Maman's Homesick Pie

by Donia Bijan

  I wondered if the fright and exhilaration was similar to what my father had felt when he opened the doors to his hospital. Were people waiting on the sidewalk, anxious with pregnant wives, kidney stones, and broken bones? Was he ready? Did he have enough beds? Had he been impatient, like me, with the inspections and permits, contractors and electricians, to hurry up so he could let people in? By the time I opened my restaurant, it was too late to ask him. He didn’t know me. There was strange comfort in the realization that he no longer knew who I was: I was his sister, the pharmacist’s wife, the hospital cook. I was the nurse from his clinic. I was no one.

  It was a rare occasion when my mother asked for help, but one time when she had a doctor’s appointment, she asked if I could watch my father for an hour. I was a coward, afraid of being left alone with him. I harbored years of reproach and couldn’t face an old man who had long ago stopped shouting and calling us names. I found him sitting rigid on the couch with a blanket over his knees, stacking beads, the shaking in the right fist hammering them away. I sat next to him and kissed his soft jowl, smelled his Nivea cream—his absence of expression an antidote to my hot tears. I couldn’t ask him about his hospital, its terraced rooms, its rambling gardens. I couldn’t ask him about his patients, waiting for their hero to make his rounds. I could not remind him of his Caspian Sea, the salt air, or the song he sang to us in the car. The tide had pulled away all the sounds, including the words I’d never said to him. This surgeon who had cut into bodies with sharp knives and peered in, sewn them back up, and sent them on their way, had retreated quietly to a wide-open field where he had cleared his mind and folded away his expectations, along with his disappointments, his knowledge, and his memories.

  My mother tended to my father lovingly. She washed and dressed him and frequently wheeled him to a patio table reserved for Maman and Papa Bijan, where she spoon-fed him potato leek soup, wiped his chin, and murmured my praises. She kept a scrapbook of every article, photo, and mention of me in the paper and read it softly to him, gripping his hand as if he might get away. Tethered to her voice and her touch, and the warmth of the soup, he responded with a flutter of his eyelashes, the blue in his eyes no longer stormy, just bright.

  When we had time for a chat, my mother critiqued my menus and reminded me of dishes we had made together in Tehran, Paris, Majorca. These conversations inevitably found their way into the next day’s menu—a paella with saffron rice and Gulf shrimp, a fig tart with cardamom ice cream, roasted stuffed quince with homemade fennel sausage. And this food brought the people. My restaurant thrived under the overwhelming enthusiasm and appetite of our customers, who waited patiently by the entrance when we didn’t have enough chairs.

  My father did not have the funeral he would have had in Iran—shopkeepers closing up to attend his service, silver platters of halvah and saffron pudding offered to mourners, car after car following his coffin. He would have liked that. His long illness had left my mother bereft and aching. She feared she had not loved him enough, cared for him well. She sorted his clothes and set aside special items for his sons-in-law—a soft suede jacket, an alligator belt, treasures that were exclusive to him, saving a watch and his favorite Russian sheepskin hat for her soon-to-be son-in-law. I was engaged after a long courtship to a young American painter, a man attentive to details in the world, uncompromising and devoted to his work, without a trace of cynicism, and brave despite all the odds against him. When I met him, he was subsisting on whole milk and cookies, living in a piano crate a clever landlady had transformed into a “cottage” for rent on her property, and saving every penny to go back to Europe to paint. Oh, a dreamer like me, I thought, acting like the world is his for the taking. He proposed to me on a sidewalk in Paris, where we had met over the Christmas holidays when the restaurant was closed. While warming my hands in his with quick, warm breaths, he placed his mother’s ring in my palm. Leaning into each other was home. It did not escape us that my father would have hollered and made threats had he remembered what a painter was. A cook was bad enough.

