to symbolize the planet earth.

People are of course at liberty to add other objects of delight as a personal touch to the setting as well.  (See how different people have put their own spin on the traditional template of this Norooz staple on this Flickr page.)

I’m biased of course but not alone in finding the making and setting of haftseen to be a truly poignant and poetic custom. The heart of the new year’s celebration.

It is at the proximity of the haftseen display that a family gathers to await the exact moment when winter ends and spring begins; and thus dawns the  “New Day” or Norooz.  This year Winter ends tomorrow at approximately 7 am Eastern Standard time.

So when we meet again, winter will be over. It will be spring.  Norooz.  A new day!

Until then, Happy Spring!

And if you observe this beautiful holiday:  Dorood bar shoma!  Norooz  ‘etoon Pirooz!

Tut. Toot. Toote!  However you spell it, it is the little adorable mulberry-fruit-shaped Persian treat made from ground almonds, cardamom and rosewater; dusted with a glittery coat of granulated sugar; stemmed with a sliver of pistachio; typically served at weddings and for Norooz; and generally gobbled up with fingers, relish and gratitude.

Since I’d already posted tut’s recipe, I had good and ardent intentions to make a few different types of shirini for Norooz.  Good intentions are like beauty queens:  pretty hyperboles of niceness but somewhat glib.  I need concrete intentions that are weighed down with a heavy-duty tool-belt bulging with every gadget, crouching under the bathroom sink, getting dirty and fixing the leak – not up on the stage hamming it up with a sparkling dress and tiara, waving beautifically.

Which is my long-winded way of telling you that much like a one-trick-pony I ended up making only the tut for Norooz.  So that if you didn’t know any better you might have thought that tut is the only Persian shirini.  And that would have been so very wrong. To remedy that theoretical wrong, behold the following show-and-tell exhibits:

Exhibit A: A plate of goodies made by the hands of a lovely and ravishing khanoom (that is, lady with capital letter “L”) including:  1) noon nokhod’chi (chickpea flour cookie); 2) noon berenji Kermanshahi (rice flour cookie sprinkled with poppy seeds – Kermanshahi style); and 3) my favorite:  sohan ‘e assal (almond brittle.)  So good! It was rough going keeping paws off of these to take pictures.  Suffice it to say they did not last long once the prying eye of the camera lens was shut down.

Exhibit B:   Specimens of Iranian sweets typically served for Norooz – purchased from a store.  The gaz (pistachio nougat) was no gaz ‘eh Shirazi but it was delicious, the noghl was rather a travesty of what it should be (that is: it was not a glorious and fragrant hard-candy-covered almond sliver) but it was nice to behold and served its festive purpose.   The noon nokhodchi and noon berenji were pretty decent actually. I like how they look like hearts – a traditional shape for these types of cookies. 

Exhibit C:  To see this one, you have to stop by and check out Turmeric & Saffron‘s inspiring and lovely Persian desserts.  She actually has the recipes for the almond brittle and for the Kermanshahi noon berenji among other things.  Personally, I most covet making her Persian rosewater cardamom pudding.  Looks wonderful.

Exhibit D:  And finally, if you’re in the mood for drooling uncontrollably and thus making a notable spectacle of yourself, do check out the lovely Fae’s gorgeous Iranian style baklava and baklava cake.  Why must you torture us so, Fae?   Why?

And on this rather cruel note, I bid you farewell till we meet egg-ain!

Last year when coloring eggs for the Norooz haftseen, I pledged to make homemade dye next time around.  Before I knew it a year went by (wow so quickly like WOOSH) and it was once again time to color eggs for Norooz. And, guess what, I actually kept my vow to make natural dye at home.

It is possible that in the process I may have gone a bit overboard … behaved a tad over zealously even … felt somewhat excessively exuberant (please note that I did restrain from saying eggsessively eggzuberant) … but that’s because making dye was an interesting experience, dare I say thrilling at times, and the eggs came out so pretty that I couldn’t help but geek out and admire them this way and that.  [Although one crack, and boo:  they stink!] Next year, maybe I’ll throw an egg decorating party like the one design sponge had.

Thick rubber bands and colorful mesh bags (souvenirs of various produce-purchases saved over the course of time) played a key role in this fun game of egg-and-dye.

It is not hard to dye eggs naturally but unless you already know how to do it, the instructions online are a little hither and thither.  I started with and ultimately ended up back with Martha (Stewart that is, of course) and after some practice in the trenches on the home-front I can lay claim to some firm preferences and a fair amount of eggspertise (please do forgive me, I truly can not help myself) when it comes to coloring eggs with natural dye.

I experimented with four dyeing agents (black coffee, red cabbage, beets, and turmeric) and colored two dozen eggs — a mixture of white and brown ones.

Ideally, you’ll also need an egg drying rack.  I re-made the same egg-drying-rack that I’d improvised out-of-necessity last year. It worked beautifully, so saw no reason to reinvent the wheel.  If you’d like to make one of your own, it’s super simple:  a) Take a cardboard box, b) stick 3 push pins on the surface so as to create a triangular rest-stand for an egg, and c) taking care to space out the stands, repeat to create rows and columns.  See?  Easy!

I’ll ask you to kindly mosey on over to the original post on Martha Stewart’s site for the full, detailed instructions on how to make various dyes and create a palette of hues using each individually or in combination with each other.

Meanwhile, if you’d like summarized instructions as well as my two shiny cents gained from the trial and error and beauty of it all, please

I basically followed Martha’s instructions to the letter but there’s an essential tip not mentioned in the post:  to add a tablespoon of salt to the dyeing agent.  It makes all the difference in the world and I only found out about it from reading the comments section after a failed attempt.  It’s a mystery why this pivotal info is omitted in the instructions.

Thoughts re the dyeing agents:

• Turmeric:  The resulting yellow color is quite pretty but I found out that when boiling turmeric, especially with vinegar, that the aroma is quite pungent and irritant, at least to this nose.  I sneezed quite a bit (a lot!) while this potion was brewing and wonder what the neighbors thought I was cooking up.  Another drawback about turmeric as a dyeing agent:  despite repeated straining, I was unable to fully rid dye of the powdery turmeric remnants which then clung to the egg and prevented it from having a smooth surface. I guess that won’t be a problem with a cheesecloth but I didn’t have one handy at the time.
• Coffee: I did not have the best of luck with it and found it a bit tame and lame as a dye.  I expected rich hues and instead it made the brown eggs a tad-bit-darker brown and turned the white eggs into a pale muddy brown.   Verdict:  not worth the hassle and using up delicious, delicious coffee that I could be drinking instead.
• Beets:  Nice!  You’ll get pale pretty pink eggs by soaking white eggs for 30 minutes in this solution.  Drawback: it didn’t really do much for the brown eggs.  At least not on my watch.
• Red-cabbage:  I am in love!  This dye is so perfect, I want to write it a sonnet.  It is a versatile workhorse of a dye — as generously reliable as daffodils.  If I had to take only one dyeing agent with me to a deserted island, it would be me and my little red-cabbage dye.  Soak eggs in this dye for half an hour and it turns white ones a nice pale blue and the brown eggs a robin blue.  Leave eggs overnight and wake up to a stunning and gorgeous miracle:  white eggs are now a very rich and dark royal blue and brown eggs turn into an intense forest green hue, so dark as to pass for a stone! Can’t say enough good things about cabbage.  In fact, if you are short on time and don’t want to mess around with too many different dyes, just go for the this dye and simply by using a mixture of both white and brown eggs and playing with the the length of time you leave the eggs soaking, you’ll end up with a gorgeous palette of pale to the darkest midnight blue.  Love, love, love it!
• Onion skins:  The thought of cutting up enough onions to gather 4 cups of onion skins made me cry and I gave up on this dye without even giving it a try.

