Memories of Qormeh Sabzi

Few dishes are so evocative of the Persian love of fragrance as the delicate braise known as khoresh. The one I remember most from my childhood is Qormeh sabzi (fresh herb khoresh, photo left). Its preparation would begin early in the morning when, while picking up barbari bread for breakfast, we would visit the market to buy the fresh herbs: parsley, chives, cilantro, and, most important because of the scent, fenugreek. Then all the women of the house would gather around a table with a large copper basin and tray on it. There they chatted companionably while they cleaned and washed the herbs before arranging them in flat woven baskets and setting them in the sun to dry. My mother, who emphasized the importance of even, clean chopping, would do it alone. She would stand over a large oak chopping board, seize a handful of each herb in one hand, and set to work with a large cleaver at a rhythmic, fast, even, slanting stroke. I can see and smell and hear it still: the various greens of the herbs, the sharp steel of the cleaver with droplets of herb juice on it, the lovely aroma, the faraway, trancelike concentration on my mother’s angelic face, her strong body adorned with a turquoise necklace—she never wore her rings when she cooked—the even, quick blows of the cleaver. Never was I allowed to try it. After college, she said, there would be plenty of time for me to try my hand at cooking.