Ruth Knezevich is the 2nd place winner of Streetlight’s 2025 Essay/Memoir Contest
Prepare fresh herbs—4 bunches parsley, 3 bunches cilantro, 2 bunches chives, 1 bunch fenugreek—first rinsing them with salt water clear bacteria and other impurities then rinsing with fresh water until it runs clear.
I walk along a narrow, covered alleyway, lined on either side with vendors selling fresh meat, fresh produce, and fresh bread. I cover my nose and mouth as I hurry past the butcher’s doorway. Flies hover in front of my eyes, and some land on the untended and over-ripe peaches at the next-door produce vendor’s stall; I make a mental note to avoid that particular vendor during future market runs. I walk with purpose: past the competing offers on onions and potatoes, past the young boy selling prayer cards, past the old woman sitting covered by a chador with only her outstretched wrinkled hand visible. I smile at Morteza the baker; I purchased bread from him yesterday morning. He puts his flour-covered right hand over his heart and nods, asking me to say hello to my husband. I join the throng of black-clad women waiting as Hussain, the herb vendor, pulls back the tarp covering his table. The aroma of fresh greens rises to meet us from the herbs that are at the heart of Persian cuisine: ghorme sabzi, an herb-based stew of braised beef or lamb, kookoo sabzi, an herb fritter, sabzi khordani, fresh herbs eaten along with bread, cheese, tomatoes, walnuts, and cucumber as a simple staple. The scent of the herbs is cool and crisp, contrasting with Abadan’s oppressive heat and humidity.
I’ve learned that the concept of lining up and calmly waiting turns does not apply at the market, especially when buying fresh herbs from Hussain. I gently but assertively make my way to stand in front of the table, waiting to catch the young vendor’s eye. “Yek kilo sabzi-eh khoresh,” I say, “one kilogram of stew herbs.”
Hussain knows the exact ratio of herbs to make good ghorme sabzi. He piles up handfuls of parsley, cilantro, chives, and fenugreek on a metal scale until the red numbers flash 1.00. He also takes a few extra seconds to pluck out some wilted yellow stalks and cut off the dirtier roots, especially when I take a few moments for small talk.
“Tameez-tereen sabzi dareed!” I tell him, “you have the cleanest herbs.”
Hussain does not redirect my compliment but instead smiles and nods in sincere agreement.
“Daste-toon dard nakoneh,” I say in Persian politeness—“may your hands not ache”—acknowledging his extra efforts.
Hussain ties up the herbs with a rubber band, places them in a large plastic bag, and hands it to me, “befarmaeed”—“here you go.”
“Chand eh?” I ask, “how much is it?”
“Ghabele-toon nadareh,” he replies, “these are not worthy of your money.” He is not wielding a bartering strategy or speaking sincerely but simply stating a frustratingly polite convention of respect.
“Nah, nah, dadash,” I insist, resolutely holding out my bank card.
Hussain swipes the card, I enter the PIN, and he hands me the receipt. Before I think to consider the difference in currency, I catch my breath at the price: seventy-seven thousand! Then I recollect that the price is in the weak Iranian rial, not American dollars, and I exhale.
* * *
Finely chop the herbs, including the stems. Sauté the herbs over a low heat to remove excess moisture until they are darkened and dry.
“Een chee eh?” I ask Khale Farideh, my husband’s aunt, at breakfast, “what is this?” I gesture to a ramekin of black and gray powder sitting on the breakfast table next to a plate of soft, white cheese and a bowl of honey.
She tells me it is ground watermelon seeds to eat with the cheese – good for balancing cholesterol and great for supporting digestion.
Her dietary guidance on balance comes up again at lunch. She serves pan-fried fish, lightly dusted with turmeric, salt and pepper, accompanied by rice flecked with golden saffron. As she sees our plates empty and hears our contented sighs of fullness, she holds out a bowl of the glistening black dates we have brought from Abadan.
“Here, eat these dates.” She is not offering but ordering that we eat them. “The fish is cold; these are warm.”
“Nah, Khale,” I protest. “The fish was perfectly cooked!”