Happy Norooz & Easter & Passover & spring.  Have fun coloring eggs!

Once upon a time there was a king who ruled over a vast kingdom and when he died (some said he was murdered, most foul) a tumultuous power struggle vying for his throne ensued.  In the midst of this bloody hiss va biss (or kerfuffle as we say in English) somehow the king’s daughter was crowned queen.  Her name was PoranDokht and she reigned over the Persian empire for a bit more than a blink of an eye, yet just shy of two years.  It was not that long – is what I’m saying.

Of significance regarding Queen Porandokht’s brief tenure, one is that she signed a peace treaty with the Romans (spoiler alert:  it didn’t last) and another is that she inspired a craze of yogurt-based vegetarian food.  This came about because the Queen did not care for meat but liked yogurt, so the court’s cook, trying to tickle the royal palette, made up a series of dishes, all of which were variations on one theme:  a vegetable mixed with yogurt. In the bargain, inventing a new genre of Persian food initially called porani in a nod to the Queen (whose name you recall was PoranDokht) but which then down the road morphed into the word borani as we now know it.

At least, that’s the story one hears. Maman, resident part-time cynic, says:  “Who knows if it is for real?”  “Ein chiz hayee ‘yeh keh mardom mighand.“  (This is what they say.)  Maman may have her doubts, but I believe.  I.  Believe!

The star in a borani dish is a vegetable that may be either cooked, steamed, or sauteed — and it could be anything from eggplant to zucchini or mushroom or pumpkin, or one of my favorites, beets –  combined with yogurt dressing.  Super simple!  Super healthy.  Super tasty!

Borani ‘ye esfenaj or spinach borani is a snap to make and you’d be surprised by the complexity of taste and texture found in such a simply prepared dish that calls for so very few ingredients:  you only really need fresh spinach, strained yogurt, and salt.  Walnuts and saffron and garlic are nice, but optional, and in a pinch can be done without. Since the spinach wilts to almost nothing in size and is mixed with creamy yogurt, this is a good dish to trick kids into eating tons of spinach.  They’ll be distracted by the creamy texture while unbeknownst to themselves, they are consuming a ton of spinach, and you can watch them, twirl your mustache, and enjoy your tricky  ways.

Integral to the success of this dish is to completely drain the spinach once you’ve blanched it.  Otherwise it’ll weep – and then you’ll weep as well.  To rid it of excess liquid, you are supposed to “wring” the blanched spinach, much as you would a freshly washed shirt.  At least that’s the literal translation of “chelondan” in Farsi.  But that doesn’t sound like something the poor spinach would like.  So do as my mother does:  drain wilted spinach in a soft-mesh colander and press the back of a wooden spoon against the spinach, as many times as needed, to force out all excess liquid.  It works like a charm and if you do it gently enough, you won’t feel like such a brute against the poor wilted spinach.

Ingredients

• 10-12 cups of fresh baby spinach (wash and trim stems)
• 1 cup thick strained yogurt – ideally whole.  (I used Greek Faje 2% since that’s what was available in store and it was delish and creamy and just the right consistency)
• 1 small clove of garlic (crushed to smithereens)
• a few walnuts – coarsely chopped (optional, but in truth, would be a shame to go without)
• a smidgen of saffron – ground and dissolved in a thimble of hot water (optional, but a luxury you deserve)

Direction

1. Blanch the spinach. (Bring a pot of lightly salted water to a rapid boil; add spinach and blanch for approximately 30 seconds but absolutely no longer than a minute.  Immediately remove spinach and drain in colander.   Pour a cup of cold water over the lot to stop spinach from continuing to cook.)
2. Place wilted spinach in a soft-mesh colander on top of a plate or bowl and allow it to drain for at least 15 minutes.  Then, press the back of a wooden spoon against the spinach, as many times as needed, to force out all the excess liquid.  You’ll be surprised by how many times you’ll have to do this to effectively rid all excess liquid.
3. Once spinach is “wrung” effectively, chop it – either coarse or fine – texture to your taste.  ( I prefer the nether region between the coarse and fine – soft but still providing texture and chewiness.)
4. Saute crushed garlic in a pan with just a dollop of  olive oil till golden. Then, in the same pan, with the heat on medium, add spinach, sprinkle with a dash of salt, and give it a few whirls (no more than that) in the pan. (You can skip this step entirely if you are fond of a more simple and raw texture and taste.)
5. Dilute yogurt with 1 tablespoon cold water, and stir with a fork.  (It may seem perverse to use strained yogurt then attempt to dilute it but that’s how it goes and the process improves the texture of yogurt.)
6. Transfer spinach to a big bowl, add yogurt, season with salt and pepper to taste, and gently mix all the ingredients. (I like to use a fork instead of a spoon to mix – for a gentler more delicate touch.)
7. Cover bowl and place in the fridge for at least half an hour – allowing the borani to get well and cold and set.  (If you have properly drained spinach, you can do up to this steap ahead of time and store for a day or so. If spinach is not drained completely though it will weep and ruin the texture if left unattended to its own devices.  In practice, however, borani is best made close to serving time, so just aim for that.)
8. When ready to eat, transfer to a serving bowl.  Gently fluff it a bit with a fork to revive. Decorate with a drizzle of saffron water.  Garnish with ground almonds.  Serve.

Note:  10-12 cups of spinach may sound like an awful lot for two servings.  But once spinach wilts and is “wrung”, it shrinks to almost next to nothing.  Which makes this a great dish to trick kids into eating a ton of spinach while they are distracted by its creamy texture. 

Serving

Borani is often meant to be a side dish or appetizer.  Some people serve it as a dip.  But allow yourself a hearty garnish of chopped walnuts and serve it with bread, and you’ve got yourself a light lunch or dinner bursting with nutrition and taste.

Make it, thank Queen PoranDokht for her fine and discerning taste, and noosh’eh jaan!

A year ago my mom and I posted our very first Persian food recipe — for a huge rice-meatball stuffed with prunes, caramelized onions, raisins and walnuts, served with its own tangy and savory broth, otherwise known as the yumalicious koofteh berenji.  It feels both like yesterday and also forever ago that we started on our excellent adventure of blogging.  It’s a happy milestone and I’m a bit verklempt.

Starting this blog has been a rewarding experience – no doubt about it.  It gives me and my mom (who was the muse and catalyst for creating Fig & Quince) a stimulating venue to bond and it has triggered (and I hope it will continue to trigger) precious stories from my father (ordinarily a man of a few words) that otherwise would have remained hidden treasures.  It has also offered me a positive way to express and channel my love for Iran — to trade saddening homesickness for a passionate mission of cultural-exchange and a happy pursuit of recipes and stories — and into the bargain, it has even rekindled my romance with an old flame – photography – big time.

A huge pleasure of this venture has been that of getting to know many interesting & diversely delightful people, bloggers and non-bloggers alike, that I’d never have had met otherwise with the cherry-on-top bonus of forging and fostering meaningful connections and budding friendships. Continuing in this corny manner (once I get mushy this way there’s no going back till I get on the subway and am promptly cured of my infatuation with humanity) I have to say that I’m grateful to-the-core for everyone who reads this blog and keenly appreciate your emails, comments, links and any-other-way (including telepathic) gestures of support.  It’s definitely fuel for keeping on with keeping on.

Let’s have a virtual slice of cake!

While you are enjoying your sugar rush, I’d like to tell you that Fig & Quince will have its very first guest post (by one of the aforementioned fascinating people I have been lucky to meet via this blog – so excited!) and that also we’ll have our very first giveaway (something made by moi as a token of saying thank you to toi) in the coming week or two.

