I felt terrible for him.
And I felt terrible feeling sorry for myself. Another Nowruz had come and gone for Sohrab without his father, and I was worried about feeling invisible.
But then Sohrab looked back at me as I watched him from the doorway, and his eyes squinted up again. His smile was a supernova.
“Darioush, you like sekanjabin?”
“What?”
“Sekanjabin. You’ve had it?”
“No,” I said. “What is it?
He pulled a short, wide-mouthed jar out of the fridge, said something quick to his mom, and came back outside. “It’s mint syrup. Here.” He unscrewed the jar, shook the water off a piece of lettuce, and dipped it in the sauce.
If his face was a supernova before, it became an accretion disc—one of the brightest objects in the universe—as soon as he tasted his lettuce.
I loved that Sohrab could be transported like that.
I took a tiny leaf and tried the sauce. It was sweet and minty, but there was something sour too.
“Vinegar?”
“Yes. Babou always adds a little.”
“Babou made this?”
“Yes. You never had it?”
“No. I never heard of it before.”
How did I not know my grandfather made sekanjabin?
How did I not know how delicious sekanjabin was?
“He is famous for it. My dad... He always grew extra mint, for Babou to use when he made it.” He gestured out to the garden. “You saw our mint?”
“Yeah.”
“Now it grows too much. Babou hasn’t made it for a while.”
“Oh.”
Sohrab dipped another leaf and then passed me the jar.
It was perfect.
“Thank you for coming over, Darioush.”
“It’s tradition to visit your friends the day after Nowruz.” I took another leaf to dip. “Right?”
Sohrab squeezed my shoulder as he inhaled another piece of lettuce. He nodded and chewed and swallowed and then squinted right at me.
“Right.”
After I helped Sohrab polish off every piece of lettuce on the table—two whole heads—he ran to get dressed, while I watched Khanum Rezaei make her bread. She pounded out the dough with her floured palms, then sprinkled a mixture of dried herbs and spices on top.
“Do you like this bread, Darioush-jan? Noon-e barbari?”