She explains to me the rich practices ingrained in Persian culture, tracing back to ancient Zoroastrian traditions. These traditions include the concept of garmi o sardi: hot and cold, which doesn’t refer to the temperature or spice level of a dish but to the warming or cooling properties of each food. The combination of foods impacts the body: too many cold foods will lead to sluggishness; too many warm foods can lead to digestive distress. The key is to find balance.
“Fish is cold, milk is also cold. That is why we never eat them together,” she explains. “Your digestion will slow; you will get a stomachache. After you eat something cold, like fish, you must eat something warm. Dates are warm, so you you must eat them.”
Khale Farideh also teaches me about traditional Persian medicine—to use chicory to bring down a fever, cardamom to calm indigestion, thyme to support respiratory health, honey to draw heat out of a mild burn, and the smoke from wild rue seeds as an antimicrobial air freshener. Like the ancient Persians whose traditions passed down this knowledge, Khale Farideh doesn’t need to know the science behind these practices. She just needs to know that they work when she needs them to.
* * *
In a large stew pot, sauté 1 diced onion until it is golden and soft. Add 1.5 pounds of cubed beef or lamb and a generous tsp of turmeric; increase the heat to sear the meat.
Nearing eighty years old, Khale Farideh commands a larger presence than her small stature suggests. Age has given her a dowager hump, and arthritis has bent her fingers. Her chestnut hair, streaked with gray at the roots, is often pulled back low and soft. Gentle brown eyes peer out from beneath slightly hooded lids; they always appear a little sad and a little tired, despite the joy she consistently exudes. Even so, a permanent smile graces her lips, and her voice is soft, always speaking in kindness, never rising in anger or impatience. Marked with age and worn with acts of steadfast care, she is a physical manifestation of the Zoroastrian principle “good thoughts, good words, good deeds.”
Tirelessly, she rises at dawn each morning and puts on a kettle for tea and then lays out breakfast for her two adult children that live with her at her apartment in Ekbatan, a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Tehran, her son with Down syndrome and autism and her daughter that assists in caring for him. After breakfast, she immediately begins preparations for lunch (because patience is the best ingredient, she says). At 9:00 she drinks a small cup of coffee before going out for a walk to the markets at 10:00, returning around noon to complete lunch preparations.
Meanwhile, her son, Fariborz, sits in his dimly lit room, stimming—humming and rocking—while he traces the pictures from his coloring books. A DVD copy of the original, well-worn VHS recording from his eldest sister’s 1992 wedding blares. From the video, the wedding DJ’s music plays, and he pauses from his humming and rocking to dance, first just snapping his fingers. But, as the music overtakes him, he stands, isolating his shoulders and turning his head and chest with surprising elegance.
He beckons me to dance with him. I do not know the song or the style of dance he demonstrates, but I let my body move intuitively with the rhythm. Just as I have settled into the music, the song from the wedding video changes into something more upbeat, something that would have been a chart hit in Tehran in the early 1990s, and he grabs my hands to whirl together, carefree.
He laughs uproariously and points to the grainy images on the screen. He gestures at a small, moon-faced child with almond-shaped eyes and a shock of thick, straight black hair dancing joyously with the adults. I smile and nod as he looks expectantly at me. He laughs again and claps me on the back to congratulate me for recognizing him as a six-year-old.
The loud music and sound of his boisterous laughter has brought his mother to the room. She stands at the doorway stoically, having just returned from her daily walk to the market, and beckons him to please turn down the music. From her patient-but-worn expression and barely audible sigh, it is clear that she overhears the video and her son’s rejoicing in it at least once each day.
Childlike, he glowers but complies with his mother’s request. He again sits at his desk and resumes humming, rocking, and tracing the thick lines of cartoon characters from his coloring book. Periodically, he bursts into laughter at a joke known only to himself or memory only he can recall.
To many outside observers, he may be viewed as a set of birth defects and diagnoses. To his family, Fariborz is simply beloved.
* * *
Stir in the sautéed herbs; add 1 cup prepared kidney beans and 4-5 cups water.
