The Kitchen Queens: Where Love and Saffron Reign

PROMPT: Write a lyric essay composed of short vignettes of memories you have that are tied to food—whether preparing and cooking meals, celebrating while eating out at a restaurant, buying produce at the market, or recalling phases of favourite snacks shared with friends. Taken together, how do these memories reveal a larger portrait of how you’ve enjoyed or been nourished by time spent around food?

My grandma had the cleanest kitchen I have ever seen. She used to cover the stove with a layer of aluminum foil, which she would clean and replace after each major cooking session. This way, the actual stove would remain as good as new with no trace of even a single grease stain. Her kitchen was a beautiful, well-lit space with two big windows, decorated with white silk curtains. She had a table with four chairs close to the stove that she would use for serving different dishes and preparing them for dispatch. She was so quick in her tidy-up, doing it during the time she was cooking, that within half an hour after each meal, her kitchen was spotless. She didn’t like other people serving the food and insisted on dividing and serving it herself, as she had a system. Every time she hosted a party and had special guests, she would deliberately put more meat chunks in the Khoresht bowl she was preparing and instruct us to put this specifically in front of that guest. Or if she knew someone didn’t like saffron on their rice, she would prepare a separate plate and make sure it was delivered to the correct person. She was like a commander, moving skillfully from one pot to the next pan, designing the food and asking us to take it away. She was always the last one to come out of the kitchen and the first one to go back. It was her territory in the true sense of the word, and she was a fierce queen.

My aunt was next level compared to all the traditional women I’ve known. Her kitchen was as big as our first apartment when we moved here. She had a separate space for two stoves and a big sink for washing and preparing the ingredients. And her cooking, oh my goodness. I think the amount of saffron and butter she used to buy must have made a few people in her neighbourhood quite rich. One of her kids used to brag to others that “even a glass of water my mom pours is delicious.” Out of all the memories I have of her, one stands out: the kindness she would show me whenever we went to her house. She knew the meals I particularly liked out of all the amazing things she cooked, and she would make sure to include them on the menu. Yes, I’m saying menu because there were always more than one dish. And then there was the whole business of appetizers and side dishes, the variety, and the compatibility with each meal. I’m telling you, a whole other league. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the delicious aroma of her kitchen. She used to say, "A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach." A stealth eye-roll from my mom was guaranteed whenever she said this.

Sometimes I wonder, which did I love more in this process? Their cooking or the care, love, and energy they put into it? Was it the smell and taste, or watching their skill and craft in action as one dish after another received its final inspection and nod before leaving their kitchens? What was it about their mastery that mesmerized me more? Whatever it was, their movements, their eyes meticulously checking everything, and their command are etched in my memory. I have some of their recipes, but surprise, surprise, it will never taste the same.