And oh, the amazing rainbow cake with the marzipan bunny decorations?  My sister made it all from scratch with her very own delicate hands for the birthday of a special quelqu’un fond of bunnies and rainbows — impressing young and old and ageless.

Khoda hafez till later.

ps. This is a tadigh cake!  Invented by my father as a little joke on someone’s birthday.

Pictured here is what we call chaghal’eh badoom in Iran — known as fresh (or green or spring) almond here in the U.S., that is if you can find it.   Nestled inside its fuzzy green hull lies the young skinless almond, sleeping the sleep of the just – not yet hardened and soft in texture.

Chaghal’eh badoom arrives on the scene in early spring in Iran for a mere few weeks — greeted virtually by delighted clapping of hands — just like its kindred spirit and friendly rival, the other favorite Persian bounty and symbolic synonym of spring:  goje sabz.

You remember goje sabz, right?  Unripe sour green plums:  juicy, tart, crisp and crunchy. You snack on them raw, crunch munch munch crunch, sprinkled lightly with salt.  How do you eat chaghal’eh badoom you ask?  You eat it like so:

That’s right!  You eat the whole kit and caboodle.  Only the stem remains!  Chaghal’eh badoom is crunchy with a soft center, tastes somewhat like a quite tartly-delicious apple, and makes for a very refreshing and nutritious (not to mention addictive) snack that is also wonderful in a salad or as a garnish to brighten up a meal. 

I recently met someone who informed me that in Turkey it is customary to pile a plate high with spring almonds and eat them (sprinkled with salt) while drinking beer.  Which actually makes perfect sense taste and texture wise — I can imagine that the accompaniment of sat and crunch and fresh burst of tangy flavor is a very pleasant chaser for beer.  I predict that a hip NY or Brooklyn bar will get wind of this soon enough and offer these !

Goje sabz and chaghal’eh badoom are also used to make khoresh and preserves and some-such in Iranian cuisine but since they are scarcely available here, I am reluctant to cook them and prefer to enjoy them in their natural glory and savor their unique refreshing burst of taste and ultra-satisfactory crunch that needs nary an embellishment save for the sprinkling of some salt.

Who knows how the idea of eating unripe almonds and unripe plums got started but whoever got the ball rolling created a fad that has lasted for thousands of years!  Once you experience the fresh and crunchy taste of the spring almond and sour green plum for yourself I reckon you’ll jump on the bandwagon as well.

That’s it!

Happy Earth Day. Life is our gift. Earth is our home.

ps.  Coming attractions:  Halva (a type of Persian sweet that is made with rosewater and cardamom and other nice things) recipe post + how to make homemade rosewater!  Stay tuned.

A delightful reader of this blog recently requested a recipe for stuffed peppers.  I have a terrifying backlog of posts and chores and what-nots, but how could I say no?  Specially as the query coincided with a fridge busting out at the seams with a bounty of red, orange and yellow bell peppers.  Captivated by the bright toy-like colors and the practically graphic-designed architecture of the peppers, I admit that I had basically hoarded a whole bunch of them.

But look at how banamak (cute, that is) and photogenic they are, how meant to be gazed at and admired – putting the “belle” in bell pepper.  Who could resist hoarding?  Someone with more fortitude than bandeh (yours truly, that is) — that’s for sure.

In Farsi, peppers are felfel, a word I enjoy saying, and stuffed peppers are called:  dolme ‘ye felfel.  In the West, people only think of stuffed grape leaves when hearing the word dolme, but in Iranian cooking, dolme is the name of a genre of stuffed food that could be anything from stuffed leaves (like cabbage leaves or the ever-popular grape leaves) or stuffed veggies and fruits (such as eggplant, potato, white onion, tomato, apple, quince, squash or pepper.)

Dolme ‘ye bargeh kalam (stuffed cabbage leaves) and dolme ‘ye bargeh mo (stuffed grape leaves) are always made as autonomous dishes, but it is not at all unusual to combine different stuffed veggies or fruits in the same pot — a classic combo being that of eggplants alongside with peppers and tomatoes; or quinces alongside with apples — thus allowing not only for an eclectic display and variety of textures but also a fusion of flavors as the juice of one type of vegetable or fruit mixes in with that of its stuffed neighbor, thus creating a uniquely mouthwatering taste.  (This slow-cooking flavor-fusion technique is beautifully employed in another genre of Persian food called ta’s kabob which consists of intricately and intimately nestling layers of fruit and herb and vegetable and meat in a pot, and cooking it slowly, slowly, slowly; thus yielding one of the most pleasing textures and most flavorful and aromatic types of food and broth one can taste.  Making mental note to make some and post its recipe post haste.)

I chose to do a purist stuffed peppers dish – no intermingling with potatoes or tomatoes or eggplants or some such – primarily because my pretty peppers were starting to lose their looks (ah, capricious beauty!) and so I wanted to use up as many as possible before they went bad.  For me, the highlight and perhaps even the raison d’etre of this dish is the broth – which is oh so very flavorful and happily even enhances upon reheating – but of course it is tasty in its entirely, and it is a healthy, visually fun and playful food to serve.  The cumulative merit of which makes up for the fact that it’ll take at least two hours to make this dish.

I used a slightly modified version of the stuffing we earlier made for the stuffed quinces (using chopped peppers in lieu of quince pulps for the sauce.)  The stuffing can easily be revamped as a vegetarian one by simply omitting the ground beef and using a combination of 1 cup cooked rice plus 1/4 cup cooked split pea plus 1 cup coarsely ground walnuts instead. (I’ll make some type of vegetarian dolme in the near future.)

Speaking of future posts, for those of you keeping score, the promised guest post (a terrific one that I know you’ll enjoy) and the ones for homemade rosewater and halva are in the works down the pipeline and coming to a theater near you before you know it.  (Also, I have found fresh grape leaves – score! – and can’t wait to post its recipe sometime soon.)

Ingredients

• 7-8 large green, red, yellow or orange bell peppers (number depending on how many fit in your cooking pot, chop one for the sauce, stuff the rest)
• 6-12 small peppers (optional – stuff some and chop up the rest for the sauce)
• 1/2 pound ground lean meat (lamb, veal, or beef)
• 1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley
• 3 tablespoons chopped scallion – about 3 stems
• 3 tablespoons chopped fresh mint – about 3 sprigs (or substitute 1 teaspoon dried mint)
• 3 tablespoons chopped fresh tarragon – about 3 prigs  (or substitute 1 teaspoon dried tarragon)
• 1 medium-large onion (thinly sliced)
• 1/2 teaspoon turmeric
• 1 teaspoon cinnamon
• pinch of ground saffron (optional)
• 2 tablespoons or more sugar
• 1/3 cup or more freshly squeezed lemon juice (approximately 2-4 lemons)
• 2 tablespoons tomato paste (divided into two portions)
• 1 cup boiling water and 1 cup tepid water
• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• salt and freshly ground pepper
• yogurt and bread (optional – to serve with the dish)

