Tuesday, August 12, 2014: Twenty-one Things I will Miss Most aboutIstanbul

Tuesday, August 12m 2014:   Twenty-one Things I will Miss Most about Istanbul (when I leave on Friday)

The Show of Color at each Vegetable Stand

Waterside restaurants

The sudden peek at the Bosphorus you might get as you pass between two buildings

Turkish breakfasts

Ice cream on Burgazada at 11:30 at night

The slow approach to Galata Tower from Karaköy

The calm grace and subtle colors of Suleymaniye Mosque

A summer rain in Kuzguncuk

The docking of ferry boats

The close calls between ferries, tanker ships, speedboats and windsurfers

Phaetons of the Prince's Islands

The cunning shows of strength and political will in unlikely places

Watching Nükte's daughters become strong and beautiful women

Dinner and political talk among friends

Turkish mezes (appetizers) in lots of olive oil

Swimming in the Marmara Sea as ferry boats float by

Discovering a litter of kittens as you walk down the street

Learning to cook from Vincent

The view from Müge's and Alp's living room

The lights of Istanbul after dark

And, last but not least, the proximity and intimacy of being near two of my oldest and dearest friends

Grandpapa's Welcome

Tadjrish, Iran
January, 1971


My father arrived in Tehran on a cold winter night in January. Lygeia and I sat huddled in the dark car with aunty for what seemed like hours as we waited for him to emerge from the glass doors of the airport. My mother had disappeared through those doors leaving us the promise that she would return with him, and after months without him in Iran it seemed an impossible miracle that it could be true. When he finally appeared, weighed down with handbags and dragging two heavy suitcases, my mother at his side, the exhaustion of the late hour ran off me as if a light switch had been turned on in my mind. I squealed and I squirmed, bolting upright to reach for him in the front seat to wrap my arms around his neck. Before long, I nestled my head in to my mother’s lap in the back seat and listened to his voice tangle topsy turvy with the rumble of the car as we made our way back to my grandfather’s house.

At breakfast the next morning, my grandpapa had gained a formality that seemed odd and awkward. Instead of the cotton pajamas which he had always wore all day around the house, I found him eating his breakfast in a suit, with a crisp white shirt and shiny black shoes instead of his leather slippers. When my father emerged from the house, beaming and excited, Grandpapa rose and I watched him shake my father’s hand stiffly.

“Baba,” my father called him. “I am so pleased to finally meet you.” He pumped my Grandpapa’s arm vigorously and smiled. Grandpapa tipped his head forward, his eyes down, bowing slightly towards my father. “Ekhdiarderee,” was all he said, a slight smile on his lips. He laid his cane down on the ground and settled in to his chair, gesturing for my father to sit in the chair next to him.

I jumped in to my father’s arms as soon as he was free to catch me, and I remained planted in his familiar lap as he sat quietly at my grandfather’s side.

“Put your cheese in your bread, Daddy,” I explained. “and don’t forget the jam!” I erupted into giggles at the thought of him eating the dry bread with the cheese. “That’s sugar for tea, Daddy. Grandpapa puts sugar in his mouth. See?” We both watched as my grandfather drank down his warm tea and let the sugar dissolve in his mouth.


“Like this?” my father asked, and my Grandpapa smiled and nodded in agreement as my father placed the sugar cube from his saucer in his own mouth and reached for his glass of steaming tea.

The next week flew by quickly, pulling my father’s hand through the narrow streets, through the bustling bazaar and up the steep hill behind Grandpapa’s house to buy a snack, warm Pofak-namakee, like American cheese puffs. I suddenly had someone I could show around, someone who knew less about this place than me, and Lygeia and I enjoyed laughing at the way he pronounced all the new words we had learned, “sheer,” “ob,” and “madreseh.” Grandpapa seemed stiff in his suit, but he could not be convinced to change back in to his cotton pajamas, which he normally had only changed out of when he was planning to leave the heavy courtyard gate.

“Baba, really,” my mother would implore. “Do you think my husband cares whether you’re wearing a suit?”

“Hhmmf,” he would grunt and glare at her. He did not want it discussed.

It was about four weeks after my father arrived that Grandpapa’s suit began disappearing like a subtle strip tease in slow motion. First, the carefully shined shoes were replaced by the worn leather slippers that had been waiting patiently by the door and he returned to his shuffling walk and lost the clop of hard soles on the concrete patio.

Another week went by and my grandfather shed his suit coat and then after a few more days his tie, leaving them hanging over a chair, or laid out on his bed. After another week, his button-up shirt was replaced by his crème-colored cotton pajama top with the brown trim. Piece by piece my grandfather was restored to his normal self until two months after my father’s arrival he finally arrived at lunch, a springtime lunch under the blooming plum tree, without any sign of the formalities of the previous weeks. He settled himself at the head of the table, as if he had just rolled out of bed, resting his cane at his feet, and let out a tremendous fart which held a tone like a lengthy blow on a paper party favor. My grandfather was looking down at his food and his expression didn’t change.

“I’ve finally arrived!” my father exclaimed happily looking around the table and he, my mother and my uncle burst into hearty laughter. A sly smile crept on to my grandfather’s face and he peeked up through the long white hairs of his bushy eyebrows.

“That sound must be from a little mouse under the table,” said my uncle jokingly and I peeked down between my legs to try to catch a glimpse of it before it could scuttle away.

“Yes, a mouse,” my mother replied, smiling, and we all dug in to our rice and stew as if it was our first meal as a family reunited.

