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Memories of Making Noodles
Appears in
Published 2011
Some of my happiest childhood memories are linked to my mother’s noodle-making days for the Friday family lunch gatherings at our house in downtown Tehran. On those days, if I arrived home early in the afternoon, I would hear distant echoes of a setar and my mother singing verses by the thirteenth-century poet
The sweet, sad tones drew me to the brightest room in our house, where, sitting on the Persian carpet striped with light and color from the sunshine that seeped through bamboo shades, I found my mother and four or five old ladies, all distant relatives. From the crisply ironed white cotton cloths being spread over the carpet and the captivating aroma of fresh dough, I knew it was noodle-making day. “Come on in,” said the old ladies, tearing off a piece of dough for me to play with.