Winter Memories in Tehran
Life was quite simple in Tehran when I was a little girl. When I think back to those times and compare them to the present, I appreciate our lives then.
Fridays in the Middle East are the Sundays of the West. We would wake up a bit late and gather around the dining table. The charcoal-fueled samovar would be gurgling cheerfully at the head of the table. The potbellied stove would emanate its heat throughout the room. Through the large glistening windows, the winter sun would cast its rays on us as if in blessing, unless it was snowing. We would still be in our night clothes and dressing gowns. My dressing gown was of a rust-colored itchy wool. I still squirm mentally at the thought of having worn it. What made it tolerable was the warm soft long-sleeved flannel nighties I wore underneath. I was prone to colds, earaches, and high temperatures. That was Mama’s solution to the problem. Wool scratching my skin most horribly did not seem to present a problem to her. Suffice it to say that we were all still not dressed for the day.
Mama sat at one side of the samovar, and Papa flanked it from the other side. This way they made sure their children would not get into harm’s way. Mama served Papa his tea and then poured a dash of tea into our glasses of warm milk. It was our special Friday treat. She put two teaspoons of sugar and stirred it. We felt so grown up because of that! On the table, there was fresh warm bread delivered that morning. There were various homemade jams and cheeses, soft-boiled eggs for us and Mama. Papa preferred three fried eggs. The edges of his egg whites had to be crispy brown, and the yolks had to have a thin white sheen to them, but runny when he poked a piece of bread into it. There was keymagh bought from the Armenian dairy shop. There were freshly squeezed tall glasses of orange juice.
It was a leisurely breakfast. As was his habit, Papa would ask us questions whose topics varied from history to music to public figures or politics. There was no subject he did not cover. We eagerly absorbed it all into our inquisitive and eager minds.
After breakfast, we would sometimes take a drive up to Tajrish, if it was a pleasant day. Tajrish was a gathering place for many of our society. It was at the foot of the mountains. Everyone dressed up elegantly and sauntered about greeting friends. It was quite pleasant. Mama dressed her three daughters in beautiful English coats with hats to match; perhaps we would each have little muffs to keep our hands warm, if it was cold enough. I remember my muff had two tiny baby dolls dangling from them. We looked like three elegant models from a children’s catalog. People always commented on our appearance, which made Mama oh so proud.
My sisters and I looked forward to going to the ice cream shop. Since it was winter, instead of ice cream, they sold whipped cream flavored either vanilla, cocoa, or coffee. Nora, Gilda, and I would patiently wait our turn, our mouths drooling. My brother Jacky was not yet born. Once we received our cream-filled cones, we would delicately stick out our tongues and take surreptitious licks, trying to make them last as long as possible.
For lunch, we sometimes would go to Leon’s. Leon’s was a very old and old-worldly restaurant. Conversations seemed to always be in hushed voices. Our preferred waiter was an old courtly gentleman by the name of Davar. Even after I grew up, got married, and had my baby son, Davar was still there. He would greet us with a slight bow and a warm smile as we entered. By the time I married, he was quite old. At that point in time, he did not wear his highly glossed shiny shoes with his tuxedo uniform. He wore comfortable leather bedroom slippers. He shuffled slightly as he greeted us. He stooped with age, but nothing could change his warm welcoming smile. But when we were young girls, he would lift us up on the high cushioned seats, bend down, and tie big white starched linen napkins around our necks. The meal would start with a hot soup and end with a delicious Russian pomegranate gelée topped with a dollop of cream.
If we did not eat out, Maryam would have prepared the Friday national dish, chelo kebab. This consisted of chunks of barbecued meat and ground meat kebabs. This was accompanied by white rice, barbecued onions, and tomatoes. Between the rice would be layers of butter that melted into it. A dash of sumac would be sprinkled on top. Over the rice, a raw egg yolk would be nestled. The kebabs and the barbecued would be enfolded in sangak bread to keep them warm on a serving dish. It is one of my many favorite dishes. We ate that dish with such relish. We mixed the rice, butter, and yolks together, adding the tomatoes and onions. The meats would be served on the side.
If we had chelo kebab, Mama would afterward bake a cake with the leftover egg white from the meal we had just finished. My sisters and I would help her by beating the eggs and licking the bowl clean after the cake was placed in the baking tin. Early that evening, we would have all the uncles and aunties and the cousins over for tea. Mama would also make cheese toasts and slowly cooked browned small turnips in date syrup. They would cook until they were caramel brown. The aroma of the sweet turnips tickled the senses. Delicious! What a wonderful time we used to have! This continued for many, many years. I remember those times with such fond memories. In my memory, those times were always tinted with happiness, much love, and contentment.
Other times, my parents would pack us up into the backseat of the car. Mama would drive into the quiet scenic back roads. Papa did not drive. He had no patience for that. There was a favorite area she stopped to look at the view of the city below us. As we sat, we listened to the radio. The radio had special Friday programs throughout the day. Aghay-e Sobhi would tell his stories in his warm and soft velvety voice. Then there was a show called Twenty Questions in which the player would have to guess the subject in question in that amount of queries. There was a program of classic stories by some authors such as Guy de Maupassant, one of my very favorite authors. We listened silently as we climbed up the winding mountain road. Those country drives were so special. We felt encapsulated in an intimate bubble. There was a serenity in the air.
The skies begin to darken. It was time to head back home. The next day was the start of the work week. Whatever we did, we had enjoyed. We had to get ready for bed. Our parents come into our room. “Goodnight,” they softly whisper as they bend down to kiss us. We closed our eyes and drifted away to dreamland.
That sense of love and family still comforts me and is with me, all these many, many years later. When I sometimes feel alone or sad, I go back in my mind to my childhood. I feel the love and sense of protection that I got from my family. For a moment I am a little girl who does not have a care in the world.