My mother never cooked before her marriage; she lived on an isolated farm in Iran with her parents and younger sister.  They rarely hosted any guests, if at all, and their diet was very simple. For breakfast or dinner they typically only ate dairy products— lunch was usually eggs or thick bean soup with pieces of rice or barley— along with basic fruits and vegetables. On Friday night Shabbat dinner, they ate plain rice and chicken soup. Shabbat lunch the next day included hard boiled eggs cooked in rice soup, deep-fried eggplants, potatoes, carrots, and beets.  

Shortly after my mother married at the age of seventeen, she was brought to Tehran's Jewish ghetto to live in a very large house that several Jewish families rented rooms from.  By observing the women of the house, she learned to become a great cook. Years later, when my grandparents and four uncles moved to my parent’s home, it became my mother’s responsibility to feed not only her husband and children, but an additional six demanding people.  

Her saffron white rice was in great demand, especially on Friday nights. Large sixty pound sacks of basmati rice were kept in our cool and dark basement storage; she used special large and heavy pots (Digg) to cook the rice. Minutes after it began to boil, she emptied the pot of rice and water into a very large strainer, and began to wash the rice with cold water from the faucet. While the rice was rinsed, she put back the pot onto the fire, pouring olive oil to cover the bottom of the pot along with salt and turmeric. Occasionally, she added a spoon full of dill seeds or cumin.  

A minute after the pot began to boil again, she carefully poured back the washed rice into the pot. The fire was set on low, and the pot was covered by a white clean towel before its lid was placed firmly on top.  While the rice continued to cook, she began to cook her chicken soup, her various specialty stews which included a thick sauce made of herbs cooked with red beans, dried limes, pepper, onion, and chunks of meat— Ghormeh Sabzi. Other dishes included Khoresht Bademjoon, fried eggplant with crispy potatoes, tomato paste, fried onion and garlic, turmeric, and other fragrant spices. 

Eventually, steam escaped from the kitchen, and the delicious aroma of my mother’s cooking filled the entire house. When I returned from school ravenous for dinner, the smell of my mother’s food welcomed me with comfort.  My mother had many responsibilities; cooking, washing dishes, doing laundry, cleaning the house, and daily shopping for vegetables and fruit.  Simple cooking for dinner every night lightened her load immensely; our most common evening meal consisted of boiled potatoes, cooked beets and carrots, and lima beans with lemon.

Our breakfast every morning was cheese, butter and jam, yogurt, and hot milk that we poured in a bowl to drop in pieces of dried bread from the day before. Sometimes, my father made us his specialty breakfast; he separated egg yolks from the egg whites, mixing tons of sugar into the yolks before whipping them into fluffy, white cream, sometimes mixing cocoa powder in as well. We spread this on bread and made sandwiches, and we drank tall glasses of tea. My mother saved the egg whites to make Esfenaj or quiche. 

Other special meals included kabob, green vegetable rice with fried white fish, and Fesenjoon, a pomegranate and walnut stew. My mother always served my favorite chicken soup on Shabbat with Gondi, a Persian-Jewish meatballs made of ground turkey and beef, onions, cumin, salt, pepper, turmeric, and other spices, cooked in the chicken soup with dried limes. Gondi was usually enjoyed with a shot or two of arak or vodka. White wine always flowed at the table. 

Our holiday meals were spectacular, too; they included an endless amount of rice dishes, rice with orange zest, rice with cherries, rice with lentils, rice with dill, rice with sour raisins. On Purim, most Jewish women made Halvah to be served after the “Fast of Esther”, a minor fast that occurs the day before Purim. My uncle’s wives made delicious pastries with rosewater, sugar, cardamom, pistachios, almonds, and spices— Baklava, Bamiah, Zoolbia, and fried nuts. 

My father and grandfather were good cooks as well, and my grandmother was known for her delicious homemade cheese, which we loved to eat with thick and sweet Barbary bread and Sangak, a thin and long flatbread. Grilled trout soup stewed with onions, dried limes, and turmeric was my father’s best dish; my grandfather taught him how to make wine, bread, and a special soup made from lamb stomach, feet, and other animal organs, called Syrabi. The key to making a good Syrabi was getting rid of the smell by first frying the ingredients in onion, salt, pepper, garlic, and other spices over high heat while without a cover, served with vinegar. 

At the age of seventeen, I left my parent’s home. I learned how to cook and my wife even claims that one of the reasons why she married me was my cooking. 

When my daughters left for university, instead of missing me, they only missed my cooking. 

And when my American friends come for Friday night dinner, they always say that they make sure not to eat lunch that day in order to have room to stuff themselves with that night’s delicious dinner: Persian food. 

Isaac Yomtovian was born to a Jewish family in a Muslim neighborhood in Iran. Growing up in pre-revolution Iran, he has a unique perspective on the relationship between Jews and Muslims. He is the author of the book “My Iran: Memories, Mysteries, & Myths”.