I love to cook, and I love to gather folks around a table. And yet... I'm not doing much of that lately. I have a lot of excuses (and somewhat legit - we don't currently have any dining room furniture), and I'm definitely hosting lots of events (having recently planned a Democracy Forum where over 150 folks showed up to learn + take action together; then less than a week later, hosting Professor Mica Pollack in my living room with 20+ ed and ed-adjacent folks. She explain "opportunity removal" - how the threat of anti-diversity, equity & inclusion bills create less options for teachers ("Well, I don't think I should teach that controversial novel/read that biography of a queer person/take that justice-oriented field trip/assign that current event project, because it's just too much in 'these days' ") and that, in turns, removes important, life-critical opportunities from our students. Read more HERE.)
But wait, I digress! (No surprises there...)
I am not myself in these days, and I'm using *all my energy* to show-up in super important places to fight like heck for our democracy. And when I get home, I'm collapsing and eating Trader Joe's frozen mac & cheese or a big bowl of Panda Puffs for dinner (I do love the comfort of Panda Puffs). I don't want to cook, and I don't want to talk to you, either. And that is causing me pain, more pain that I'm acknowledging.
So, back to this cookbook. Samin is pretty up-front that this book comes from a place of imperfection, of being paralyzed, of depression, of an invitation to be in community and strive to heal. From the stage, she told stories of the ache in her chest, but also: the joys of gathering with folks who love you as you are, intergenerational spaces, the importance of living in imperfection, the need to find beauty. Popcorn. In-season veggies. Herbs, more and more herbs. I kept tearing up, jotting down her words and phrases to remember them; and then felt deeply comfort that I was holding this hefty book in my lap, so I could keep hearing her stories, her recipes for healing (and amazing food).
I have fallen asleep reading the book the past two nights. I also rushed to the grocery to get big bunches of fresh herbs, to buy labneh, and in-season produce. For the past two nights, I have actually cooked fresh food for dinner. Nothing fancy, but not Trader Joe's. Served on a plate, with our cloth napkins. Sat down with my husband. Tasted the freshness, the goodness in each bite.
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Here's a review of some apricot jam that Samin wrote:
You might think all you're getting when you open a jar of Saba's preserves is jam. But you're wrong. It's also poetry, art, and time brought to a standstill. Following in the storied footsteps of the great Persian poets, artists, and preservers who came before her, Saba crafts passionate odes to fruit with each batch of jam she makes. There is no one else like her. But you don't need me to convince you — one taste is all it'll take.
Isn't she a beautiful writer?
(yes, I bought a jar of this jam online, and I since I've already Sliced about orange marmalade, you can bet I'll write about this jam!)
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Samin shared in her newsletter that Joy Harjo's poem, Perhaps the World Ends Here, was important inspiration. Perhaps you'd also like to read it, and it will make you cry like it made me cry, deep in your bones:
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More about Samin in The New Yorker - this article is particularly great for those of us striving to be writers. (The link here is a PDF of the article everyone should be able to access.)
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