Rosewater and Soda Bread Read Free

“I don't know how you remember all those details. Just hand me a knife and lead me to the chopping block. Anything else is too hard,” she said, tying an apron, one with maroon pheasants marching across the hem and pockets, around her neck and tiny waist. The apron was one of nearly a dozen their landlady and friend, Estelle Delmonico, had sewn for them that year.
    “Looks like Fiona's ready for her jasmine tea. I think we should just give her a permit to use the samovar whenever she wants. She's in love with that thing!”
    Marjan let out a laugh. “I know. I'm half-thinking of getting her one this Christmas. Mustafa's sells them now.”
    “Don't you dare!” said Bahar, stuffing a frayed order pad into her apron pocket. “She'll keep it in the salon, for sure. Then we'll never see her.” She threw Marjan a creaky smile and swung past the kitchen doors.
    Marjan returned to the pot and gave the thick herb stew another stir. The long, thin leaves of the fenugreek swam gracefully against the sides of her spoon, entwining themselves with the lighter cilantro, parsley, and chives.
    According to the Persian seer Avicenna, whose
Canon of Medicine
Marjan often consulted, fenugreek is the first stop to curing winter chills. Combined with the hearty kidney beansand succulent meat of the herb stew, it made for an excellent
garm
, or hot, meal. Whenever she could, Marjan liked to adhere to the ancient Zoroastrian tradition of cooking, matching the needs and bounties of the season (as well as the individual eater) to ingredients.
    “Ooooh!
Gormeh sabzi!
Can I take some to school?” Layla trundled down the stairs, skipping the last three steps with gymnastic flourish. She landed soundly on the woven runner that spanned the kitchen floor, her patchy knapsack bouncing off her back like a parachute in midflight.
    Marjan placed the lid back on the stockpot and turned to her youngest sister. “It won't be ready for another two hours. You'll have to take some of yesterday's saffron chicken instead.” She wiped her hands on a gingham tea towel and opened the cupboard door.
    “Leftovers. God. Not again,” Layla groaned, pulling absently on her stockings. As was often the case, her school uniform was not the tidiest of numbers: a spidery rip ran down the ankle of one brown stocking, and her Doc Martens were scuffed on all sides. In accordance with school yard fashion, her striped blue shirt was not tucked in; it stuck out from the back of her dark regulation skirt, wrinkled and uneven.
    Layla's long black hair, Marjan was happy to note, was immaculate as ever. It gleamed within the folds of an intricate French braid, perfectly framing her creamy, oval face.
    “I don't know how I'm going to survive this year,” Layla complained. “At least when Emer was around I could trade lunches— she always had a bit of colcannon with her sandwiches.”
    “You and your mashed potatoes,” Marjan remarked, lifting down a large mason jar of chickpea flour.
    “Mmmm, I could eat colcannon every day,” said Layla, rubbing her stomach. She helped herself to a piece of
lavash
breadfresh from the brick oven. “Now it's just me and Regina. And all she eats is prawn crisp rolls.”
    Marjan grimaced. “That can't be too healthy,” she said. She shook the enamel colander in her hand, sifting the flour into a large bowl. Thank heavens for Mustafa's. Were it not for the Algerian specialty shop in Dublin, she'd have to ship the chickpea flour in from London. With the state of An Post, that could take months, whole seasons even, to get to Ballinacroagh.
    “It's not healthy. I don't know how Regina stays so skinny,” Layla said, in between chews. “Must be all the farmwork she does after school.”
    “Speaking of after school,” Bahar interjected, swinging in from the dining room, “can you please tell me once more why you need to personally pick Malachy up from the train station tomorrow? You can't wait ten minutes before seeing your boyfriend