  My mother could not be idle. Although we tried to keep her busy and fulfill some of her lifelong wishes, one being to see an opera at the Met, Tosca didn’t offer meaningful work. After years of nursing her children, her patients, her husband, her purposeful life had come to a halt and there was no one to look after. Not one for rest, she wouldn’t allow herself a cup of tea until she had scrubbed the kitchen and swum her laps, nor could she watch the news passively and go back to her knitting. It wasn’t long before she volunteered for an international medical corps that sent her to Kosovo during the war. Her selflessness proved too much for some, who criticized her altruism: Who does she think she is, Mother Teresa? I imagine her fortitude embarrassed them: What is she trying to prove? It made my blood boil to hear these people forsaking her for showing them what they despised in themselves. Her motives were far from sanctimonious; if anything, she was impulsive, like a child who stops to point at a homeless man and ask, Why? Why is that man sleeping under the eaves of the library? She couldn’t walk by a wilted potted plant, much less pretend that the horror on the front pages had nothing to do with her. She downplayed her efforts in the Balkans, fibbing that she was comfortably housed in modern apartments in Priština, when in fact, at seventy-two, she was staying in a tent and delivering a new generation of Kosovars in refugee camps. All of us had come to expect heroism from her.

  News of a grandchild on the way stirred a flurry of activity: sweaters and caps to be knit, layettes to be sewn. She hurried home from an assignment in Moldova, where she was training nurses, bringing with her a selection of hand-painted wooden toys. I then became not her daughter but the mother of her grandson, and one she had to nourish and command. Driving with her, I was not allowed to exceed ten miles an hour. And when I called her early one morning, she knew before I had spoken a word: You’re in labor. I’ll be there in five minutes! Did she intend to deliver my baby? I wondered. In fact, hours later in the delivery room, she called my doctor and scolded him for being late: Do I have to deliver my own grandson, Doctor?

  There is a photograph of my mother holding her American grandson next to the haftsin, the traditional table set for the Persian new year, celebrating the vernal equinox—his due date. Arriving early, a week before Noruz, he granted us the best new year’s gift. Her tablecloth displays seven dishes that herald spring and rebirth: sib, an apple symbolic of health; sabzeh, wheat or lentil sprouts, which represent the rebirth of nature; seer, garlic, a tribute to health; sekeh, coins for prosperity; senjed, the dry fruit of a lotus tree, symbolic of love; ground sumac, which mirrors the color of sunrise; and serkeh, vinegar, representing the wisdom of age. There are other components to the haftsin, such as a flowering hyacinth, a candle lit for every child in the family, a bowl of painted eggs, a goldfish, a volume of poems by Hafez, and a mirror to reflect everything we hope for in the new year, to be mindful and present. Swaddled, my son sleeps in her arms, and in her wet eyes, I read, Here you are, here you are, at last.

  Roasted Stuffed Quince with Fennel Sausage and Currants

  When I make this dish, I feel as if I am reaching far back in time. It is one of the oldest recipes—this unique combination of rich meat and tangy fruit, which dates to pre-Islamic Persia, when the principles of Zoroastrian harmony applied to every aspect of life, including food. There are dozens of Persian recipes that achieve this delicate balance of opposing flavors and textures, like a good marriage—surprising and complementing one another. My addition of fennel seeds, currants, and cider is a nod to the past and the present.

  Serves 6

  1 cup dried currants

  1½ cups apple cider

  ¾ cup split peas

  6 medium quinces

  1 medium yellow onion, diced

  1 celery stalk, diced

  1 carrot, diced

  6 tablespoons unsalted butter

  ½ pound ground lamb

  1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves

 
1 teaspoon fennel seeds

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  2 cups beef or chicken stock

  1 tablespoon bread crumbs

  1 tablespoon honey

  1 tablespoon cider vinegar

  A pinch of saffron

  1 whole allspice

  6 whole cloves

  Kosher salt and fresh-ground pepper

  1. Soak the currants in apple cider for 30 minutes. Strain the currants and reserve the cider.

  2. Cook the split peas in 2 cups of water and 1 teaspoon of salt for 40 minutes, until tender. Drain and set aside.

  3. Wash the quinces and cut a ¼-inch “hat” horizontally from the top of each. Core and remove some of the pulp to have room for the stuffing. Chop the pulp for the filling and save the hat.

