Shirin's Funeral Cookbook
Shirin’s Funeral Cookbook
a short story by Ava Ashtiani
My family masks the stench of grief with sugar and honey. The quiet voices of my mom and grandma speaking Farsi are enough to send me over to the kitchen to eavesdrop but they never say anything interesting. It’s always about whether there is enough food. I don’t know why they always worry about this, there’s enough food for my entire 2nd grade class to have seconds!
In our small kitchen, Maman and both of my grandmother’s crowd the space, all eager to do their part. My mom calls it healing, but I don’t really know what she means by that. I watch in a corner where I am out of the way but still surrounded by the commotion, my heart pacing in my chest as the anticipation for the day settles in.
Sugar, flour, butter, saffron, rosewater and raisins cover the countertops as the women mix and pour and sprinkle. My mother’s mom, Maman Pari, grabs chunks of homemade cookie dough, shaping them in her wrinkled hands before placing them on a tin. When she slides it over, signaling they can be baked, my other grandmother rerolls them before placing the tray in the oven. Maman Pari either doesn’t notice or doesn’t have the energy to fight. I know this day is really serious because my grandmothers only tolerate each other this well when someone has died.
Maman draws with cinnamon over the yellow rice pudding called Sholeh Zard. The dessert smells so strong I can feel my mouth water. I take a deep breath. If I stay here another minute I may eat all of it before the guests arrive but I can’t bring myself to leave.
When the desserts are finally done, they get topped with crushed pistachios and slivered almonds. My sister, she’s younger than me so I don’t think she understands that death is bad, takes too much of every sweet thing. I whisper, “nakhon” or “don’t do that” as the house begins to fill with people whose faces I only remember a little bit. I don’t want them to see her greedy fingers while death lingers on the welcome mat.
“Haleh, nakhon,” I say again.
Who would have thought that being seven years old would be so much responsibility? The house is full with a lot of people now and my mom comes beside me to hold my hand. Her dark hair curls around her small, tear-stained face and for a second, I forget why she looks so sad. I reach for a finished cookie on the edge of the counter.
“Here Maman, have a shirini.” I hold out the sweet to her.
Maman barely manages a soft smile and takes the raisin covered treat from me before placing a kiss on my head.
“Don’t forget to say merci, or thank you, Shirin,” she reminds me.
As the older sister, it’s always me who has to follow the rules and act like a grown up. It’s not fair.
Before I can even blink, my ears are filled with “sorry for your losses” and I’m being the good girl my mom expects me to be. I say merci and smile at every person who walks in the house. It gets tiring quickly and before the door can open again, I run off to find Haleh. Maybe we can sneak around and play a spy game since there are so many people here.
My first encounter with death was when I was two years old. My only memory of my uncle was of him in my bathtub with clear things coming out of his nose and into this big tank. When I told my mom about it one day a few years later, she told me that he had never been in my bathtub but that before he died, he was hooked up to oxygen in the hospital. She started crying after she finished the story. I can tell she misses her brother even though it’s been a long time since he passed away. She doesn’t always talk about him but when she does, she smiles even though she looks sad. I still think it’s pretty weird that my only memory of him isn’t even real.
Sholeh Zard/Saffron Rice Pudding
Servings: 8
Prep Time: 2 hours
1 cup Jasmine Rice
6 cups Boiling Water
2 cups Granulated Sugar
¼ cup Rosewater
¼ teaspoon Ground Saffron
add Ground Cinnamon
The golden pudding resembling dawn does not make waking up to reality without a loved one any easier, no matter how much time has passed.
I finally find Haleh sitting on the floor of our bedroom, playing with my Barbie dolls. I love my little sister but I don’t like it when she takes toys she knows are mine.
“Haleh! Why are you playing with my dolls?” She moves one Barbie so it’s hugging the other one. Haleh doesn’t look up or say sorry.
I walk out of our room straight towards Maman. I find her in the living room, talking to somebody I haven’t said hi to yet. I mentally groan. Maman says it’s a blessing we have all these people to support us in our time of grief but I’m not sure that applies to children. When I get closer I realize the woman standing in front of my mom is my teacher!
“Hi Mrs. D!” I give her a smile and stand next to Maman.
“Hi Shirin, I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine what you must be going through but if you ever need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me.”
I reply with thank you instead of merci because Mrs. D doesn’t know farsi.
