The Morning Starts With The Milkman
Where I grew up in Tehran, milk was not bought at grocery stores, nor were they sold in bottles or cartons, as they are today. Moreover, forget about supermarkets. They did not even exist back then! Instead, in our neighbourhood, a young man would pedal his bicycle about the neighbourhood. On each side of the back of his bike the lad had firmly secured two large metal containers filled with milk that the cows had produced earlier that morning. As he pedaled down the street, he would announce his arrival by honking his loud rubber fog horn as he cycled along. “BA POO! BA POO!” the horn would blare. All the maids on the street, their heads covered in white kerchiefs, and their chadors wrapped around them, would rush out of the various homes carrying their milk pans. In winter the poor young milkman’s hands would be chafed and painfully cracked from the cold. His nose would be pinched, blue and numb in the cold weather. In summer his forehead would be covered with beads of sweat from his pedaling efforts over the cobbled streets. “How many ladles of milk do you require today,” he would ask each of the maids.
The young man’s family had a modest farm where they raised a few cows and sheep. They grew enough vegetables to suffice for their own needs. The women in the household milked the cattle. They sold the cream, yoghurt and cheese that they produced. After the morning chores, the husband hurried to work. He was employed elsewhere, for he needed to provide for his family. The family were Jews from Iraq and had fled to Iran for safety. Like all of the Iraqi Jewish families in Iran, they had experienced blatant antisemitism in Iraq. They were humble people of modest means and struggled to make ends meet. They were soft spoken. My parents viewed them with respect and compassion. They knew that the family had gone through hard times and how hard they toiled to provide for their family. They respected that.
At any rate, after the young man ladled out the milk to his customers, he hurried away. He had to go home, have his breakfast and start for school. The sun was just beginning to peek into the horizon. In various of the gardens in the area, the roosters began announcing their presence by crowing loudly and the hens began to cluck. Most homes had backyard and a separate living quarters provided for the help as well storage for the various foods, like rice, jams and other foods required for the household. There were coops where they kept chicken. In that manner they ensured that they had poultry for the household’s consumption and perhaps some eggs. Have you ever tasted a newly laid egg? So delicious!
The day was about to begin. The maids hurried to their respective kitchens and began to boil the milk. The milk had to be relatively cool by breakfast time. They took out the clotted cream from the icebox, for at that point in time we had an icebox. Each day the iceman would deliver a fresh block of ice. It was a few years later that we got a Frigidaire! What luxury!
For breakfast, butter, and various jams were set at the table. We never placed cheese on the table if Papa was around, for he hated the smell of it and would have a mini-tantrum if we did. I am sure you have heard the old saying, “While the cat is away?… Well if Papa was away, we would have a field day with anything that had cheese. Breakfast time was a busy time, especially on weekday mornings, for Papa had to go to his office and we had to be dropped at school. In the dining room, the samovar gurgled away happily. It was situated at one end of the table with our parents flanking it on each side, just in case one of us children made a sudden move. As I am writing this, it starts to rain, so I picture a cloudy, wet grey morning. News floats out of the radio. First thing in the morning in our household, it was important to know what is happening in the world. Papa listened as he concentrated on his breakfast. His breakfast consists of three sunny side up fried eggs. He dips them in hot bread which had just been delivered from the bakery that morning. He dips a piece of bread into the yolk and nibbles at it with relish. As was her habit, my sister Nora dreamily stares out into space, not heeding the food in her mouth or on her plate! Mama admonishes her.”Nora chew!” Nora chews a couple of times and stops. “Nora swallow!” Mama says, irritated yet at the same time unrealistically worried that the poor waif would starve on the way to school.
“Berta, she will not starve! Leave her alone,” Papa says testily. He is in a hurry to start his day.
Mama looks at my sister critically to make sure that she absolutely will not starve.
Papa raises his voice slightly, “BERTA!”
Mama quickly gets up. The buttered bread sprinkled with sugar is at hand, both for Nora and for me. “Come on girls, school time!” she says as she kisses us on our cheeks. Gilda, who was a toddler at that point in time, happily bangs her spoon upon the table. Mama bids Papa and us goodbye. After we leave the room, Mama moves to the armchair by the window. She crosses her legs and leisurely leafs through one of her weekly magazines as she sips her tea.
Gholam Hossein, the chauffeur, is in the kitchen. He hears us coming down. He hastily gulps down his tea and heads to the car. He gets there minutes before us. He opens the car door for us. We get in, and he drives away.
The young milkman cycles to school. The maid clears the dining table. Anna, Gilda’s nanny, takes Gilda to wash her face and hands. Khanom Gol, the cook, plans her midday meal. Nora and I are dropped off at school. Papa, with a contented sigh, leans back in his seat and puffs away at his pipe as he is driven to his office. Gholam Hossein discreetly opens his window a crack to get rid of the pipe smoke.
And so starts a new day…