Vacation Pictures: Heidi, Jenni, Kelly

Crossing Alborz

By Heidi Noroozy

Crossing Iran’s Alborz Mountains on the Chalous Road from Tehran to the Caspian Sea is sometimes breathtaking, often hair-raising, and always an adventure. The road twists in a multitude of hairpin turns, and I hold my breath as we scrape past rough rocky walls, swerve around oncoming cars that straddle the lanes, and seem about to plunge into endlessly deep ravines. The road runs through a multicolored landscape—gray and red rock on the Tehran side, white-capped peaks at the summit, and green valleys on the descent to the land-locked sea. Early in the journey, we pass the Karaj Dam with its lake of blue-green water. A village on the far shore, cradled by rocky cliffs, is accessible only by boat. Higher up, the road tunnels through the mountain, and avalanche shelters protect it from bits of broken glacier. Villages, farms, and restaurants crop up in places that seem too bleak to support human life. Roadside shops sell everything from cigarettes to yogurt strained through huge white cloth bags that dangle from the eaves. I always keep an eye peeled for the haft sheytoon (seven devils), cone-shaped rock formations that line the road. There are only five devils now, since two of them broke off and fell into the valley below, victims of an earthquake or the wrath of God, depending on who’s telling the tale. When I spot the deep blue expanse of the Caspian Sea peaking through the trees, I feel my muscles relax. Once again, I’ve survived the perilous journey across the Alborz Range.

Oregon Coast

By Jenni Gate

On home leave from Africa or Asia every couple of years, we traveled the U.S., visiting every relative my parents could think of. My earliest memories of the Oregon Coast are from one of these trips, when I was about 7 years old. We traveled from seeing family in Oregon down the Oregon Coast, through the Redwoods in Northern California and into central California to see more relatives. I don’t remember much about the family we visited, but the Oregon Coast made a deep impression. In California, the beaches were warm and inviting, but in Oregon they are wild. The rocks rising from the waters off the coast create a raw, stormy beauty matched by few other places. Its treacherous, rugged coastline inspires artists and photographers the world over. In college, I visited the Oregon Coast and fell in love all over again. When my son was about 3, we traveled with my parents to Brookings, and it was a joy to see my son experience the surf and sand for the first time. Now it is still my favorite place on the planet, one I have the opportunity to visit occasionally. Whether during a violent winter storm or a sun-kissed summer day, my favorite memories are of contemplating the vast ocean and hiking the cliff trails, sand dunes, and beaches of the Oregon Coast.

For more of my tales, please check my blog at Nomad Trails and Tales and like my page on Facebook. You can also follow me on Pinterest.

Snowy Mountains, Tripping Stream

By Kelly Raftery

This picture always garners the question, “Where in Kyrgyzstan was this taken?” It always reminds me why we chose Colorado as our home. Colorado, we are proud to call you home, for all that you are that reminds us of Kyrgyzstan, for all the opportunities you have given us. This photo was from a trip we took two years ago, just after my husband landed the job that brought us to the Front Range.

I remember this warm, sunny day, stopping alongside the road, walking in a mountain meadow and watching the stream rush by, washing our hands in the ice cold water. After three years of trying to escape Las Vegas’s severe economic downturn, we would be in our new home by the end of the month.

This photo marks a week when our lives took a new direction. Once in Colorado, my son was able to take dance lessons (he is now competing on the national level), my husband was able to find a challenging and fulfilling job and I was able to find time to pursue my passion for writing.

Those snowy mountains, that tripping stream, thank you for leading us home.

Learning to Cook in Farsi

By Heidi Noroozy

My introduction to Persian cooking came in the form of a cookbook called The Food of Life by Najmieh Batmanglij. If you’ve ever browsed the Middle Eastern shelves in the cookbook section of a well stocked bookstore, you’ve probably seen this volume. It’s a classic, filled not only with recipes but also cultural details about wedding and holiday traditions, even poems and folk tales. My Iranian-born husband brought The Food of Life home one day when he was feeling particularly homesick for the flavors and textures of his native cuisine. In preparing these recipes, I learned a whole new vocabulary: polo (rice pilaf), khoresh (a meat and vegetable stew served over rice), tadigh (the crispy crust at the bottom of the rice pot).

