I would sit on the stool while my mother made fesenjoon.
First she roasted the walnuts, filling the kitchen with their warm, bitter smell. Then she screwed the old metal grinder to the edge of the counter and fed them through, turning the handle until they fell into the bowl as a fine brown meal.
She mixed the walnuts with pomegranate molasses and sugar, then hand-rolled the little meatballs herself, one by one, before dropping them into the pot. As it cooked, the stew became thick, dark, and, to me, extremely ugly—almost like brown mud.
I could never understand how something that looked so terrible could taste so delicious.
It was labor-intensive, so she rarely made it, though she knew it was my favorite. When it was ready, she spooned it over rice and set the plate in front of me.
Even then, I understood that love did not always arrive looking beautiful.
Pej Behdarvand / Tehran, Irán