She and my mom talk for a few more minutes until she walks past us into the kitchen. I wonder which dessert Mrs. D will like the most but the thought quickly disappears as I remember what I came over here for.
“Maman!”
When she looks down at me I say, “Haleh is playing with my toys and won’t give them back!”
Maman shakes her head at me as her eyes begin to fill again. In an effort to stop her crying, she shuts them tight but it only makes it worse. It almost looks like a river is running on my mom’s cheeks. I suddenly feel bad for telling on Haleh when everyone is sad about death. Plus, I’m seven and a half so I should be able to handle this myself.
“It’s okay, Maman, I’ll talk to her.”
I don’t give her a chance to say anything before I’m running down the hallway into our room again. Haleh is still playing with my dolls (they are still hugging) and I am about to get mad at her for never listening but then I start to feel guilty. I don’t play with her that much anymore and she probably gets bored not having anyone to do things with. Giving her my Barbies is the nice, older sister thing to do.
“I decided you can play with my dolls, Haleh, but only to borrow. If you ruin them I won’t ever let you have my things again, OK?” If Maman were here, she would say I’m allowing Haleh a privilege because privilege’s can be taken away if you don’t behave.
Haleh only looks up from her game at me for two seconds before continuing. It doesn’t matter that she’s only four years old, she could still say merci!
My second encounter with death was when I was five years old. It was the first time I remember the kitchen so full of Persian women, their hands deep in sugar. Maman had asked me then, “Shirin, do you know why we bake when we are sad?” She didn’t wait for me to respond, focused on the pastry in front of her when she replied, “We make them to help the living move on.”
I remember my grandpa better than my uncle because I was older. He spoke funny and repeated all of his stories to the point where I could say them with him. Sometimes, he and Maman Pari would dance together in the kitchen when they thought everyone else had gone to bed. I would watch them from the hallway until my grandpa spotted me. He would twirl me around until I laughed so much that Haleh came running in. She was too little to know how to dance back then but she would smile as our grandpa twirled her too.
When my grandpa eventually died, my mom didn’t cry. She watched Maman Pari cry and cry and cry and smoke and smoke and smoke until Maman Pari got tired of lighting her cigarettes and came inside. She leaned on my mom and closed her eyes, and when she opened them again she was convinced that she would die the same way, repeating stories and speaking funny.
I don’t want to sound like a mean person but I didn’t really understand why everyone was so sad back then. Even after he died, my grandpa still talked to me and he sounded happy. He didn’t repeat his old stories, probably because he knew I heard them too much and didn't want me to get bored. Instead, he would talk about Maman Pari. He kept telling her not to cry but my grandma never listened. I think her sadness made it hard for her to stop.
After about a month, my grandpa stopped talking. He must have realized no one except for me was listening and gave up. I asked Maman Pari one day if she ever talked to him anymore but she just looked surprised I would even ask something like that! She told me that she spoke to him all the time but never heard anything back. That night I asked my grandpa to start talking to Maman Pari again. I promised that she would listen this time.
Persian Halva
Servings: 8
Prep Time: 1 hour 20 minutes
1 cup White Sugar
½ cup Water
¼ cup Rose Water
3 Saffron Threads
1 cup Unsalted Butter
1 ½ cups All-Purpose Flour
No matter how many pieces you have, halva is unable to satisfy the desire for a life restored.
They say death is a funny thing except nobody ever laughs. The person seems to be gone, but there are still traces of them left behind everywhere. A bed is now a tombstone, a picture now a shrine, and a Barbie doll now a ghost's favorite memory. All of these things are too painful to be around for long but sparingly, in little moments, it’s okay to wish for the dead to spend one more night in their bed.
Maman is worried about me. She called the doctor tonight and told him she needed to set up an appointment. I don’t want to see him because I’m afraid he’ll make Haleh disappear. If Maman had a sister, she would understand why Haleh hasn’t left yet.
I can’t remember the moment I realized Haleh is gone. It might have been that first night when nobody came to tuck her in, or when nobody bothered to change her clothes. I’m secretly hoping she’ll stay forever and play with me until we’re both tired and old.
Shirini Keshmeshi/Raisin Cookie
Servings: 24
Prep Time: 30 minutes
1 ⅔ Unsalted Butter
1 cup Granulated Sugar
3 Eggs
½ tsp Vanilla Extract
1 ⅔ cup All Purpose Flour
1 ½ cup Raisins
If raisins were souls, mine would find Haleh’s in every batch.
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