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by Nazee Shams and DP Depp In the spring, when buds are bursting and California hills are the tint of rolling emeralds, most hearts turn to thoughts of poetry. The average Persian's heart, however, turns to thoughts of food. Well, to be fair, food is a kind of poetry to the Persian soul. Having survived the harshness of winter, the Persian table bursts forth in a bloom of colors and flavors to rival anything cataloged in a Wordsworth poem. While poor Wordsworth had to scribble his odes using mere nouns and verbs, the Persian cook has advieh and sabzi - the delightful and virtually endless variety of fresh herbs and spices. The word advieh is the word for "spices" in Farsi, the language of Iran (Persia), while sabzi literally means "greenery". To the Persian chef, these translate into a vocabulary of flavors unique to Iranian cuisine. From the Persian point of view, Americans seem almost frightened of herbs and spices, relying instead on quick-fix foods so heavily salted that their true flavors are lost. On the other hand, Persian cooks positively revel in them, while managing the rare culinary feat of never overpowering the dish. A typical springtime Persian dinner begins with the largest table you can find, followed by the largest number of people you can possibly cram into your home. The intimate dinner party is unheard of in Persian culture. "Party" means people, and the more the merrier. Guests wander around talking, arguing, nibbling sweets and drinking endless tiny glasses of hot, steaming tea from the gurgling samovar in a corner of the room. Meanwhile, the Persian chef is bringing platter after platter of food to the table. The smells gradually waft through the house: warm, pungent, inviting. Suddenly the debates stop, the glass of tea halts just short of the lips. The odors engulf the guests, lift them, and carry them far away, like the mythical flying carpet. It is the smell of home. In that brief moment before the call to dinner, each guest is transported back to the old country; back to their mother's table, surrounded by the faces of loved ones, living and lost, but now always distant. Magic. The guests take their places around the table, which is now groaning from the weight of the meal. There's so much food, who can possibly eat it all? Just watch. First, there's ash, a thick bean and noodle soup that's practically a meal in itself, though the wise guest knows better and sets a limit at a single bowl. This is harder than it sounds, since the Persian host practices ta'rof, the ritual of making sure guests have everything (or more than everything) they need. Next comes the main dish, mahi shekam-gerefteh, a huge baked salmon stuffed with a tangy mixture of herbs and spices. A large piece is lifted onto each guest's plate, to be surrounded by mounds of sabzi polo (herbed rice) and wedges of kookoo sabzi, an unlikely but addictive egg souffle of green herbs and walnuts. The traditional Persian salad - diced cucumber, tomato and onion, sprinkled with chopped fresh mint and tossed in a dressing of olive oil, lemon juice, and salt and pepper - is eaten with the meal. This may seem like a tongue-paralyzing assault of seasonings, but underlying Persian cuisine is the sort of yin/yang philosophy found in Far Eastern cooking, where "hot" foods are balanced by "cool" ones. For instance, rounding out the already over-laden plate are a few healthy dollops of must-o khiar, a combination of yogurt and chopped cucumber, which serves as an effective and cooling counter-balance to the meal. The drink of choice is sekanjebin, the Iranian version of a non-alcoholic mint julep, made from water, mint, sugar and vinegar. (Yes, vinegar. Somehow it's still delicious.) No Persian table is complete without a small basket of fresh herbs, such as summer savory, tarragon, very young Chinese chives, small green onions, radishes, lemon and purple basil, cilantro, and Italian parsley. These are picked from the basket and eaten along with the meal. Or they can be eaten at the end of the meal, wrapped in a piece of lavash (wafer-thin bread) with a sliver of feta cheese and walnuts. Finally, more tea. The tea is strong and scalding, often sipped through a chunk of ghand (hard sugar) to sweeten it. It is said that tea lights the stomach and the mind. No teabags here; Persian hosts have their own special blends and guard them as a treasured secrets. Talk is resumed, as well as the arguments. Someone slips in a cassette, and there's dancing, both men and women, the snapping of fingers in time to the music, accompanied by those odd yips of delight that only Persians seem able to produce. The party is only just beginning. It will go far into the night. It's spring, after all. And spring means Life.
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