At first, I was baffled by the unusual combinations. Green beans and lamb mixed with rice and served with a generous sprinkling of cinnamon, a spice I’d previously associated with dessert; pastries and puddings scented with rosewater, saffron, or cardamom; stews packed with what seemed like an entire herb garden, in which the meat was the seasoning not the main event. This cuisine was like nothing I’d encountered before, and yet it thoroughly intrigued me. I tried out dish after dish. The best I can say about those early efforts is that the meals were edible.

Later, when I visited Iran for the first time and met my husband’s extended family, my culinary horizons burst wide open. I learned another culinary term: cadbanoo, an honorary title that literally means “the village chieftain’s wife” and is bestowed upon a woman of remarkable culinary skill.

Photo by Fabien Dany
(www.fabiendany.com)

My mother-in-law reigns as the queen of cadbanoos in the Noroozy family, due in large part to her instinct for the right combination of herbs. Her signature dish is koofteh Tabrizi: large globes of ground lamb, rice, yellow peas, and five different herbs (parsley, chives, savory, tarragon, and dill), with a dried plum (aloo), raisins (keeshmeesh), and caramelized onions (piaz dagh) at the center. These fragrant balls are braised in a tomato/saffron sauce and served with bread, yogurt, and pickles (torshi). Biting into a koofteh fills your mouth with layer upon layer of flavor and texture, from the knobby grains of rice and pungent herbs on the outside to the juicy, sweet fruit in the middle. Like the rest of Persian culture, where nothing is simple or straightforward, the cuisine is mysteriously complex.

I’ve also learned some wonderful tips from my sister-in-law, another family cadbanoo. One of her specialties is tah cheen, a dish whose name means “layered from the bottom of the pot.” It is a “sandwich” with chicken, eggplant, almonds, and dried barberries packed between two crusts of rice. Tah cheen is the perfect dish for a party, a feast for both the tastebuds and the eye.

Persian food is meant to feed a crowd. It’s almost impossible to prepare a recipe in small quantities and have the dish taste right. Even a laden table feels oddly incomplete unless it’s covered with three different kinds of rice dishes, several meat and vegetable stews, a mixed salad, a platter of sabzi khordan (mixed fresh herbs), and bowls of yogurt, olives, and pickles. Of course, you also need a horde of guests to eat it all.

Here’s the recipe for my sister-in-law’s version of tah cheen. Give it a try and let me know how it turns out.

Filling:

2 chicken breasts or 4 thighs, on the bone, skins removed

1 cup water or broth

1 large onion, thinly sliced

1 tablespoon tomato paste

pinch ground saffron

2-3 Italian eggplants, peeled and sliced lengthwise

1/2 green bell pepper, chopped

1/2 red bell pepper, chopped

Salt to taste

Place the chicken and half the onions in a pot, add the water or broth, and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and cook over medium-low for 30 to 40 minutes until tender. Remove the chicken from the pot, debone, cut into chunks, and return to the pot with the tomato paste, some salt, and saffron. Add more water if necessary. Simmer for another 30 minutes.

Sauté the rest of the onions and bell peppers separately with a bit of salt and set aside. Fry the eggplant slices until soft.

Rice:

3 cups rice

1 cup yogurt

4 egg yolks

4 tablespoons oil or melted butter

1 teaspoon ground saffron in 3-4 tablespoons hot water

salt and pepper to taste

1/4 cup dried red barberries (zereshk), soaked for a few minutes in water to remove grit

2 tablespoons each slivered pistachios and almonds

Bring eight cups of water to boil in a large pot. Add the rice and cook until al dente, about ten minutes. Drain and rinse with cool water (makes the rice fluffy).

Beat egg yolks, mix in yogurt, oil or butter, saffron water, and season with salt and pepper. Add rice and mix carefully until blended, being sure not to break up the rice kernels (or you’ll end up with mush).

Layer half the rice mixture in the bottom of a greased oven-proof glass baking dish. Arrange eggplants, chicken chunks and peppers/onions on top. Sprinkle barberries, pistachios, and almonds over filling. Layer the rest of the rice on top.

Cover dish with tin foil and seal edges well to keep steam from escaping. Bake for 45 minutes to one hour at 375 degrees until the bottom crust is crispy and golden. Place the plan in cold water for a few minutes to loosen the crust and turn out onto a serving dish.

Garnish with more barberries and nuts, if desired.

Noosheh jaan! Enjoy!

