Firoozeh Dumas Read online

  My cousin Mehdi, my uncle’s third son, got up to speak but he couldn’t. He was crying. After a few awkward minutes, he told a few stories about what a loving father and grandfather my uncle had been. He told us about my uncle’s unending devotion to his children and grandchildren. Then he told the audience that his father had missed the birth of his son because he got lost on the way to the hospital. Everyone laughed. Mehdi told us that they had practiced driving to the hospital half a dozen times with his father because he had a tendency to get lost. But he still got lost. The audience roared. I couldn’t believe my ears.

  Looking around me, I realized that my uncle should have written a book. How had he and my aunt raised four decent, successful sons who married women who completed them? How had they ended up with seven grandchildren, each of them kind, bright, and book lovers to boot, the kind of children who go out of their way to have conversations with elderly relatives, even if those conversations start with “Shouldn’t you be married by now?”

  My uncle was too busy reading ever to write his own stories. He was never without a book, and everyone knew that lending him any book meant kissing that book goodbye for at least a year, sometimes three in the case of Gorky Park or anything by James Michener. My uncle was one of the few people I knew who looked up every word he didn’t know. He then wrote down those words in a notebook and asked others if they knew them. This habit did not give him the best reputation for scintillating party conversation, but I found it quite endearing. Had he not been born poor in Iran so long ago, I imagine he would have become an English professor, or at least a spelling bee champ.

  When it was my turn to speak, I shared a few stories about my uncle’s quirky personality and his endearing love for his family. I ended my eulogy by saying that even though Uncle Abdullah was frequently lost on the freeways, in life, he knew exactly which road to take. His inner GPS worked just fine. Everyone agreed.

  My uncle, along with the rest of my family, came to America seeking a better life. Like so many immigrants before us, we found not only what we wanted but a few things we didn’t even know we were looking for: Girl Scouts, freedom of speech, affordable community colleges, guacamole, public libraries, clean bathrooms, the pursuit of happiness, and Loehman’s. Of course we also found a few things we didn’t like: marshmallows, the Hilton sisters and all their friends, the lack of interest in geography, those pants that ride way too low, and tomatoes that taste like cardboard. Regardless of the influences, we swore we would live in this country but never change. We were wrong. America changed us, in ways we didn’t realize. Oddly enough, we also changed America. We expanded the palates of many friends to include tadiq, joojeh kabob, and desserts made with rose water. Any American who has attended a Persian wedding knows that dancing is not limited by age, weight, or ability, and yes, it’s okay for men to dance in ways that John Wayne wouldn’t. And if there’s one thing I hope we Iranians have imparted, it is the closeness of extended family, not because we all get along perfectly, but because we know that we all benefit emotionally from maintaining those ties. Our parents often do live with us in their twilight years, and yes, they get on our nerves. In fact, our mothers only meddle more as they get older. Some things don’t change.

  Those parts of our lives that changed were not what we expected. Who knew that someday we would wear leg warmers and take aerobics classes? We knew we wanted our family members to become educated but who knew that we’d forget some of our Persian and pick up some Spanish? We wanted to have comfortable lives and the right to vote. Who would ever have guessed that someday we would be voting for Iranian candidates running for office in America, candidates who actually won? We wanted to pursue lives well lived. Who knew that someday we would allow ourselves to remember those lives in a whole new way, with smiles, laughter, and Beatles music? We may never put ice in our tea, but we can, when appropriate, celebrate the lives of loved ones, even if it’s not the way we normally do things. That, perhaps more than all the other changes, feels downright revolutionary. I’m sure my uncle Abdullah would agree.

  Encore, Unfortunately

  Some things, like the eighties, should never come back.

  It all started in 1979, which to borrow the words of Queen Elizabeth II, was my “annus horribilis.” My father, who had worked for the same company his whole life, lost his job. My mother decided she was now from “Torekey,” and Americans decided it was time for us to go home.