Direction

1. Leave the stems intact but slice off the top of each pepper and save.  Remove the white membranes (with a sharp knife) and the seeds (with your fingers and by tapping the pepper upside down on a board.) Take care to not puncture the flesh of pepper but if you do, use a bit of chopped pepper to patch it up when it comes time to stuff it. Coarsely chop one of the peppers (color of choice) and set aside for later use (in step 9) in the sauce.  Blanch the remaining bell peppers in a big pot of lightly salted rapidly boiling water for at least one and up-to-but-no-longer than 3 minutes.  Remove peppers from water and turn upside down on a board to drain.  (Note: I had a dozen small peppers at hand, so I stuffed a bunch of them which came in handy to fill in the gaps between the bell peppers in the pot and chopped up the rest to add to the sauce.  To follow this optional step, omit blanching but cut off the lids and remove seeds same as with the bell peppers.)
2. Combine the freshly chopped parsley, scallion, mint and tarragon (or the dried substitutes when necessary) in a bowl and set aside for now.
3. Season ground meat with 1/4 teaspoon salt, 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper, and 1/2 teaspoon turmeric in a big bowl.  Gently knead to evenly mix.  Set aside.
4. Combine 1 cup of boiling-hot water, 1/3 cup fresh lemon juice, 2 tablespoons of sugar, a pinch of salt, and 1 tablespoon tomato paste.  Stir to mix and dissolve. (Taste and adjust to your liking, adding either more lemon juice or more sugar.)  Reserve half to later add to the browned meat (in step 6), and half to later add for the sauce (in step 9.)
5. Heat 2 tablespoons of oil on high heat until it sizzles. Add sliced onions and saute/sizzle for a good 10 minutes or longer until the onion significantly shrivels (to approximately 2 tablespoons in size) and turns translucent and ideally somewhat crispy.  During this process, keep a watchful eye and stir onions (once in awhile when necessary) to avoid burning but do not over-stir as it will cause the onions to release liquid thus thwarting the optimum results.  (This process is called making piyaz dagh in Farsi, a.k.a. “translucent/fried onion” and it is a crucial step — I can not stress what an essential step this is in Persian cookery.)
6. Once satisfied with the state of your fried onions, add the ground meat and brown (for approximately 5 minutes) on medium high heat.  Add the chopped herbs, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1 tablespoon tomato paste, and 1 cup of tepid water to the browned meat.  (Optional:  add up to 3 tablespoons of chopped up peppers if you have enough to spare.) Stir gently to mix and bring mixture to a soft boil, then lower heat, cover pan with lid, and simmer for 20 minutes or longer until almost all the liquid is absorbed, at which point add half of  the sugar/lemon sauce made in step 4 to the ground meat and stir to mix.  (Optional: You can now add a pinch of ground saffron to the mix as well.)  This is your stuffing!  (Taste and adjust with lemon and sugar and salt and even a pinch or more of tomato paste to enrich the color to your liking.)
7. Fill peppers with stuffing and top with their lids. (Tip: press down the stuffing with the back of a spoon to pack each pepper as full as possible.)
8. Layer the bottom of a roomy pot with 1 cup of tepid water, 1 tablespoon of olive oil, and the remaining chopped up peppers.  Arrange stuffed bell peppers in a neighborly fashion in the pot so that they fit nice and snug- it’s OK if they squeeze each other as long as none are crushed.  (If you made the small stuffed peppers, use them to fill up the empty spaces between the bell peppers and help secure them in place.)
9. Once satisfied with the arrangement of the stuffed peppers, bring pot to a boil on high heat, then reduce heat to medium and pour the remaining lemon juice and sugar sauce (as made earlier in step 4) over the peppers.  Cover the pot with a lid (ideally a glass one) and cook for 45 minutes (or a bit longer) on medium-high heat.  When cooking is complete, taste the sauce and adjust if necessary with lemon or sugar or salt to your liking as a final touch.

Note:  To know when to stop cooking, check the texture of peppers which should be malleable and tender but neither al dente nor too soft.  This dish actually gets more and more delicious upon reheating so err on the al dente side which can be fixed with additional cooking time and avoid overcooking which leads to the dreaded (and irreparable) mushy, falling apart and murky-colored peppers.

Serving

Serve hot! Arrange peppers in a serving dish – ladling the sauce over and around and even inside the peppers. Allow at least one bell pepper per person.  (Don’t eat the stems!)

Dolme ‘ye felfel is delicious with yogurt and bread (lavash or pita or flat bread) and can be served as a side-dish, appetizer, lunch or dinner.  This is one of those dishes that improves on the second or third re-heating and is quite delicious as a left over.

Noosh’eh jan!

I have a weakness for containers – anything from cigar boxes to Chinese medicine cabinets (swoon!) to a vintage tin box – and I’m keen, oh so keen, on glass jars. They house many of my little treasures and are wonderful for making simple, pretty tokens of affection. Just fill one up with some dainty and cute things. Like you’re making a little poem inside a glass jar.

The one pictured here was a Mother’s Day token gift with a little Brooklyn blossom and a couple of gourmet tea-flower-balls inside.

Speaking of Mother’s Day, I have to share not 1, not 2, but 3 of my favorite posts by fellow bloggers for your reading pleasure.

[Judge not this not-food-centric interloping post, as the recipe for a yummy shomali (northern-Iranian) vegetarian fare (Fig & Quince's very first guest-post written by darling Yvonne) is a bright star twinkling in the future of this ol' blog.]

This lush still life of Mirza Ghassemi (a Northern Iranian vegetarian/vegan eggplant dish) reverently flanked by grapes, cucumbers, radishes and the soft, delicious drapery of lavash bread – all under the watchful guard of a thoughtful lion -  is the fanciful handiwork of Yvonne joon!  Remember I said that the friendships struck up with some amazing people I’ve met via blogging is one of the best rewards of keeping this blog ?  Well, Yvonne, a very funny and fascinating (not kidding, she’s a very interesting person to say the least) American lady who speaks Farsi (fluently, cheerfully, with humorous and elegant nuance; well-versed in even the most obscure slangs to my never-ending surprise and delight) and who I’m tickled pink to have gotten to know and to call a friend is what I call:  Exhibit A!  Trump card!  Now, Yvonne does not blog but she was kind enough to indulge me and accept the task of writing a guest blog post along with the food styling and photography that goes with it.  I salute her beautiful work and without further ado, usher you into Yvonne joon’s engaging narrative: 

My name is Yvonne and I came to the Fig & Quince blog by accident. A happy accident. The word for a happy accident is serendipity. Serendipity comes from the story of The Three Princes of Serendip. The Three Princes of Serendip is a Persian story. Dang. This has Persian written all over it. Back to Fig & Quince. Somehow, through a friend, I clicked a link and was taken to The Land of Ahhhs. Yummy yummy Persian food recipes.  Azita and I chitted and chatted back and forth. Somehow, I ended up here. As a guest chef blogger on my very favorite food blog. OK. That was a little background 411. Perhaps, even too much 411.

But, it gets better.

I’m an American married to an Iranian. I know anyone wise enough to be here, also knows Iran is Persia and Persia is Iran. My oldest daughter’s sixth grade HISTORY teacher didn’t know that, but, I digress. I lived in Iran for three years and I am an ardent Iranophile. Beautiful country, beautiful people…kind, generous, thoughtful people. A culture rich in tradition and history. I was and am in love. My introduction to the cuisine didn’t start out on such strong footing. I should mention, I came to Iran a vegetarian, who didn’t drink tea, coffee or soda. I came during the Iran-Iraq War. There were food rations. I was told I really needed to eat as a local and be thankful for what was offered. OK. I got it. I tried. I ended up eating a lot of potatoes with mast (yogurt), rice with torshi (pickled veggies) and every delicious Persian bread available. I was stubborn. The same courtesy bites I demanded of my children, I forced on myself. Well, some bites, like sheep head (kaleh pocheh), were NEVER gonna happen, but little by little, I became a connoisseur of delicious Persian fare.

My tastes seemed to run most closely with the food of Gilan and its people. Gilan is a state in Northwest Iran. Gorgeous country. People who lead a largely plant-based diet, with rice and fish supplements. So many delicious meatless dishes from which to choose and I choose the glorious Mirza Ghasemi. Follow me on a journey of taste sensation, from a basic, simple, “Say What?” recipe, to a contented being, unencumbered by the exhaustion some dishes insist upon. A grilled eggplant, garlic, tomato and egg dish which melts in your mouth, as you scoop it in with fresh Persian bread. Oh, you can eat it with rice and using utensils, but, where’s the fun in that?