Recipe

This recipe is dedicated to Leila at http://persiankitchen.wordpress.com - Leila is tops in how she teaches us how to cook Persian food, so I know I'm not even trying to replicate her blog postings. But, this is a callout to her about my favorite persian stew Ghormeh Sabzi. If you read my posting "Watching over me" this stew was what I ate on that first day of school. The smell is of dried lime and is exquisite.

Cooking a traditional Persian stew:

Koresh-e Ghormeh-Sabzi

The unique ingredient is dried lime, which can be found at any local Middle Eastern grocery store like those found around San Pablo Avenue and University in my town of Berkeley.

1. Saute onion, add garlic and meat of your choice (normally this is lamb, beef or chicken cut in very small stewing pieces). Saute until golden brown. Add salt, pepper, 1 tsp Tumeric, 4 whole dried limes pierced with a fork, and 1/2 tsp saffron dissolved in a tablespoon of hot water.

2. Pour in 4 1/2 cups of water and and 3/4 cup cooked or canned kidney beans. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and cover, simmering for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

3. Meanwhile (this is the hard part) fry in 3 tablespoons of oil the following, all finely chopped:

4 cups parsley

1 cup leeks, scallions or chives

1 cup fresh coriander

1 cup fresh fenugreek

If you work and don't have the time to find, buy and chop all these hard-to-find vegetables, visit that same Middle Eastern market and check their freezer section for pre-chopped, even pre-fried vegetables for Ghormeh-Sabzi. Yes, Iranians are too busy to always do this fresh, so don't let step 3 stop you from making this really great stew.

4. Add the sauteed vegetables to the pot of sauteed meat, and add 4 tablespoons of fresh squeezed lime juice. Cover and simmer the stew for 30-40 minutes, stirring occasionally. When the aroma of the vegetables begins to rise from the pot, you know it's done.

Serve with long-grained or basmati rice. Yum!!

My crockpot adaptation:
Do step one the night before - and refridgerate overnight.
In the morning, add in the pre-fried (now thawed) vegetables, water, and kidney beans. Put crock pot on low for 8 hours.
When you get home from work you've got a wonderful persian stew!!

The Trunk - parts one and two

Oakland, California
Fall 1974

My memories of Iran had already faded by the time I was seven years old so when the trunk arrived one fall day in October I was awestruck. It arrived on our doorstep like a long forgotten relative, encased in metal and lacquered wood, shredded rope wrapped around its belly and our address plastered to its top in my father’s careful script. The heavy iron handles lay flat along its sides like tiny round arms, worn and smooth in my hand. This was the lost trunk that my parents had sent ahead before our return. They had considered it lost, gone forever, and yet here it stood after having had travels of its own.

It must have taken both my parents to lift that trunk. I imagined them holding those heavy handles, surprised by the weight of them, and then a noisy heave as they brought the trunk over the threshold. They would have carried it slowly through the dark hallway and down the carpeted stairs to our rumpus room, calling out to each other when they turned the corners. But I wasn’t there to see any of that. It was already enthroned in the deep shag of our rumpus room floor by the time I got home from school, and it lay in waiting to be opened, mysterious and silent. It’s silence and weight did not whisper, but ached with a tired groan, finally still and finally home.

My father’s massive canvases stood leaning against one wall, their colorful geometric faces hidden and only the blond wood frames and frayed canvas edges exposed. The black upright piano with its bench settled underneath it stood ignored challenging the old zenith TV on its rolling cart as if it stood a chance to claim my attention. Instead, both sat waiting for me to awaken them from sleep. But that trunk, surrounded by our big corduroy pillows, that was new – unexpected, uninvited even.

Iran had become an “other”, foreign, strange, the half of me that was oddly-colored and smelled of celery stew and rose water; the half of me that I tried to ignore. My year there when I was three and four was like a closed chapter of one of my father’s library books – black and white pictures of artifacts and statues, flashes of memory, paper schoolbooks and pots of steaming rice; the bright orange of a glass of fresh carrot juice. Iran was the sound of my mother’s shouts in to our kitchen princess phone on New Years Day; her voice desperately reaching, searching, through the phone, her loud voice, shouting through smiles and tears, in the language that was familiar yet incomprehensible to me now. Iran was the phone inevitably handed to me to hear a tinny distant voice calling my name in answer to my small hello. The awkward silence when I didn’t know what else to say.

And when this trunk was finally opened it brought forth all these things in a flood that made me breathless, even without words. Its heavy rope was cut with our kitchen knife and fell away to expose the heavy padlock that had been hidden underneath. Within minutes my father produced the small key and the top was lifted. Stale air mixed with the smell of sweet moth balls lingered in my nose as I stretched my neck to peer inside. Its dark gut was still and full. My mother, chatty, exuberant, welcomed each item from its depth as she gingerly removed them– small folded rugs with bright patterns, tiny sheep skin hats that I could hardly believe I had ever worn, a tin samovar with small matching tea cups, clothes, wraps, shawls and stiff beaded shoes of gaudy colors. I stood away and poked at these things with outstretched fingers. Everything was scratchy against my skin and the old, weighted smell was so strong it assaulted me and filled the room, seeping around corners and in to the next rooms. I gladly disappeared into the kitchen to make her a cup of strong black tea and leave her with these smelly and unexpected relatives.

When my mother was satisfied that she had unfolded each item, caressed each with nostalgia and longing and then refolded them with the same creases, she began returning them back to their waiting vault. The trunk which witnessed this whole scene was eventually closed with a slam and my mother sprang up from her squat with a light step, chatty– both of my parents seemed to welcome this trunk home. As for me, I was wash with relief when it was all over: the foreigness of these things only served to remind me of my own unexplainable foreigness. The trunk finally took its rightful place amongst the old boxes in our garage and I felt more at ease with its place there, hidden and unseen.