  It all happened so fast. It seemed like on Monday, everyone was asking us if our carpets really do fly. Then on Friday, those same people were putting “I Play Cowboys and Iranians” bumper stickers on their cars. I was fourteen, and all this sudden hatred really got me thinking. What type of person would make bumper stickers announcing hatred? Who would buy one of those bumper stickers and actually put it on his car? Isn’t that the type of feeling people ideally should not have or, if they do, should at least keep private? Every time I saw one of those bumper stickers, and there were plenty, I tried to get a look at the driver. I don’t remember what any of them looked like. I do remember my heart beating fast.

  Then there was the song “Bomb Iran,” sung to the tune of the Beach Boys song “Barbara Ann.” It had this terrible chorus that stuck in your head like the ba-ra-ba-bum-bum of “The Little Drummer Boy.” Disc jockeys loved “Bomb Iran,” and made it one of the top hits of 1980. They played it over and over and over again. It was the soundtrack to all my nightmares.

  Fast-forward twenty-five years: I needed to get a copy of the “Bomb Iran” song for my one-woman show about growing up Iranian in America. Thanks to the Internet, I found Vince Vance and the Valiants’ website. There were phone numbers listed for Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Texas. I randomly dialed one of the numbers. A woman answered.

  “Vince Vance and the Valiants Fan Club,” she said.

  I told her I needed a copy of “Bomb Iran.” I even pronounced Iran “I-Ran,” even though it’s supposed to be pronounced “Ee-ron.” This wasn’t the moment to be educational.

  “We don’t have it,” the woman said.

  “I’m Iranian and I have a one-woman show and I really need that soundtrack. Can you please help me find it?”

  There was a long pause. “You’re I-raynian and you want a copy of ‘Bomb I-Ran’?” she asked, sounding rather startled.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Hold on, please,” she replied.

  Then I heard muffled sounds and a man picked up the phone.

  “Is this Vince?” I asked.

  “Yes, it is,” the man said.

  Then the conversation took a strange turn. He started apologizing.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. Then he earnestly tried to pronounce it.

  “I didn’t mean anything by that song,” he said. “I had no idea it would take off like that.” He told me that his manager had suggested he write parodies, and that the song was addressed to the Ayatollah, not to the people of Iran. He was stunned by its success. Carter’s rescue mission had failed, and Americans felt humiliated. Speaking like a true poet, he said it was “like a pimple that erupted.” He said that one time, the KKK showed up at one of his concerts to support him. “That was awful,” he added.

  He sent me the lyrics of the song by e-mail, plus another apology. He quoted Keats. He sent me pictures of himself with his signature eighteen-inch hairdo. He invited me to one of his performances. I told him that if my show was picked up for the season, I would make sure he received royalties. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “You won’t make any money.”

  “Bomb Iran” recently came back, thanks to John McCain, who sang part of it during one of his speeches. I called Vince (real name Andrew Franichevich), to see what he thought. He didn’t return my call. Maybe he was too busy. He is, after all, a very successful guy. Or maybe he is a bit horrified like I was, that the song, like a disease that we think has been eradicated, was back.

  Last Mango in Paris

  The Japanese have a sa
ying that for every new food we try, we gain seven days of life. I may be immortal by now. The realm of gastronomy represents the only area where I deliberately seek adventure. I’ll try almost anything. I live by the “One bite won’t kill you” rule, and know that no flavor, however revolting, will linger forever, especially when followed by enough water. I have also learned that one country’s gourmet fare is another country’s cat food, and oftentimes the impression we make at someone else’s dining table determines the course of the relationship. Needless to say, many of my friendships were forged around a meal.

  For most cultures, food is the glue that binds. It doesn’t matter if what you are being served tastes like glue; you have to eat it. In Iranian culture, there is no bigger insult than to refuse to try a food prepared by your host. You will make a really bad impression that, short of your curing cancer or bringing peace to the Middle East, will never go away. And if you’re ever lucky enough to be invited to an Iranian’s home, you never have to worry about weird food, since we use only beef, lamb, fish, and chicken. You will probably end up trying new herbs and spices, maybe tamarind or fenugreek, but if that scares you, then you should get started on that cancer cure now.