Oh. Have I mentioned I’m now vegan? It’s been almost a year. Uh huh. Ey va. (A Persian expression of exasperation or disbelief.)  So, here’s the thing. If you’re vegan, just omit the last step with the eggs, if not, do your egg thing. Either way, “Nooshee Jon et!” (Bon appetit in Farsi.) If you have leftovers, I’m available. Who are we kidding? Leftover Mirza Ghasemi? Kheili khandeedar. (Very funny.)

MIRZA GHASEMI (Simplified with Vegan Option)

• Eggplant (2) medium
• Tomatoes (2) medium chopped
• Garlic (1/2 of 1) medium garlic clove diced
• Turmeric (1/2) tbsp
• Eggs (2) medium whisked (omitted for vegan option)
• Tomato Paste (2) tsps
• Olive oil (2) tbsps
• Salt and pepper to taste

1. Bake or broil the eggplant until soft to the touch. A knife should go in and out easily or the eggplant begins to look like it will explode. Choose your option. Remove the eggplants from the oven and let them cool. Cut the tops, peel the skin off and cut into small cubes.
2. Fry garlic in turmeric and olive oil over a medium heat until nicely golden. Add eggplant and fry for another few minutes. Add chopped tomatoes and tomato paste, salt and pepper (initially, a tbsp of salt and tsp. of pepper, increasing at end, to taste.) Cook until all liquids have evaporated. While cooking and stirring, (careful to scrape bottom), whisk eggs well and add to eggplant/garlic/tomato mixture. (Unless, you’re vegan or cooking for one. Then, OMIT eggs.)  Another few minutes of stirring and cooking, tasting for needed salt or pepper additions and beeya nekakoneed. (Come look.)

This is a party in your mouth. Eat it with flatbread, herbs and salad. I like to scoop it with a good sangak. (A crazy-delicious Iranian bread. If you buy it in Iran, beware of the hot rocks on which they are baked still in the bread. No one told me how hot they were. I think it’s a game in Iran. Watch the kharajee, foreigner, dance. Still love you guys. If you buy your sangak outside of Iran, rocks are removed for your convenience.)   Heck:  pita, taftoon, lavash…any of them will gratefully do.

Feeds (2) . Well, it should. You can increase the size of the recipe by simply multiplying the ingredient amounts by guess how much? TWO. For each additional TWO people.  Uh huh. That easy. Baleh, joon’am. (Yes, my dear.)

Well, that’s my contribution. Being a food blogger is much harder than it looks! I think I shall once again step back and be the humble admirer I was destined to be. Just feed me. Persian food. Upon demand. Kheili mochakaram. (A BIG Thanx!)

_____________________________________________________________________________

The pleasure is ours Yvonne joon!  Bee nahayat lotf kardi!  Thank you for a healthy, simple and delicious recipe and a superb post!

Banafsheh, who I like to call B, is a dear family friend, trilingual attorney, witty wordsmith, and (gratefully for me) avid shutter bug.  All of the pictures in this post (unless specified otherwise) are hers that she shared with me.  (Mer30 Banafsheh joon!) This first pic is of B peering into the viewfinder of a diorama — a 19th century mobile-theatre device invented in France — imported to and popularized in Iran by Mozafar od-din Shah, the then king of Iran, who came across its prototype in Paris.

This intriguing contraption of moving images — the cutting-edge technology of its time, offering the masses peeps at never-before-seen images of exotic people and lands — came to be branded as shahr ‘e farang, which literally means “City of Europe” but is more aptly (thanks to @arefadib) translated as “The Unseen World.”  Anecdotal evidence has it that its entrepreneurial operators (who were called amoo shahreh farang) would set up shop on street corners and attract customers by sing-songing:  “shahr, shareh farangeh; hameh chish khosh ab va rangeh …” which means:  “the city is a European city, and everything there is colorful and beautiful …”  People lined up.

Here’s what that early-adopter techie king looked like – photo via Wiki:

Now, this particular shahr ‘eh farang device that B can be seen charmingly peering into in the picture (above) is housed in a shiny, relatively new (circa 2007, I believe) public space in Tehran called Borj ‘eh Milad or Milad Tower.

Here are some pix of it:

The giant hand-painted eggs were for a festival for the recent Norooz celebration

Favareh (fountains) have always been BIG in Persian public-space landscaping.

My kingdom for a real-life peek at the snow-capped peaks of the Damavand mountains

Milad Tower seems to be a rather impressive space -jayeh abroomandaneh as B calls it- thoughtfully and tastefully laid out.  Apparently, it is a multi-purpose compound — an international convention & trade center with a hotel, restaurant, IT park, etc.  — meant for both sightseeing and commerce.

And judging by the pictures, it looks like it’s situated high enough to offer a sweeping vista of Tehran.  A vista guarded under the watchful gaze of the statue of Ferdosi, beloved iconic poet, “the Homer of Iran,” the savior of the Persian language:

Ferdosi – revered poet – watching over the city. What does he see?

“Little Boxes on the hillside … And they all look just the same”

Pop Quiz: Locate the statue of Ferdosi in this shot.

This place didn’t exist when I lived in Iran.  Here I am, with the aid of a modern-day shahr ‘e farang, raptly peering at images of a distant homeland – at sights entirely new to me.

Looking at these pictures, I feel … I feel like Rip Van Winkle.  And can I tell you something?  … I’m homesick.  HOMESICK.  Is it alright for me to say that?

[If I was originally from almost any other country, I would not worry about being judged for this sentiment, and I would not ponder -as I have, at some length- about whether it is OK to express -expressly!- that I miss my home country.  (I do.  Deeply, profoundly.)  But "Iran" is such a loaded word - with so many connotations, stereotypes, prejudices and mistrust.  Some fair.  Some unfair or uninformed.  I almost always feel perched on or walking a tightrope up high, when talking about or hearing about Iran.  This is not a carefree identity, but it is one that I care for fiercely.  With uncompromising, legitimate pride.  No fear or need of anyone's permission for that.  But that's not the end of the story, because I'm a hyphenated person.  The hyphen is the clasp knotting a necklace strung with seemingly incongruous beads -  joining Iranian to American.  Rumi to Walt Whitman.  Not so incongruous, after all.  The hyphen is a talisman.  But a hyphenated identity is a mercurial one, its strength is its fluidity, fusion, and expansive comprehension; its flaw, the fact that it is learned not innate, and in the eyes of many, on either side of the hyphen, suspect. Maybe that's why I'm a fan of Phillip Dick's Blade Runner.  I relate to the plight of the androids. But then again, I remember that there's this globe, somehow balanced in the sky, in space, graced by the infinite mystery and majesty of the universe, and we're all on it, and we're all ... just the same.]

On a less wordy more fun note, let’s end the tour of the tower with a tower of ice cream. I mean … WHOA!

Until next, off I go to dream of electric sheep.

ps. With all the talk of shahr’e farang, I’ll have to link to the fabulous Shahre Farang website.   Go take a peek!

Persian halva, sometimes translated as “saffron cake” (don’t ask me why, it makes no sense) not to be confused with halva ardeh (more on that below) refers to a sweet, aromatic, pasty type of concoction – is made with browned flour and a syrup mixture of sugar, rosewater, cardamom and saffron.  (Lentil halva is an uncommon type of halva – belonging to a genre of lost/forgotten dishes. I found its recipe in my very favorite Persian cookbook, written by a wonderful gentleman, Najaf Daryabandari.)

