“You know you can buy them already blanched and peeled?”
The set in Maheen’s jaw told him that she did not, in fact, know that.
So Farzan reached for the bowl, dug out a handful, and started peeling. Some he could squeeze out of their skins easily; others he had to scratch at. His fingernails were going to be wrecked.
He and his sister worked in silence, except for the occasional splish of water as they dunked their hands into the bowl to grab more almonds. Growing up, Farzan had spent many mornings—usually before holidays or birthdays—with his dad, helping make qottab, little almond-filled pastries that were a Yazdi specialty. Then again, most desserts were Yazdi specialties. It was a time-consuming process, rolling out and cutting the dough, filling all the little half-moons and sealing them just right so they didn’t explode while they baked. Or fried.
Good lord, was Maheen planning on frying them?
“You’re not frying these, right?” Farzan asked.
“No,” she sighed. “Tomás promised to divorce me if I burned the house down.”
Farzan nodded. That was wise.
“But they’re not as good baked,” Maheen said wistfully. “Not like you and Baba made.”
“These will still be good. How’s your dough looking?”
Maheen nodded ruefully at the bag of flour standing open on the far side of the table, surrounded by a white field.
“Ah. You keep peeling. I’ll get to work.”
It was past seven when Farzan pulled the last batch of qottab from Maheen’s stainless steel oven. As far as fancy suburban kitchens went, it was aesthetically pleasing, but also really impractical. Her refrigerator door wasn’t even magnetic.
“Okay. You dust these, then you should be good to go. Just remember to put parchment paper between each layer when you store them.”
“I will.” Maheen pushed her hair off her flour-streaked forehead with the back of her hand. “Thank you so much. Really.”
“Hey. What are big brothers for?”
Maheen pulled him into a hug. “Seriously, Farzan. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Farzan kissed his sister on the forehead. “You good?”
“I’m good. Yes. Are you going to be okay getting in late?”
Farzan shrugged. “I’m the boss. Can’t exactly write myself up.”
He just had to hope the last few rolls of toilet paper had held out. Or that someone had run to the Target across the street to get a few emergency rolls.
“Love you,” she said, following him to the door. He slid on his shoes.
“Love you too.”
Farzan tried to sleep in on Saturday. Thankfully there had been no bathroom disasters, but the kitchen had been working hard to make up for his absence, so he’d sent everyone home early and stayed late to take care of cleanup himself. It seemed only fair. He’d gotten home past two and promptly collapsed in his bed.
Only to be awakened at eight-o’-fucking-clock by his phone nearly buzzing itself off his nightstand. It was Arya.
Arya
SOS
dude!! emergency!!!
oh are you sleeping?
sorry, i forgot