  Growing up in Iran, I had access only to Persian food, which is surprisingly varied. Even though Iran is a very small country compared to the United States, its cuisine is endless thanks to its abundance of fruits, vegetables, and herbs. Most Westerners envisage only a desert when imagining Iran, which is one of the many reasons why geography should be brought back to American classrooms. Iran’s climate varies from north to south, east to west. Even though Iran does have a desert, it also has snow, subtropical climates, and abundant gardens. Some archaeologists even believe Iran is the location of the Garden of Eden.

  Iran’s climatic variations have resulted in an abundance of natural gifts. Peaches, almonds, persimmons, and pomegranates are just a few of the plants indigenous to Iran. Even tulips, which everyone associates with Holland, are native to Iran, Afghanistan, and Central Asia.

  Given the country’s cornucopia of riches, every region in Iran has its own culinary specialties, ranging from my favorite mirza ghasemi, an eggplant dish of the north, to ghalyeh mahi, a fish stew containing tamarind, of the south. Iranians have been very adept at incorporating local ingredients in their cuisine, making traveling in Iran a true adventure for the gourmand.

  But even the most devoted gourmand will tell you that every country’s cuisine has a few strange, perhaps even revolting, dishes, the types of food that leave the average American guest suddenly remembering that he left his stove on and has to rush home. Sometimes these dishes consist of animals normally kept as pets in one’s native culture, but served on a plate in others. Dogs and rats, consumed in parts of Southeast Asia, come to mind. Then there are parts of animals not normally consumed in this country by humans or other species. Bovine urine, reputedly drunk by the Maasai, is a good example. The old saying that we shouldn’t judge someone without walking in their boots would be difficult in the case of the Maasai, who are famously known for walking barefoot. Although it would take one heck of a marketing campaign to sell bovine urine in the West, who’s to say it’s any stranger than the chemical cocktail known as diet soda? Judging by the number of overweight people who religiously consume massive amounts of diet drinks, a Martian might assume that it is a rather fattening concoction. The Maasai, on the other hand, all look like runway models. Perhaps marketing bovine urine in the United States would not be that difficult after all.

  The topic of strange foods would never be complete without two words that should never go together, “maggot cheese.” This delicacy from Sardinia reminds us of the elasticity of the word “delicacy.” Most Americans would never consider eating insects unless it involved a TV show and a million-dollar prize. A connoisseur of insects, however, once told me that shrimp, which I eat, are nothing more than roaches of the sea. “It’s all how you look at it,” he said. “Shrimp and roaches, both arthropods, serve the same purpose in our ecological system. One is underwater, the other on land.” His argument made sense, but I will wait until my favorite Chinese restaurant, Jing Jing, serves Kung Pao Roach to pass judgment.

  Most cultures believe that once an animal is killed, nothing of it should be wasted. I completely agree with this. Knowing this has at least justified the existence of some strange foods, such as the plates of chicken feet I face whenever I go out for dim sum. It is from this noble philosophy that some of the stranger foods in my own culture are born.

  As a child, I used to love fried sheep’s brain. I knew that it was called maghz, or brain, but I thought it was because it looked like brains, sort of like big cauliflowers. It never occurred to me that the dish called “brains” actually was brains. Once I found out that it was what it was called, I no longer ate it.

  Another popular specialty is tongue stew. I have never tried this dish because my mother, in her only feminist stand against my father, refused to cook it. None of my aunts ever prepared it, either. The only time I was ever served tongue was while flying alone on an Iran Air flight from Switzerland to Iran. I opened the sandwich to see what sort of meat it contained and realized that somewhere, a cow was missing its tongue. I was twelve years old and the sight of that cold, folded-up tongue completely killed my appetite all the way to Iran.

