Tehran Winters: Preserving Memories and Traditions
When I was young, in Tehran, the world was so very different. We did not have the luxury of procuring every kind of fruit and vegetable we desired at any time and in all seasons. Produce was not flown from all over the world to satisfy our appetites. We did not have the state-of-the-art freezers and refrigerators we have now. At first, we had ice boxes that cooled our food with blocks of ice, delivered daily wrapped in jute. Later on, we had a Frigidaire. We had many different methods of preserving foods for future use. In my family, we used to have an orchard in Karaj, a village an hour or so away from Tehran. The caretaker and his family lived there. Several times during the summer, the caretaker would bring us whatever fruits had ripened. There were strawberries, apricots, peaches, pears, cherries, apples… The fruits were separated into two groups: some for everyday consumption, and the surplus which was transformed into various other uses. The apples and pears were turned into jam; sour cherries were candied and dried. The apricots and peaches were turned into fruit leather, which was such a time-consuming job. One person peeled, another removed the pits, and still another chopped up the fruit and placed it into the food mill as they turned the lever round and round until the delicious juices ran. It then was poured into the big, huge pot. They all sat on low wooden stools which were situated close to the ground. They each had a small rectangular wooden table where they chopped and prepared the fruit. Mama would oversee them to make sure they were doing it properly. We children would swarm all over the large kitchen, in the hope of getting a piece of fruit or some of the juice. We would crawl into their laps, underneath their arms, anywhere, just to get a sip, a taste… I can still hear Mama impatiently saying, “Oooh! Oooh! Children stop that! Get out of here!” But who was listening? Each time the pot filled up, they would carry it up to the flat rooftop. Over there, they had arranged large, round, sturdy aluminum trays to receive the soon-to-be fruit leather. The sun was hot, and in no time at all, the fruit would thicken. It would then be carefully peeled off the trays, rolled up, and saved to be eaten. Every few weeks something else would be prepared for winter. The most important of all seemed to be the tomato paste. Kilos and kilos of tomatoes were purchased. Once more, they were cut up and laboriously turned in the food mill. They also were taken up to the rooftop. However, they were not placed on round trays but in deeper receptacles. When they thickened, they were put into ceramic jars. The wide mouths of the jars were covered in layers of muslin and securely tied up. The jars were then placed in the dark, cool storage room with all the other foods that were stored there. So many different foods were prepared. The one I was allowed to help prepare was the okra, when I was old enough. They were tiny, delicate ones. We each took a long needle and threaded the okra on sturdy threads. We would form them into long chains, which would then be hung on a line in the dimly lit storage room until they dried. When dried, they would place them in heavy paper bags until ready to be used. At first I enjoyed threading them, but they emitted a sticky fluid after a while, and the outside of the okra was prickly. It irritated my skin. I love okra, so I did not complain too much. We also made our own pickles and sherbets. We made syrup of sour cherry and strawberry sherbets. In winter, we made syrup of orange sherbets. There were bottles and bottles of sherbet lined up on the shelves in the dimly lit storage room. Whenever we had company, we diluted some syrup in the bottom of a glass, poured water, added ice, and stirred. There were no bottled soft drinks then. We made homemade sherbets, and they were so very tasty. I don’t know of anybody who prepares them anymore. On Friday afternoons in winter, Mama and her girls would bake a cake because all the family would get together for tea and cake, etc. I always recall those times fondly. Those were very special moments with our mother. When the cake was poured into the cake tin to be baked, that was when our task began. We would eagerly lick the spoon, the eggbeater, and the bowl. That was quite a delicious and important job! It was presented later that afternoon for tea. Jams and clotted cream would be served as well. Small, sweet turnips that had slowly cooked in date syrup until they became reddish-golden brown were another treat of the winter Friday get-togethers. The adults would have a pleasant time. The children romped about and played. Once in a while, Nora and I would organize a play with most of our cousins. We found the plays in the magazine, ‘Young Elizabethan,’ that Papa had subscribed for us. The French doors between the salon and the dining room would be opened. The play took place in the salon. The grown-ups sat around the huge dining table. They encouraged us by clapping and praising us enthusiastically. We had such a wonderful time performing. Maryam, Nargess, and Robabeh had their own room. In winter, they would have a korsi. A korsi is a little table under which there was a brazier heated with charcoal. Mattresses surrounded all this. There were big, huge pillows to lean on or to sleep. A humongous quilt almost as large as the room would cover the whole thing. After the day was done, they would sit around the korsi. They would place a tea kettle and teapot over the embers in the brazier. They snacked on dried fruit, sunflower seeds, apples, and oranges. Maryam would knit the most elaborate, thick, warm woolen socks for the winter. I was fascinated by their elaborate designs, but the wool was too itchy for my skin, and I was always reluctant to wear them, in spite of their intricate beauty. If our parents were out, we would all scurry into their room and snuggle next to them. They would tell us the most fascinating tales: of sorcerers, of paries (the good fairies), the magical firebird, and all the mythological animals in the old Persian tales. But if Mama was home, we were not allowed to go to their room. When we heard them by the door, we would quietly scurry, like little mice, back to our rooms. I am an old woman now, but as I remember those days, I revert to the child I was and the carefree, magical, happy days of my childhood.