  4. To make the filling, sauté the diced onion, celery, and carrot in 2 tablespoons of butter until soft and just golden. Add the chopped quince and cook until softened. Add the ground lamb and brown. Add the split peas, thyme, fennel seeds, and cinnamon and 1 cup of stock. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Cook over low heat 5 to 10 minutes, then fold in the currants and bread crumbs. Transfer to a bowl to cool.

  5. Preheat the oven to 350°F.

  6. Season the inside cavity of the quinces with salt and pepper, then stuff with the sausage mixture and arrange to fit snugly in a buttered ovenproof baking dish.

  7. Boil 1 cup of stock with the apple cider, honey, 3 tablespoons of butter, vinegar, saffron, and allspice, then pour a little of the mixture over each quince. Top each with a nugget of butter and replace its hat, poking the center with a clove to resemble a stem. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Pour the remaining cider mixture around the quinces to come a quarter of the way up the sides of the fruit. Cover the dish and bake for 2 hours. If after the first hour there is no more liquid in the baking dish, add a little more cider.

  8. Remove the cover, spoon the cooking juices over the fruit to moisten, and cook an additional 15 minutes, or until golden and tender but not mushy.

  9. Serve on its own or with sautéed greens, rice, or polenta.

  Cardamom Honey Madeleines

  Chances are, if I walk into a bakery in France with the intention of buying a brioche or a coffee éclair, I’ll walk out with a madeleine instead. When I was a student, I splurged once in a while and bought one—so simple and perfectly contained in its golden shell—to bring home to dunk in my tea. I learned to make each one last.

  The cardamom is optional in this recipe. It is fun to experiment with varieties of honey found at your local farmers’ market. Wildflower, buckwheat, lavender—each lends a distinct flavor to this true classic, and you can make several different batches for a tea party.

  Makes 1 dozen 3-inch madeleines

  4 ounces (1 stick) unsalted butter (2 tablespoons for the mold and 6 tablespoons for brown butter)

  1 tablespoon honey

  ¼ teaspoon fresh-ground cardamom seeds

  2 large eggs

  1 tablespoon dark brown sugar

  5 tablespoons granulated sugar

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  ¾ cup flour, plus 1 tablespoon for dusting the mold

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  1. Brush the insides of the madeleine mold with 2 tablespoons of softened butter, making sure to grease the indentations. Dust lightly with flour and tap the excess out.

  2. In a saucepan, melt the remaining butter over medium heat. The butter will go through several stages, from foamy white to a golden liquid with big bubbles. When the butter begins to brown and gives off a nutty scent (after 4 to 5 minutes), transfer to a bowl to stop cooking and leave to cool. Stir the honey and cardamom into the butter.

  3. In the bowl of an electric mixer with the whisk attachment, combine the eggs, sugars, and salt until the mixture thickens and becomes light in color.

  4. Sift together the flour and baking powder. Fold the dry ingredients into the eggs alternately with the brown butter and honey, being careful not to overwork the mixture.

  5. Cover the batter with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 hours. A cold batter makes the madeleines rise and form a beautiful dome.

  6. Preheat the oven to 375°F.

  7. Spoon the batter into the prepared molds, filling them almost to the top.

  8. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, until light golden and springy to the touch. Remove from the oven and invert the tray onto a wire rack while the madeleines are still hot. If necessary, use the tip of a sharp knife to loosen them from the mold.

  9. Serve the madeleines just as they are, barely cooled or at room temperature. When completely cool, they may be stored for several days in an airtight container.

