The Morning Starts With The Milkman
Where I grew up in Tehran, milk was not bought at grocery stores, nor was it sold in bottles or cartons, as it is today. Moreover, forget about supermarkets; they did not even exist back then! Instead, in our neighborhood, a young man would pedal his bicycle about. 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 foghorn 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 chapped 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 for their own needs. The women in the household milked the cattle. They sold the cream, yogurt, 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 over the horizon. In various gardens in the area, the roosters began announcing their presence by crowing loudly, and the hens began to cluck. Most homes had backyards and separate living quarters provided for the help, as well as storage for various foods like rice, jams, and other items required for the household. There were coops where they kept chickens. In that manner, they ensured that they had poultry for the household’s consumption and perhaps some eggs. Have you ever tasted a freshly 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 minor 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 cheesy. 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 floated out of the radio. First thing in the morning in our household, it was important to know what was happening in the world. Papa listened as he concentrated on his breakfast. His breakfast consisted of three sunny-side-up fried eggs. He dipped a piece of hot bread, which had just been delivered from the bakery that morning, into the yolk and nibbled at it with relish. As was her habit, my sister Nora dreamily stared out into space, not heeding the food in her mouth or on her plate! Mama admonished her. “Nora, chew!” Nora chewed a couple of times and stopped. “Nora, swallow!” Mama said, irritated, yet at the same time unrealistically worried that the poor child would starve on the way to school.
“Berta, she will not starve! Leave her alone,” Papa said testily. He was in a hurry to start his day.
Mama looked at my sister critically to make sure that she absolutely would not starve.
Papa raised his voice slightly, “BERTA!”
Mama quickly got up. The buttered bread sprinkled with sugar was at hand, both for Nora and for me. “Come on, girls, school time!” she said as she kissed us on our cheeks. Gilda, who was a toddler at that point in time, happily banged her spoon upon the table. Mama bid Papa and us goodbye. After we left the room, Mama moved to the armchair by the window. She crossed her legs and leisurely leafed through one of her weekly magazines as she sipped her tea.
Gholam Hossein, the chauffeur, was in the kitchen. Hearing us coming down, he hastily gulped down his tea and headed to the car, arriving minutes before us. He opened the car door for us; we got in, and he drove away.
The young milkman cycled to school. The maid cleared the dining table. Anna, Gilda’s nanny, took Gilda to wash her face and hands. Khanom Gol, the cook, planned her midday meal. Nora and I were dropped off at school. Papa, with a contented sigh, leaned back in his seat and puffed away at his pipe as he was driven to his office. Gholam Hossein discreetly opened his window a crack to get rid of the pipe smoke.
And so starts a new day…