  The hands-down winner in the category of Persian food that guarantees your American guests will never come to your house again is kaleh pacheh, sheep’s head and feet soup. This recipe requires the purchase of an entire mutton or lamb’s head, which is much harder to find than, say, a head of lettuce. Assuming one manages to obtain the aforementioned animal head, one must first burn the hairs off of it over an open flame. The cook should, at this point, receive a Girl Scout badge. She must then remove the nose. I can think of no other recipe with those three words but such is the charm of international cuisine. Then there’s the matter of splitting the head, cooking it, and serving it to guests, all of whom should know what is coming their way. Serving kaleh pacheh to an unsuspecting guest should be categorized as a crime.

  The only person in my extended family devoted to kaleh pacheh is my uncle Mohammad. He has been known to drive to his favorite kaleh pacheh restaurant to eat this delicacy for breakfast, which is the common practice. The only upside to starting the day eating a sheep’s head is knowing that no matter how bad a day you may have, it won’t be as bad as the sheep’s.

  Americans often claim that there is nothing “weird” in American cuisine. Oh, the sweet naïveté of that statement! Everybody thinks that about his own culture. Whatever one grows up with is normal. It’s what the other guy is eating that is “weird.”

  When we first came to America, our enthusiasm for this culture was evident in our desire to try every single American food. Obviously this style of adventurism has a downside, but thanks to stretchy polyester clothing, we were able to forge ahead.

  The strangest food for me, initially, was peanut butter. Its consistency was unlike anything I had ever tasted. It made me think of spackle. It wasn’t until I tasted peanut butter with chocolate that I became a convert. My devotion has never wavered.

  My least favorite American food, then and now, is frosting. The first time I tried it was in second grade, during a class birthday celebration. One of the moms came to class carrying a trayful of cute little cupcakes with a mountain of blue frosting on each. The frosting looked good, but looks are deceiving. One bite and I felt like someone had hit me over the head with a hammer. It was unbearably sweet. I could not eat it, but was concerned about appearing rude. I didn’t know that in America, people are not offended if you don’t eat their food. I pretended to eat it but instead discreetly squished the cup-cake in my napkin and hid it in my pocket. My mom found it a week later, led there by the army of ants invading my room.

  In general, I find that American desserts tend to be overly sweet. It’s as if the point is to overwhelm the senses with sweetness, drowning all other flavors an
d leaving no room for subtlety. It’s like listening to a band where one hears only the drums.

  The weirdest American culinary marriage is yams with melted marshmallows. I don’t know who thought of this Thanksgiving tradition but I’m guessing a hyperactive, toothless three-year-old. I just don’t understand this random pairing. It’s like Einstein marrying Charo. Yams are perfect plain. Dressing them up is like putting makeup on a ten-year-old girl or on Albert Einstein. It’s just wrong and unnecessary.

  My final gripe is with a food that I have never tried. I know that one cannot claim to dislike a food without having tried several versions of it, but in this case I make an exception. From my Iranian palate, the single most disgusting American creation is pork rinds. And no, this has nothing to do with my being Muslim. I like a ham and cheese sandwich as much any descendant of the Mayflower, but deep fried pork skins sound inappropriate for human consumption. I’m sure they wouldn’t be healthy for pets or plants, either, so maybe pork rinds should be fed to species we are trying to get rid of, such as maggots—but not in Sardinia.

  My favorite American foods are sushi and guacamole, although not together. Whenever I travel, I insist on eating the local cuisine so I can learn something about the people. That’s a noble excuse, and it sounds a lot better than “I like to eat.” Ironically, most people want to invite me to the one Middle Eastern restaurant in town, or else I get a homemade Persian meal, but an always unique version. This meal is usually preceded with an explanation: “Our English teacher’s husband was in the Peace Corps in Namibia. He also traveled to Turkey once. He has volunteered to cook a Persian dinner from recipes he found on the Internet.” Whatever these meals may lack in authenticity, they more than make up for in generosity and kindness.