  Chapter 13

  MY MOTHER WAS not at her grandson’s third birthday party at the farm with the pony rides, where he learned to count to three in Farsi, holding up three plump fingers to my face to answer, Seh! to the question, Sugar, how old are you today? My sister gave me a box of little boys’ ties she had found while cleaning out my mother’s closet—an anguished task she undertook while I tackled the kitchen cabinets. My mother had intended the ties to be worn by her grandson to his first symphony, his first recital, his first wedding party; that these milestones will come and go without her is unthinkable. We simply lack her joie de vivre, her appetite for celebration, her easy way of gathering people together. Our attempts at celebration are maladroit: Christmas comes and I squeeze my son into the red sweater she knit for him with Santa smoking a pipe, we vow to make the longest paper chain ever, we make gingerbread houses and string lights. Noruz comes in March and I bungle through the traditional preparations, setting the haftsin, with its seven symbolic dishes. I color eggs with my son, we buy goldfish and he names them, drawing from the funny Farsi words he has learned: Haji, Chi Chi, FerFerry, Bah Bah, and so on. I layer filo dough with ground pistachios and cardamom to make baklava. The bank teller saves me rolls of shiny dollar coins to give to children. But all of this, all of it, falls short of her exuberance.

  In a house that smelled of cardamom tea and roses, she insisted on the rituals of feeding her family and friends. Her home always welcomed guests; the sofreh, her tablecloth, was never folded away. Someone’s coming for a cup of tea was a celebration; fruit would be washed and arranged in a bowl, sponge cakes and cream puffs lined up on doilies, dainty plates and cloth napkins stacked on a tray. This was not fussy, but rather matter-of-fact and generous: Nonsense, you’re staying for dinner! Nothing was more vital than this, this gathering with you at her table. You heard her big, open laugh long after you left her house, and you were never gone for long because you missed being loved like that.

  My mother would have chosen a different good-bye. She liked to do things properly. Never leaving a room untidy, she rinsed her teacup and folded away her place mat before leaving for her morning walk. But she didn’t come home from that last walk. That her death was so brutal, so untidy, is at odds with the elegant person she was.

  I’ve heard people use the word compass when they talk about their mothers. But I wonder if that’s accurate when I consider using it in describing how imperfect my world is without her. Instruments like a compass, ruler, or scale, essential as they are, are not my everyday tools. I look for her because she encompassed my day-to-day life. She is gone, and that she is gone is my first thought every morning, and it is there all day, in my kitchen, in my car, when I bring in the groceries, when I make dinner, when I refill the bird feeder and pick lemons from my tree. I don’t mean that I am lost, but that I’m looking for her in the arc of my day, wondering what she would have to say about that driver who cut me off, or whether it’s too early to plant bulbs, or how to tend an African violet. Strange how I don’t miss her the way I used to. I don’t stand bereft in my bedroom unable to remember what it is I had to do. I imagine we’re swimming a parallel course, not meeting, but lifting an arm to wave, then paddling back to move forward.

  When feelings well up from the past, a longing for a voice, a place, I reach for the manila
envelope that holds her recipes. If I knew how to sew, perhaps I’d look through her sewing basket for the measuring tape, the velvet pincushion I bought her in Chinatown one Christmas, the buttons in the cookie tin. But I’m a cook, so I look at her recipes. I may or may not make the noodle casserole, but this time the rice pudding calls to me, and once I pour milk and sugar in the saucepan and stir in the rice, the feeling whittles away. When I go for a walk, I look at the world with her wonder—pulling thyme that pushes through a crack in the sidewalk, pocketing an interesting rock for my son, nudging the adventurous earthworm back to soil—and when I do, I am not ever without her.

  Like a swimmer going forward by moving water back, I will never stop reaching into the past to trace the currents that converged here. In the shadows, I see larger-than-life images of my parents and wonder how I will measure up against their courage, their tenacity, their bigheartedness. I don’t want to be a mere keeper of static memories, held captive by sorrow for what was lost; I mean to draw inspiration from their lives. Each time I look back, I pull on a thread and unravel a story I can share with my family, one that is fluid, with familiar characters, one that illuminates our nights together, allowing them to picture my father’s hospital, the cranky donkey, the Caspian shore. I will surely repeat myself and I may not succeed each time in conjuring a compelling past, but perhaps I’ll engage them through the prism of food.