A Passion for Bread

By Heidi Noroozy

Photo by ph_en

Half a lifetime ago, I lived on the grounds of a Benedictine monastery in Vermont. Although I’d overcome a brief flirtation with religion by then and was well on my way to becoming a non-believer, I’d often slip into the back of the chapel in the evening when the monks gathered for vespers. Along with the customary Gregorian chants, these Benedictines sang beautiful songs written by one of the brothers. One song had a line that always remained in my mind: “Man does not live by bread alone.”

These words stayed with me because, well, I beg to differ. I could easily live on bread alone. Paired with a good Vermont cheddar cheese is best, but I’ll settle for plain butter, and some varieties are delicious with nothing at all.

I’ve always loved bread—even the rough loaves a neighbor used to make from coarse, hand-milled flour. But when I moved to Europe, where bread is serious business, I was in heaven. Different towns and regions have their own local specialties: Joggingbrot in Stuttgart, a rye bread packed with sunflower and pumpkin seeds, or salty Bretzeln (soft pretzels) in Bavaria.

In Salzburg, Austria, I bought my bread from a tiny bakery on the aptly named Brotgasse (Bread Alley). Identified only by the word Bäckerei (bakery) in faded letters over the door, the shop was easy to miss. It had a practical selection of baked goods and, unlike the elegant, tourist-packed Konditoreien (pastry shops) on Getreidegasse only blocks away, no fancy tortes or cream-filled pastries. It served oval loaves of rye bread, chewy in the outside, soft on the inside. Rectangular, whole-grain breads filled with sprouted rye, oats, and seeds. Large rounds of crusty sourdough. On the sweeter side, the options were a simple Obstkuchen (fruit-topped cake) or sweet roll. I knew I had been elevated to the exalted status of Stammgast (regular patron) when the baker started tucking little extras into my bread bag: a pair of Kipferl (crescent rolls) or even a slice of Zwetschkenkuchen (plum cake).

Photo by Kochtopf

From time to time, I’d head for the Franciscan monastery on the far side of Domplatz and descend a narrow set of stairs into the basement, where the monks baked huge loaves of sourdough rye bread. On baking days, a wonderful yeasty fragrance wafted through square.

You might think it disloyal of me to abandon my favorite bakery for the Franciscans, even temporarily, but it was such a treat to stand in the bakery and watch the brown-robed monks pull fresh bread from enormous ovens that stretched nearly all the way to the ceiling. The loaves weighed two kilos each, so I always bought a Halber (half a loaf). Bread addict that I am, even I couldn’t eat four pounds of bread before it got stale.

Years later, when I visited Iran for the first time, an entirely new world of bread opened up to me. Like other Middle Easterners, Iranians prefer flat bread with lots of crust. And they like it fresh, still warm from the oven. When my husband was a boy, it was his job to fetch sheets of warm flat bread from the neighborhood bakery—not just once a day but before every single meal.

Like in Germany and Austria, Iranian bread has regional variations. The ultra-thin lavash is made with white flour in Tehran but comes in tastier whole-wheat varieties in the villages along the Caspian Sea. The bakery in the Isfahan neighborhood where my sister-in-law once lived sold a fragrant barbari, a thicker, oblong loaf with ridges down its length. And Isfahan’s signature street food is beryan—ground mutton with savory spices, mint, and slivered pistachios wrapped in a round sheet of taftoon, which is much like an enormous tortilla.

In Paveh, a Kurdish village in the Zagros Mountains of western Iran, I started each day with sheep’s milk cheese, homemade butter, and sour cherry jam spread on the thinnest, laciest bread I’d every seen. It was perfectly translucent when you held it up to the light. One morning, my hostess added koloocheh, slightly sweet rounds of fried dough, a kind of donut without the hole. Breakfast became my favorite meal of the day.

But my all-time favorite Iranian bread is sangak, a whole-wheat flat bread studded with sesame and black nigella seeds. In Iran, it is often still made the traditional way, long sheets of dough draped over heated pebbles in a clay oven and hung on hooks from the wall to cool. The only drawback to this age-old baking tradition is that sometimes small pebbles cling to pockets in the knobby surface of the loaf, which can be hazardous to the teeth.

This hearty flat bread is so versatile, I could eat it with every meal—spread with hummus or smoky baba ganoush, wrapped around kebabs fresh from the grill, or torn up and stirred into the soupy portion of a one-pot, two-course meal called dizi.

Half the fun of travel is the opportunity to expand my culinary horizons and explore new tastes and textures. And visiting local bakeries to sample new kinds of breads usually tops my agenda. It’s an easy expedition—I just follow my nose.