Music we’re cooking to
The hunt for organic, grass-fed lamb testicles – donbalan – is complicated.
It takes time, patience, perseverance, and courage.
The quest for negotiating sensitive global issues, with potentially disastrous consequences, by means of diplomacy is complicated.
It takes time, patience, perseverance, and courage.
I’m not a big lamb eater. On occasion, I do enjoy a sizzling, juicy grilled chop.
Carbonara.
He sends you flying.
It’s controversial.
High up in the air.
The same way hummus is controversial.
You spread your wings, catch your breath, and squeal with delight.
Or guacamole.
It’s innate. The dream of flight. And in an instant he has given you wings.
To soar. Beyond your dreams.
Or fesenjan.
He claps once. Maybe twice. Depending on how much air you catch.
A recipe can only take you so far.
She wrote this song about John Mayer. You whisper conspiratorially into his ear.
There was a time when this easy lean into his shoulder, followed by hushed murmurs, carried with it information of a different nature.
But today it’s all about Taylor Swift.
Such is the evolution of a marriage.
He – your husband – looks back at you slightly intrigued but mostly bewildered.
Grab your gardening shears. Grab a basket, a bag, a sack, anything with handles. Feel the weight and the cool metal of the shears rest against the warm embrace of your palm. Make the most of this auspicious occasion. You don’t garden. You’d like to. But you don’t.
Call out to your shadows. Announce you are off to forage. You don’t forage either.
I wish we could all be together this Nowruz.
I wish we weren’t all scattered across the country.
Scattered across the continent.
Scattered across the globe.
She sits in her dedicated spot at our kitchen table. Her words echo through the kitchen, twisting and turning, bouncing off you, looking and yearning for a spot to land, eventually finding their way out – seduced by the wide open door and a gentle late winter breeze.
Dear friends, I am truly humbled to be included as a finalist in the 2015 IACP Digital Media Awards for Best Narrative Culinary Blog. What a great privilege and honor to be recognized amongst such amazing, talented individuals. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart (and pot!) for all your kind words, support and encouragement. It means the world to me. Go Tahdig!
♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
We have a globe.
♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
Raw honey.
Like the jar from Trader Joe’s.
Dripping in gold, warmth, and sweetness.
My daughter’s eyes, Soleil’s eyes, the sun’s eyes, shimmer like raw honey.
Dripping in gold.
Showering us with warmth, sweetness, and unyielding love.
And occasionally stubbornness, and intense, deeply felt, unyielding five-year-old emotions.
Pure and raw.
Yeky bood, yeky nabood…
‘Twas the longest night of the year.
‘Twas the darkest night of the year.
‘Twas the most magical night of the year.
Soak the rice as the split peas simmer away. Immerse your hands in the cold water and gently break up the rice into bits and pieces. Feel the familiar beat of nostalgia course through your body. Memory knocking at your door. It always begins with a gentle knock.
♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
You give the wobbly wheel a swift kick right where it counts and knock it back into place. You may or may not utter a few unsavory words. You and your traveling companion – an old laundry basket on wheels – hurdle your way down the blocked off street.
♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
Casually he lifts up his shirt. Revealing cuts and bruises. A skateboarding injury. Meant to impress I think. He keeps the shirt up for a beat longer than necessary. Awkwardly lingering in the moment. Electrifying and innocent all at the same time. As a young man in his early twenties – really, still a boy – is apt to do.
Casually I ask him if he needs an icepack.
Copyright 2021 Naz Deravian. All Rights Reserved.