No Greek Islands for You!
After boarding school, I wanted to
go to Paris to become a dress designer. My parents did not believe in a young lady being left alone in a city such as Paris without any supervision. Become a dress designer? Unheard of! I was given an option. Go back to boarding school or come home. I opted to go home, but my preference was Paris. It was not a choice I was given. I was shipped back home. My parents expressed their displeasure by forbidding me from going to the Greek Islands with Mama and my siblings.
By this time I had turned into a young lady.
I was no longer a young girl, at least in my humble opinion. I was ready for whatever the world offered me, and I was definite it would be grand. When I arrived in Tehran, I was met by a practically empty house. Aziz, our housekeeper of the past few years, decided to make herself scarce. Mama and my sisters and brother were at the Greek Islands having the time of their lives. Except for someone who came two three times a week to clean the house, there was no one to cook or see about the everyday running of the house.
Enters the starry-eyed Stella, fresh out of boarding school; trained in being a lady, curtsying to the Queen and ballroom dancing. All very practical things in this life! I was sure that I could conquer any obstacle placed before me. Nothing would daunt me. I was going to run the house with my very capable young hands! I chose a day where there was no help whatsoever in the house.
Chicken! I would cook chicken for Papa and my midday meal. I called the poultry store and ordered a chicken. I told the man I would come pick the chicken in half an hour. I brought the freshly slaughtered chicken home. I removed it from the bag. Imagine my consternation when I found myself looking at the glazed, accusing dead eyes of a naked chicken with its feet attached to it! I turned green. I quickly pushed the fowl back into the bag and carried it back to the poultry shop. In my most adult semblance, I explained that I did not want the head and feet. Could he please remove them? With a sardonic smile, he removed them and handed the bag with the chicken back to me. I nodded my head in thanks and walked out.
Once I got home, I once more removed the chicken out of the bag and carried it to the sink to rinse. Aha! What’s this? The cavity was not open! I did not dare go back to the poultry store again. The poultry man would howl with laughter at me, and I would lose all the dignity left to me.
I valiantly attempted to open the cavity. If I had felt green before, I felt even more so now. All kinds of unfamiliar things greeted me. Steeling myself, I put my hand inside and pulled and pulled. I felt bile rising up into my mouth. I ignored it. Finally, I was ready to cook. Alas, the kitchen was in a sorry state. Intestines and all kinds of chicken body fluids were splattered every which way. There was a foul smell in the air. In Iran, there are drains in the middle of the kitchen floors to make washing the floors easier. I poured detergent on the floor and poured buckets and buckets of water. I swished the soapy water back and forth with the broom, then I pulled the drain open. I poured more water, anticipating the draining of the soapy water. The only thing that happened was the water started running out of the foyer and into the hallway leading to the rest of the house. I started to panic! I poked a stick into the drain. Nothing happened. By now, it must have been about one o’clock. My father was expected at any moment. He appeared as soon as I thought the thought.
“What is going on?” He asked somewhat crossly as he walked into the kitchen. His shoes were wet, as was the hem of his impeccable hand-tailored suit.
I explained. Without another word, Papa removed his suit jacket, rolled up his trousers, took off his shoes and socks, and started doling out the water. It was back-breaking, arduous work and took a long time to complete. We were both exhausted when it was done. I looked about me, and my eyes came to rest upon the dead chicken lying on the counter.
“Papa, shall I cook the chicken now?” I asked.
He looked at me with a look of disgust upon his face. “No, thank you,” he said as he went to take his shower, change his clothing, and go back to the office.
After that incident, I was quite happy to leave the running of the house to the hired help. It was time for me to experience the life of a carefree young woman. It was time to go to dance parties, nightclubs, and have fun! Housekeeping could wait! This is an excerpt from a memoir I had written about thirty years ago.