Halva is sweet but not considered a dessert in that it has doleful associations and is intricately tied-in with bereavement.  When someone dies, close friends and relatives make and distribute halva to the needy in the name of, and for the sake of the soul of the deceased – a gesture practiced by the religious and secular alike.  (This idea of paying personal, emotional, respect may explain why halva, unlike most other Persian sweets, is almost always made at home and not purchased.)  Halva is also foremost amongst the food customarily served at wakes and memorials.  Which makes sense when you think about it:  halva is a comfort food and thus a solace; and it smells good and tastes sweet, which can momentarily brighten a bleak occasion by delighting the senses; but it is also a mild food in flavor and sedate in demeanor – nothing too flashy or jovial about it despite the pistachio sprinkles – perfectly suited to the tone of a somber occasion such as a funeral.

When I was a kid I cared less than little for halva, no doubt in part due to its melancholy not-fun associations, and preferred the more vivacious sholeh zard, but I have new-found regard for this simple dish, that if partaken in a few spoonfuls, is a wonderful amuse bouche, satisfying the sweet tooth; and if accompanied with flatbread, as it is possible to do, makes for delicious bites and a fulfilling meal.  I’m fond of the texture of halva as well, which ideally should be soft but not gooey, sticky but not chewy, a melt-in-your-mouth pasty consistency reminiscent of the type filling found inside some Japanese pastries or Chinese red bean buns.  (If one is successful when making the halva that is, ahem, cough, cough.)

Now there’s another (entirely distinctive) type of sweet that we call halva ardeh in Iran but which is widely known as halva everywhere else: a block-shaped confection with a dense dry texture that crumbles when you cut into it; popular in Turkey, Greece, all across the Middle-East, Eastern Europe and a whole bunch of other countries besides.  Iranians don’t treat halva ardeh as a dessert either and have it for an occasional breakfast treat or an afternoon snack – usually with some bread.

How did halva ardeh come to be – you might wonder?  Remember how the entire genre of Persian borani came to be thanks to Queen Porandokht and her finicky tastes?  Well, it turns out that halva ardeh is another example of a type of food that owes its origin to the demands of Persian royalty, the royalty in question this time being the 17th century Safavid Dynasty ruler of Iran, Shah Abbas Bozorgh (the Great.)

It is said that Shah Abbas tasked one of his trusted advisors (Sheikh Bahayee: a philosopher, mathematician, astronomer, and poet) to concoct a compact, nutritious and portable food for his army.  After due diligence, Sheikh Bahayee came up with the original halva ardeh recipe: ground sesame (rich in protein and iron) mixed with grape syrup – end result being a durable, palatable, highly-caloric food that traveled well.  (Speaking of the grape syrup part of the recipe, a Persian proverb, preaching perseverance, goes like this: “With patience, we can make halva with unripe grapes.”  Indeed.  Indeed.)   So!  It turns out halva ardeh is an early iteration of … SPAM?   That’s kind of … amusing!

I can’t pass up this opportunity to chat just a tiny bit about Shah Abbas the Great – one of the more significant rulers of Iran.  On the glittering bright side, his reign was a true golden age for Persian arts and humanities — calligraphy, miniature painting, mural making, carpet weaving and design, illuminated arts, book binding, and architecture all flourished under his rule – a brilliant and enduring legacy, which includes the poetically beautiful city of Isfahan.  On the downright horrific side, he killed one son and blinded the other two due to ill-proven suspicions of their usurping his throne, terrible acts which apparently threw him into a depressive funk.  Which, no kidding … dear God!  And on the facial-hair-side, which may just become a de-facto theme of this blog (to wit: see that other fabulously-mustachioed king) Shah Abbas shaved off his beard at the age of 19, keeping only his mustache, thus setting a fashion trend in Iran in his time.

Recipe for lentil halva (oh yeah, that’s what we were talking about!) immediately following, but please indulge me with a final detour – a brief reverie induced by studying this beautiful, richly detailed (Wiki-sourced) wall mural from the Chehel Sotoon Gassr (40 Pillar Palace) in Isfahan – depicting a festive scene of Shah Abbas receiving visiting dignitaries (a defeated rival Uzbek leader and his people) at his court, offering what seems to be a plate of food to his guest of honor:

Note the 3 separate cloth-spreads of food (or what we call sofreh in Persian, used to set/serve food before the Western dining protocol became commonplace) set in front of the seated guests.  Also note all the hipster mustaches (but no beard for the Persian guests – per the fashion trend of the day set by the king!  The Uzbek guests have not received the memo and still sport beards.)  The fruit served seems to be a mixture of apples, pears and plums and … maybe pomegranates?  The woman at the bottom right is pouring a beverage for a guest – I wonder, what kind of beverage?  This was 17th century Iran, well after the conquest of the Persian empire by Arabs and the advent of Islam, but m’ey (a poetic and generic term for “intoxicating drink,” i.e booze) is all over Omar Khayams’s poetry and … let’s just say I would not be shocked if the woman is a saghi offering a libation that is more potent than juice.  To have been a fly on the wall!  Someone invent a time machine already!

[Edited last minute to add that a rare Persian carpet from the Safavid dynasty period (the Shah Abbas era)  just sold for a record-breaking $33.7 million at Sotheby's auction house in New York!]

• 1 cup lentil
• 1/4 cup rosewater
• 4-5 cardamom pods (gently crushed so that the pods are slightly open)
• 1 cup (or a little less) sugar
• pinch of ground saffron
• 1/2 cup olive oil
• 1/2 cup hot water
• 1 tablespoon ground pistachio for garnish (optional)
• 1 tablespoon slivered almonds for garnish (optional)

1. Make a rosewater+cardamom+sugar+saffron syrup like so:  a) gently crush (but do not ground) cardamom pods till the pods open; b)  bring cardamom pods and seeds and 1/2 cup of water to a soft boil and continue to boil over low heat until water is reduced in half; c)  filter cardamom water through a paper coffee filter or using a fine sieve and discard the pods and seed and allow it to cool; d) add 1/4 cup rosewater to the cardamom water; e) to this add sugar, saffron, and 1/2 cup of boiling-hot water, stir to mix until dissolved.   Set syrup aside for now.  (You can do this step while the lentil is cooking.)
2. Cook lentil and water (enough water to cover it about an inch or so) to a rapid boil; reduce heat to low and cook slowly until water completely evaporates.  (Approximately 30-45 minutes, perhaps a bit longer.)  Drain well.
3. With the aid of a tenderizer (or the back of a wooden spoon, etc.) squish lentils and create as mushy and smooth a texture as possible.
4. Heat 1/2 cup of olive oil in a wide pan over medium heat.  Once you hear the oil sizzling, pour in the mushed lentils and saute for 15-20 minutes or until the lentil puree subtly darkens in color.
5. Gradually pour in the rosewater+cardamom+sugar+saffron syrup (as prepared in step 1) and stir to mix.  Continue to cook on low heat, stirring frequently, until all the liquid is absorbed and ideally a thin layer of oil forms over the paste.  (This could take as long as up to an hour, give or take!)
6. Transfer halva to a serving dish and smoothly spread it evenly (using your fingers or a kitchen tool) across the surface.  If you wish, you can indent decorative ridges on the surface with the aid of a cookie cutter or another tool.  It is optional, yet traditional, to garnish with whimsical patterns of ground pistachio and slivered almonds.

Slice wedges to serve, or just dole some out with a serving spoon.  Savor as it melts in your mouth. A spoonful or two of lentil halva makes for a little sweet pick-me-up-whenever snack, as well as a nice treat that goes quite nicely with afternoon tea. You can also eat halva with flat bread and make a meal of it. Super yum.    

Halva can be served hot or cold.  (Freshly made and hot off the stove is the best and tastiest of course)

That’s it folks.  Nooseh jan!