My husband and I have recently arrived at Ali and Maryam’s small apartment for a casual dinner, presenting our hosts with a sizeable box of chocolates and exchanging customary greetings of handshakes and kisses on both cheeks. Like many Persian gatherings, we settle in for tea and fresh fruit before the late evening meal.
Maryam stands and picks up a bowl overflowing with fruit. “Befarmaeed,” she says, presenting the bowl to me with an action of extreme politeness known as ta’rof.
“Mamnoon,” I reply, selecting a pear perched precariously near the rim of the bowl, “thank you.”
Maryam chuckles at my selection of a single pear. “That’s all?” she asks, placing a banana, two plums, and a cucumber on the small plate in front of me. “Would you like salt or sumac for the cucumber?” she adds.
I have learned that ta’rof is a negotiation of courtesy, sometimes presented with sincerity but often presented customarily, out of habit. I have learned that I should deny the initial offer but eventually accept it.
So, I simply smile as she generously heaps the fruits on my plate. “Ta’rof nadaram, Maryam joon” (“I don’t do ta’rof, dear Maryam”), I say—the denial of ta’rof itself an act of ta’rof.
Maryam moves to the kitchen, and I rise to assist her with the final dinner preparations, my fruit entirely untouched. We reach the doorway simultaneously and pause, both motioning for the other to go first.
“Shoma,” I gesture, “you.”
“Shoma,” she gestures, “you.”
Even as friends, as equals, we are engaged in a carefully choreographed dance of deference. But it is more than just politeness; it is a deeply ingrained practice embodying humility and the value of human connection. In these moments of ta’rof, as challenging as they can sometimes be to decode, I discover a profound appreciation for the humanity that binds us together, transcending the languages and cultures that can divide us.
* * *
Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat. Cover and simmer at least 1-1 ½ hours – or until ready. About 20-30 minutes before serving, add 3-4 dried Persian limes, carefully pierced.
In September 2022, I am in Tehran visiting Khale Farideh and her family at their home in Ekbatan. The neighborhood is generally a quiet place, in sharp contrast with central Tehran’s noisy streets and crowded rows of storefronts, office blocks, and houses. Ekbatan’s post-modern concrete apartment buildings are carefully spread out around extensive gardens full of flowers and tall trees that are home to hundreds of songbirds. In this urban oasis, the noise of the city fades away.
In September 2022, Kurdish-Iranian woman, Mahsa Amini, is detained in Tehran by the so-called “morality police” for allegedly wearing her hijab improperly. A few days following her arrest, images surface of Mahsa on life support in a nearby hospital, battered and bruised, purportedly beaten by Iran’s bastion of morality. She dies shortly afterward.
Tensions rise in Tehran and across Iran as the basiji, the state-appointed morality police (distinct from the branch of uniformed police enforcing civic law), increase their presence. Curfews are enacted to suppress protests, and already throttled access to media and information is tightened further. But even as the leash of control on the populace shortens, the people resist. Graffiti emerges seemingly spontaneously, heralding زن_زندگی_آزادی# (#women_life_freedom). Efforts to cover up or remove such visible resistance are futile; scrubbed away or painted over, the graffiti appears again the next day.
As the protests wear on and gain global traction, I gain a deep appreciation for the power of retaining a sense of self amidst political repression and discontent. Even quiet Ekbatan is in an uproar. From the living room, I hear shouts in the streets below as young men and women courageously demonstrate their discontent.
“Come away from the window, Fariborz,” his sister says. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
Fariborz has not slept well since the demonstrations began. His elder sister remains unfazed.
Khale Farideh, meanwhile, is in the kitchen, tending to the ghorme sabzi that has been simmering slowly on the stove, now aromatic and a deep, shimmering green. She reminds me that patience is not only the most crucial ingredient in cooking—patience itself can also be a form of resistance: to maintain an unbroken spirit, to continue to be openly joyful and openly willful in the face of forces that seek to subdue us.
“Noosh-e joon,” Khale Farideh says as she places the steaming dish of stew on the table, an invitation for us to gather around and eat. “May it nourish your soul.”
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