Snowfalls and Pomegranate Soup
We had a snowstorm last Monday. The snow began to tentatively fall during the early afternoon. Very soon it increased. The skies turned white, and the snow rushed down onto the ground. Eventually, one could only see outlines of the trees and the homes across the way as if through curtains made out of thick white gauze of snow. The world fell silent. People rushed to shelter into the haven of their homes. I stood alone at the window of one of the rooms upstairs, gazing out. I imagined I could hear the snow fall, but of course, I could not, for the snow falls silently, peacefully. I stood at that window for a long while, starting at the outside world. The only sound in the house was that of the radio playing classical music in the bedroom. I turned away from the window and went into the next room. I switched on the television. Nothing interesting was on. Since the start of the pandemic, it seemed there were no interesting programs to watch. It seemed as if they repeated everything. I switched it off. I continued to wander from room to room, like a lost soul. Finally I made my way to bed. Silence enveloped my world. Listening to that absolute stillness, I fell asleep.
The next morning the snow was so high that I was unable to open either the back or front door. It did not worry me. I had arranged for the snow to be cleared. I had nowhere to go. I remembered other snowfalls of winters past. In those days, I busied myself by either making orange marmalade or a hearty soup.
Since I had neither oranges nor sugar at the moment, I settled for soup. My mind wandered back to Tehran to when my children were tiny tots. Winter afternoons, my mother would sometimes come over. Just before dusk, the children would be bathed and dressed in their furry warm little all-in-ones. Mama sat at one end of the kitchen table, and I sat at the other. One side of the table was pushed against the wall by the window. Brown and white checkered curtains hung there over them. The children sat between us. The kitchen smelled of whatever soup was cooking that day and the aroma of the tea which was infused with cardamom. The teapot perched on top of a kettle of simmering water over a low fire. The kettle gently hummed as it brewed the tea. I have the pleasant memory of the sound of the happily giggling tots, the homey warmth feel of the kitchen, and Naneh going back and forth from the stove, handing us the bowls of soup and the freshly baked ‘taftoon’ bread that the baker’s apprentice had earlier delivered that afternoon. She placed one bowl in front of my mother and the other in front of me. Then she put the basket of bread in the middle of the table. Naneh chattered in her heavy broad village dialect, urging the tots to eat. She sang a little Persian nursery song to them, her way encouraging them to drink their soup as my mother and I patiently spooned it into their mouths. I envied other mothers. It seemed to me that their children were such good eaters. Alas, mine were not. They dawdled, they turned their heads this way and that and took such a long time eating. Why were my children such fussy eaters, I wondered? I turned my eyes towards the night sky. The sky had darkened, and the street lamps came on. In their light, I could see the snowflakes gently dancing their way to the ground, where they piled one on top of each other. It was promising to become a heavy snowfall.
“Mama, the snow is beginning to come down more steadily. Don’t you think, perhaps you should go home before it gets heavy?” I asked.
She peered out into the snowy night and said, “Soon.” She paused, then she continued, “Naneh, could you please pour us some tea.” As she spooned more soup into my daughter’s mouth.
Naneh arranged a plate of homemade pastries and set them on the table. She then brought the tea. We finished feeding the children and turned our attention to our tea. Naneh took the children to wash up. We chatted for a while, all the time keeping a close eye on the weather. Naneh came back with the children. Their hands and faces were scrubbed clean, their bellies were full, and their eyes were at half mast. It was time to put them to bed. My mother and I each picked up a child and nuzzled them close. We kissed them tenderly as we gently tucked them into their cots. To this day, I still delight in the way tots smell of baby powder and baby shampoo. I love the softness and innocence of them. I used to wish they would stay young like that forever, but that, of course, is wishful thinking. Time does not stand still for anyone, not even for a second.
That was a lifetime ago. This morning, I peered out of another window, in another country, and it seems another lifetime. I have a yearning for some soup; pomegranate soup, to be exact, a soup specially made for the cold of winter days like these. In these modern times, it is much easier to make. I use hydrated dried herbs that I have at the ready in my pantry, instead of preparing fresh chopped ones. I have the prepared bottled pomegranate syrup as well. As I began to gather my ingredients, I heard the roaring hum of the snow blower outside. In my mind, I compared it to the past. In those days, men with wooden shovels cleaned our sidewalks, our terraces, and flat roofs. One could hear them loudly conversing above the sounds of their shovels, as they scraped the snow away. As I began preparing the dish, I thought I would make just enough for myself. I quickly changed my mind. I made enough for all of us. I knew Kelly loved it. I was hoping Teal did as well. Andrea may or may not. Perhaps she will. After all, who could resist the tart and sweet taste of the pomegranate syrup combined with the melange of herbs in there. As I prepared the soup, the heady aroma wafted throughout the house. It whetted my appetite. I glanced out the window at the gently falling snow. Yes, it was definitely a soup day, just like that day, so many years ago, when my mother and I sat at the kitchen table on a snowy afternoon spooning soup into my toddlers’ mouths.