There is an amusing rice-centric Persian proverb, the story of which goes like this:

A newlywed bride, a novice cook, wanted to make polo (fluffy steamed rice) but did not know how so she reluctantly turned to her mother-in-law (MIL) for help. “First you wash the rice,” the MIL instructed.  The bride nodded and said:  “Yes, I knew that part already.”  “Then you soak the rice in lightly-salted water for a couple of hours.” the MIL continued.  “Um-hum, I already knew that too,” said the bride.  “Then you cook the rice in boiling water until the grains get tender.” To which the bride replied:  “Yes, I knew that part as well.”  And so on, and so forth!  Whatever instructions the MIL gave, the bride, who was loathe to reveal her inexperience, replied:  “Oh yeah, I knew that already.”  Vexed, the MIL decides to teach the bride a lesson and says: “And lastly, put an adobe brick on top of the rice, cover, and cook for an hour.” And the bride says: “Yes, of course, I knew that part already as well,” and goes off and prepares the polo as instructed and makes a disappointed fool of herself when the disintegrated brick ruins the rice!

The story is reduced to a punchline of “yeh khisheh ham roosh bezar” or “put a brick on top” — used when someone is faking it till making it.

So here’s the first lesson when it comes to making an awesome Persian fluffy rice: Do NOT put a brick in the pot!  There!  You’re already one huge step ahead.

ARRANGING POTATO-TADIG AROUND THE POLO SEFID (WHITE RICE.) [Note the sabzi khordan (plate of fresh herbs) that is always served with every meal!]

So what exactly constitutes a fit-to-be-served-in-company polo?  The standards are exacting and precise:  the perfect polo is fluffy and pillowy and billowy and it is doon doon (each grain is separate from the other, none sticking, heavens forbid, to each other) and the grains are rosht kardeh (each grain fully grown & lengthened in the process of cooking) and textured so that it is neither overcooked nor even the slightest-bit crunchy, perfectly seasoned and fragrant with saffron of course, AND, with the perfect golden crispy crust of tadig.  Verily, it is a skill one can rightfully boast of once one masters the technique.

(I recently found out that making a truly good sushi rice is a protocoled process – no breezy matter – the degree of success of which distinguishes a true master sushi chef from one who’s merely run-of-the-mill.  Speaking of sushi chefs, you really *should/must/have* to do yourself the immense favor of watching Jiro Dreams of Sushi – it’s on Netflix too – one of the best films ever! If I remember correctly, Chef Jiro makes his apprentices practice for years before they’re entrusted with the momentus task of making the sushi rice.  And here I thought Persian rice was a mountain to climb!)

For those unfamiliar with making Persian-style rice, don’t let me scare you off, because while technique-driven, the steps entailed (once learned and practiced a few times) allow for facile adoption in a second-nature, no big-whoop way.  My mom can throw together a rice dish – that is so pretty and delicious it will make you weep tears of gratitude – with perfect nonchalance, and in an almost time-defying Matrix type of way … so to speak.  I, on the other hand, … let’s say I am still working on being cool and carefree when making polo.  But hey, practice makes perfect, and this is one of those things that’s fun to practice, right?

Self-Service Tadig

My proposed plan-of-attack in helping you master the method of making the perfect Persian polo and kateh and tadig is to cover the actual nitty-gritty techniques of it all in exquisite detail in a couple of future posts.  But for now, first steps first, let’s take a quick explanatory spin for those of you not familiar with Persian cuisine.

POLO

Polo is steamed Persian rice  – fluffy and fragrant – made with the best quality rice one can find, following a multi-step process that includes:  washing, soaking, boiling, draining, followed by steam-cooking — each step with its own traditional rules of engagement.  (By the way, polo is pronounced thus: “po” as if you’re saying Edgar Allen Poe + “lo” as if you’re singing: “Her Name Was Lola.” ♫ At the Copa, Copacabana … ♫ … Such a catchy tune!)  Ok back to our regular programming.

Polo is either:

• Polo Makhloot = mixed rice.  This type of rice could be anything from shirin polo — which is the poor man’s javaher polo (jeweled rice – served at weddings and for Norooz) to, oh, rice mixed with lentils, berberries, cherry, sour cherry, fava beans, green bean polo or … a whole bunch of other things.
• Polo Sefid = plain white rice. (Except that there’s nothing plain about it, as it is customarily fragrant with saffron and a delight.)  Plain polo is usually meant to be served with khoresh – the combo of the two generically termed:  polo va khoresh – constituting what may as well be the national dish – and probably the most delectable genre of Persian food.

Here’s a visual-aid infograph to make sense of the whole thing,  because as they say yek picture is worth yek hezar words:

2.  Kateh (sometimes called polo kateh)

Polo is what you make for guests, for special occassions, for a good dinner at home when time permits.  If pressed for time, or just not in the mood, it’s Ok to make a version of Persian rice called kateh that is much less fussy – dispensing with the whole parboiling and draining and steaming rigamorale.  Kateh is basically a humble, hurried poor cousin of polo.  It’s not as “fancy” but you still end up with rice that is not sticky and also has that indispensable golden tadig crust.

Ideally, kateh should end up as a crusty-edged rice pie that easily pops out of the pot.  To give you an idea of what I’m going on about, this is what it could look like:

3.  Tadig

Ah, tadig.  Glorious, glorious tadig.

What is it?  Well, dig is pot and tah (shortened to “ta” in daily informal speech) means bottom — so tadig literally means “bottom-of-the-pot.”  But as the unique invention and pride of Persian cuisine its place is top notch.  Iranians LOVE their tadig.  And honestly, so do most people once they get a chance to give it a try.  It’s pretty awesome.

And now for your viewing pleasure, some specimens of the magnificent and coveted crispy crunchy crust at-the-bottom-of-the-pot that is served with the rice and swiftly disappears:

And let’s leave it at that for now.  Future posts will cover the following grounds:

• How to Make Persian Steamed Rice
• How to Make Kateh
• How to Make The Perfect Tadig
• How to Hack a Plain Persian Rice into an Elaborate Festive Mixed-Rice Dish (in, like, a jiffy!)

All to be posted in due time.  Hope to see you then!

A BLURRY SHOT OF DELICIOUS LOOBIYA POLO (GREEN BEANS RICE)

Baba is Persian for “dad.”  You could also say pedar which means father – but it’s more formal and not often used in everyday intimate parlance.  When we first moved to the U.S., I got embarrassed to call my father “baba” when out-and-about in public (another story, another day!) and took to calling him pedar instead and it became a habit that seeped into my ordinary private address of him as well, but it always felt prickly on my tongue – so I finally got over it and went back to baba right-fast.  Because when one’s an irooni, one’s father is baba or baba joon — simple as that.

As for Baba Bee, that’s a nickname we made up for the word baba bozorgh (big baba!) which means grandfather in Persian.

Baba is a man of moderation when it comes to food – I’ve never seen him over indulge, not even once, no matter how small or great the temptation, BUT, he must must must have 3 meals a day whatever-may-come-rain-hail-or-shine — the idea of skipping a meal tantamount to sacrilege and cause to be crestfallen; and by golly, he wants, nay, needs his torshi and sabzi and salad at every supper.  The existence of these culinary accoutrements at the dinner table possibly a testament to an order of a type that as a disciplined, organized person he finds reassuring?  One can only conjuncture – but there’s also the simple matter that they do enhance the pleasure of every meal! So there’s that.

