“I think you gave me too much,” Landon said when he beheld the heaping pile of rice and meat and vegetables I had squeezed onto his paper plate.
“That’s Persian tradition too.”
He snorted and smiled.
“Thank you for being here. Really.”
“Of course.” He set his plate down and brushed my hands with his. “I’m glad to do it.”
I made a plate for myself and then we sat next to Laleh, whowas already shoveling up her rice with a serving spoon wider than her mouth.
After dinner, while everyone drank tea and ate zoolbia—essentially a syrup-soaked, starchy Persian funnel cake—Mom and Laleh and I told stories about Babou.
“The first time I met Babou he was on the roof of his house,” I said. “He wanted to water his fig trees.”
“He loved his fig trees!” Mom shouted. “I think he loved them more than he loved his children!”
That made everyone laugh, especially because there was a non-zero probability that it was true.
“He was all dressed up too, in dress pants and his nice shoes.”
Mom nodded and laughed, but her eyes were sparkling. I wasn’t sure if it was from laughing too hard, or because it was finally getting to her.
Maybe it was both.
“He kept shouting at Sohrab to help him. Sohrab’s his neighbor. My best friend. Anyway, Sohrab was trying to untangle the hose, and I was there watching the whole thing, and Babou was like, ‘I’ll be down in a minute, I don’t care you just flew across the globe to meet me, I need to finish watering my figs.’”
“You didn’t tell me that part!” Mom shouted.
After that, Laleh told everyone—through occasional hiccups and tears—about watching Iranian soap operas with Babou, who knew every character and every plot line going back twenty years.
There was a lull after that, and I refreshed Landon’s tea for him.
“Thanks,” he said. I squeezed his hand under the table, and he looked at me kind of funny.
“Hey Mom,” I said. “Have you told everyone about Babou and the aftabeh?”
Mom’s eyes got huge as the crowd around us tittered.
“Who told you about that?”
“Zandayi Simin.”
“I am going to kill Simin-khanum!” Mom said. She sighed, and then started talking in Farsi.
Behind me, Grandma asked, “What’s an aftabeh?”
“It’s kind of like a watering can. You use it sort of like a bidet.”
Oma snorted, and Grandma covered her mouth, but then I couldn’t say anything else over everyone cracking up.
MIKE PROGRESSIONS
Eventually the last guests trickled out. Landon helped Mom fold up the tables and stack the chairs while Laleh picked up paper cups and plates for the trash. In the kitchen, I helped Oma and Grandma manage the mountain of leftovers.
“You doing okay?” Grandma asked.
“I guess.”
