The Aroma of Friday Afternoons
I find it difficult to just cook for myself. I end up having simple foods to eat. I will either have yogurt or cheese, or salads with avocados and olives. I will have porridge or cornflakes, or hard-boiled eggs and a boiled new potato. I am generally satisfied with these types of meals because once a week my children come over for dinner, and then I cook up a storm. That leaves me with some leftovers. Last week, however, they had all gone to California. That left me with not even one hot meal. Upon their return, they went shopping for me. I asked for a cauliflower. Today I prepared a dish of Cauliflower Au Gratin. One of the ingredients in the sauce is nutmeg. When I was done, I put everything in the sink to be washed. As I was about to put the grater in the sink, I caught a whiff of the freshly grated nutmeg. I closed my eyes, smiled to myself, and was swept into another time and place.
I was once more in the kitchen in my parents’ home. It was a winter Friday afternoon, the equivalent of Sunday. Each Friday in winter, Maryam Barbari made chelo kebab for lunch. She prepared the basmati rice, skewered the meat, and barbecued it. She barbecued onions and tomatoes as well. She cracked eggs, one egg for each person present. Reserving the whites, she left each yolk in its half shell, balanced in a plate heaped with uncooked rice. She piled a huge platter with hot steaming rice with a huge slab of butter on the side of the rice, for anyone who wished to add it to the rice. Almost everyone did. She placed everything in front of Mama. Mama only served the rice, and everyone else helped themselves to what they wanted, except for Gilda. She was too little. Butter was mixed into the steaming rice. It oozed and melted into it. Next, the egg yolk was added. Everyone helped themselves to the barbecued onions and tomatoes. Everything was mixed into each other. The sumac lovers liberally sprinkled it on their rice. Next, the kebab was nestled next to the rice. At last, the dish was ready to eat. At the beginning, there was silence as everyone concentrated on this chore. Eventually, they relaxed. We began to chat. Papa, forever the raconteur, began telling stories and tidbits of history. We listened as we ate. We did not realize at the time the amount of information we were absorbing. When the meal was over, we leaned back, digesting our meal.
It was now time to bake a cake! Mama and her little girls trooped into the kitchen. We each donned an apron over our frocks. We were eager to proceed. That afternoon it was our turn to have all the aunties, uncles, cousins, and some friends gather at our home, for it was our turn to host the tea that week. Every fourth Friday was our turn. Our group consisted of three families and M. et Mme. Rey. The Reys were an elderly couple with a son. He did not live in Tehran but in Washington D.C. He held an important position in the World Bank. Whenever anyone mentioned him, it was with awe. They would pause after each word when they said, “He - Works - At - The - World - Bank!” Then there would be an even longer pause to allow this important piece of information to completely sink in. But Monsieur et Madame Rey were very modest and quiet, unassuming people. It did not seem to impress them that their son Works At The World Bank.
However, I digress. With all the egg whites leftover from the meal, we invariably would make a white cake with a fresh fruit and cream filling. But as the days grew colder and colder, Mama made orange cakes, walnut cake, chocolate cake, and glory of glories, my very favorite cake, Aah, the Walnut Spice Cake! The walnuts were crushed roughly. The spices were sifted into the flour. The nutmeg, my very favorite spice, whose aroma would practically make my nose quiver and my head go reeling ecstatically, would be grated with a tiny grater until one was in danger of skinning one’s fingers as well. The nutmeg is hard and small, the grater was thin and sharp, and the skin on one’s fingers was thin and delicate, but at last the chore was done. The batter was ready and poured into the cake tins. Now came the task that we little girls were looking forward to all along. We daintily stuck our little forefingers into the bowl, then into our mouths. We greedily sucked the sweet batter until the bowl was wiped clean. There was a look of contentment on our faces and a look of amusement on Mama’s.
In the meantime, since it was winter, there was a pot of tiny pearly white turnips gently simmering on the stovetop, interspersed with dates cooking along with them. They stayed on the stove for hours until they became caramelized. They perfumed the kitchen with a heady aroma. Added to that was now the aroma of the baking cake. Mama instructed Maryam Barbari to grate a large slab of cheese into a bowl. Eggs were added to that to turn it into a stiff dough. Butter had been left out to soften. French bread was sliced thinly and arranged on a baking tray. A thin layer of butter was spread on it. Just before tea was served, the cheese mixture was piled on top and baked until golden brown. Earlier in the week, Mama had baked some bâtons salés. They were now placed on a doily-lined dish to also be served. They were taken to the dining table, with tea plates, little silver forks, and knives. At one end of the table, the fat brass samovar gurgled happily. A big teapot would reside on top of it just before the guests arrived. Little by little, the table was filled with the tea offerings. Mama surveyed it all with a satisfied eye.
Company would arrive soon. As the female contingent prepared for the tea, Papa sat in the living room contentedly sucking on his meerschaum pipe and reading his book. Classical music was heard in the background. Mama hurried to their bedroom to freshen up. A whiff of her Arpège perfume, a dab of lipstick, a bit of rouge, a quick pat of her perfectly coiffed hair. She surveyed herself critically in the mirror. She was ready. Just then the doorbell rang. We girls gave a shout of glee. Our cousins were here! Ah, they were here! Mama left her bedroom. Papa rose. Together they walked to the hallway to greet them. Their three little daughters followed. The sound of the happy voices of friends and family filled the air. Friday teatime at the Tawfiks’ was about to begin.