Maman's Homesick Pie: A Persian Heart in an American Kitchen

162 Pages·2011·0.86 MB·English

by  Donia Bijan

Maman’s Homesick Pie
Maman’s Homesick Pie
A PERSIAN HEART IN AN AMERICAN KITCHEN
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Donia Bijan
Published by
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2011 by Donia Bijan. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son Limited.
Design by Anne Winslow.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bijan, Donia.
Maman’s homesick pie : a Persian heart in an American kitchen /
by Donia Bijan.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-56512-957-3 (hardback) 1. Cooking, Iranian. 2. Cooking —
California — San Francisco.
I. Bijan, Donia. II. Title.
TX725.I7B55 2011
641.5955—dc23
2011023858
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
In memory of Atefeh and Bijan
For Luca
Contents
Author’s Note
Introduction
Persian Cardamom Tea
Orange Cardamom Cookies
Chapter 1
Pomegranate Granita
Sour Cherry Upside-Down Cake
Chapter 2
Saffron Yogurt Rice with Chicken and Eggplant
My Mother’s Quince Marmalade
Chapter 3
My Mother’s Bread Stuffing
Persimmon Parfait
Chapter 4
Braised Chicken with Persian Plums
Cinnamon Date Bars
Chapter 5
Sweet and Sour Grape Leaf Dolmas with Jeweled Rice
Madame’s Cocoa Pound Cake
Chapter 6
My Mother’s Pot Roast
Fava Bean Omelet
Chapter 7
Straw Potato and Muenster Galette
Roast Rabbit with Whole Grain Mustard and Rosemary
Chapter 8
Ratatouille with Black Olives and Fried Bread
Duck à l’Orange
Chapter 9
Potato Waffles with Crème Fraîche
Salmon Gravlax with Meyer Lemon and Tarragon
Chapter 10
Purple Plum Skillet Tart
Tomato Confit
Chapter 11
Roast Duck Legs with Dates and Warm Lentil Salad
Rose Petal Ice Cream
Chapter 12
Roasted Stuffed Quince with Fennel Sausage and Currants
Cardamom Honey Madeleines
Chapter 13
Rice Pudding
Pistachio Brittle
Chapter 14
My Mother’s Apple Pie
Cherry Slushy
Special Thanks
Author’s Note
I WROTE THIS BOOK in an attempt to find answers to the questions I never asked
my parents, such as How did it feel to start your life from nothing? as well as to
give their grandchildren a context so that when we speak of Iran, they will see
their connection to the elusive home of their parents and grandparents. And
because I am a cook, not a reporter, I have told the story as I remember it,
through the prism of food, changing the names of the characters to preserve their
privacy, but holding their place at my table.
Maman’s Homesick Pie
Introduction
MY MOTHER HAD been dead eight days when I showed up in her kitchen. There I
was, on a gray January afternoon, with empty boxes and grocery bags,
determined to cope with my colossal loss by salvaging a head of lettuce, a quart
of milk, a pint of plain yogurt, and jar after jar of homemade pickled vegetables.
Walking down the hallway to her front door, I was no longer greeted by the
familiar aroma of sweet Persian spices, nor could I hear the faint notes of the
classical music station my mother tuned in to from morning until the evening
news. I half expected her to open the door and pull me to her chest—Here you
are, darling, here you are—and tell me it had been a huge mistake, that she had
not been crushed under the wheels of the old lady’s Mercedes coupe, that she
had not been in that zippered orange body bag on the side of the road, that the
mangled body we buried just a few days ago was not her. Not her.
But on that day and thereafter, no tender heart awaited me, no one strung
endearments like garlands around me, and no one cared if I was tired or chilly or
asked me if I needed a sweater. My mother’s home smelled of tea and roses, but
no kettle whistled, promising a steaming cup, served on a tray with a pitcher of
milk and butter cookies on a linen doily.
For days it was quiet, methodical work—sorting and packing the boxes I had
lined up by her cabinets like little coffins, filling them with cups and saucers
wrapped in newspaper, and spoons, spatulas, and whisks. I labeled them in angry
print with a thick black felt-tip marker, bound for a basement until the day a
grandchild might hoist it up to her first home and delight in things her
grandparents once used.
My mother’s best china and silver were not in these boxes—they’d been
looted from her home in Iran thirty years earlier. In the aftermath of a revolution
that had targeted my parents as infidels and royalists, they had escaped a regime
that would have paraded their slain bodies through the streets of Tehran. These
boxes held the everyday household things that my parents had slowly
accumulated since their exile. Which was more valuable—the heirloom silver or
these mismatched cups from Goodwill? My mother had worked harder to buy
this single Wedgwood cup.
I was not prepared for this sort of packing. My mother always helped me
pack, for trips, slumber parties, and camp. Packing for good like this, packing