Baba knows how to cook -  a secret talent revealed to us the first time Maman was away on a long trip back to Iran – he cooks while often raising an eyebrow in quizzical concentration as if trying to remember something essential, but still, he cooks well.  And possibly because it is a rare occurrence, I am always charmed by his cookery.  In general though, Maman did all the cooking, although when it came to making fereni and shir berenj, she defered to Baba, saying “that’s really your father’s specialty.”  Speaking earlier of torshi (Persian pickles & tangy preserves) that’s something Baba likes to make, sometimes by himself, sometimes Maman and Baba together.

One fun food-type thing Maman Baba do every summer is that they trek to a sour cherry orchard (bagheh albaloo!), often times with a few friends, and return home with buckets and buckets of bright red juicy tangy albaloo, and together — like good busy bees, in perfect harmony — they make fast work of prepping the bucket-loads of sour cherries:

De-seeding a whole bunch to store and freeze in ziplog bags ready to be turned into yummy sour-cherry rice in the future; making sharbat albaloo (sour cherry syrup- the base for making a super popular Persian summertime beverage) and moraba albaloo (sour cherry jam – my mom’s quickie version of it) with another whole bunch of sour cherries;  and gobbling up the rest of the albaloo – fresh, sprinkled with just a hint of salt.  I hope to accompany them this year and document the process properly. Inshallah!  Until then, I do have some wonderfully-blurry (pre Pinterest/ Instagram/ blogging days) of this albaloo-processing escapade to share:  

Baba has so far given me two recipes (with super-cute names) for this blog — specific to the Kermanshah region of Iran whence he hails from.  They are among my very favorite recipes- making for simple, fun, bright, delicious food that I had not tasted prior to his introduction.  In honor of Father’s Day, I asked him for other recipe ideas and he did not disappoint – suggesting a couple of interesting dishes.  Alas, I have to defer those to another day, another time, as I kind of have to wrap-up this post today.  So, instead, I’ll just re-share the two Baba-given veggie/vegan Kermanshahi recipes – and encourage you to try them, as they are easy and GOOD:

Yatimcheh (Little Orphan Eggplant)

Maloos Zardaloo (Charming Apricot)

In conclusion:

Wishing you all a very Happy Fathers Day!

Hip hip hooray for all the wonderful fathers – those we are fortunate to have around and those who are alive in hearts.

Here’s what happened:  While finishing up the “How to Make Persian Rice” post, I realized it was getting so wordy-McWordy, so busting-at-the-seams image heavy, so assaultingly verbose, that it was plain hurting my wee eyes and taxing my poor little brain, plus all that scrolling down, scrolling down, scrolling … OY!  I couldn’t take it anymore, and I thought it might prove a mighty vexation to you as well.  So, I’m breaking up the post into a few segments – which allows the breathing room to elaborate certain points without worrying about trying your patience.

Here are some things to cover before we tackle the holy-grail of Persian rice making; in random no-rhyme-or-reason-order:

RICE: QUALITY MATTERS

Did you know there are 40,000 varieties of rice in the world? Or that the custom of throwing rice at weddings came about because rice is directly associated with prosperity and fertility?  I did not know any of that, but I do know that you should use the very best long-grained rice if you want to end up with a fluffy pillow of polo and not a hot sticky mess.

You may be tempted to ignore my sage advice and use the generic rice found in supermarkets or languishing in your pantry, and I’m cautioning you:  Do Not!  It’ll be like wearing shoes a size too small to go dancing – you may think you’ll get away with it but at the end it’ll hurt like hell and you’ll kick yourself for doing it.  Why set yourself up for blistering failure, when you can dance, dance, dance!

So what specific kind of rice to use?  In Iran, there are multiple grades and varieties of long-grain rice available, ranging from daily domestic use to the very best fragrant kind reserved for special occasions, none of which (to my knowledge) are available outside of the country.  Iranians in diaspora have generally anointed long-grain Basmati as the rice grain of choice – thanks to its length, shape, white color, and fragrance.  You should be able to find some in the better international markets and also online.  (For those of you in the know, I’d be most grateful if you can suggest other types of rice that you have found suitable for making Persian rice.)  

Like this for example

A TOOL CALLED KAF’GIR

Kaf’gir literally means “foam-catcher” and it is a type of spatula (usually metal) with small round holes that is the traditional tool used when making Persian rice:  to loosen grains and skim the foam when boiling the rice; to dole out the rice from colander to pot; to serve the rice when it is cooked; to help extradite the tadig from the pot;  and as you will see for yourself in a future post, even its handle has a particular use! (“Kafgir” and “polo” are nouns intricately linked … the very name of “kafgir” evoking, for those of Irooni persuasion, a kitchen imbued with the fragrant steam of rice cooking on the stove top.)

Now it’d be nice if you have a kafgir but it’s not the end of the world if you do not, so long as you have a similar-enough tool to stir the grains and skim the foam.

Kaf’gir in action – used to loosen grains and skim foam

AB’EH ZA’FARAN = SAFFRON WATER

Iranians love their za’faran (saffron) and use it for all sorts of things from savory dishes to drinks to desserts.  Saffron strands are usually stored in airtight containers and ground just prior to use, but it’s not uncommon and won’t raise any eyebrows to also have a small bottle of ground saffron at hand.

Most recipes calling for saffron actually require ab’eh za’faran (saffron water) – which is obtained by dissolving a pinch or two of ground saffron in 2-4 tablespoons of hot water.   (I suspect the prevalence of this technique is partially derive by a desire to economize the use of saffron while availing oneself of all the goodness of color, flavor and aroma that it has to offer.)

When making polo, you will need both saffron water and a pinch(+) of ground saffron.

GOSH GOLLY GHEE!

In my grandmothers’ time, people could avail themselves of a type of cooking lard called “rooghan kermanshahi” — nicely fragrant and considered to be of superior quality.  It came in a big tin – and portions would be doled out, heated, sifted, and the clarified liquid then saved for cooking.  The custom fell to wayside once ready-to-use cooking oil became widespread and the choice of populace.  But according to my mom, who remembers what food cooked with rooghan Kermanshahi tasted like, it made for food with a superior quality of flavor by far.

It is possible to somewhat replicate that flavor by making ghee – an integral part of Indian cuisine – or as Radhika calls it:  “Sunshine in a Bottle!”  (What a great and apt title!)  Ghee mixed in with a bit of oil would make for a decadent touch when making polo – particularly when it comes to making a succulent tadig.  If you’d like to give it a try for yourself, do check out Radhika’s clear and concise step-by-step pictorial tutorial.

BUNDLED UP!

At the last step of Persian-style rice-making, the pot is covered with the lid, the lid itself wrapped up in a kitchen towel.  And no, the lid is not covering up for modesty purposes.  Don’t be funny.  The purpose of this technique (an iconic symbol of down-home Persian rice-making) is to trap the steam in the pot and absorb the condensation that otherwise would trickle in and turn the rice sad and soggy instead of perfect, perky and fluffy.  That’s the logic of it, and here’s how it is done:

1. Spread a clean kitchen towel on a clean surface, place the lid in the middle.
2. Pull one corner of the towel under the lid and then tuck it up.
3. Pull the corner diagonally across under the lid and tuck that up as well.
4. Knot these two corners securely.
5. Do the same with the remaining corners:  pull under the lid, tuck up, and knot corners together securely.

Bundling up the lid when steam cooking the rice is one of the factors ensuring success, so do not skip it for the sake of lazy convenience.  But please put in the minute or two it takes to securely bundle the lid, otherwise this technique could prove a fire hazard which is no joke.  You could always use a rubber band to further secure the knot on top as an additional security measure, but so long as you make proper knots, there’s no reason to worry as the practice has proven safe throughout thousands of years of use.

Next Stop:  Washing Rice!  (Yes – there’s enough to be said on the topic to warrant an entire independent post.)

Until then, have a rice … I mean nice day.